Chapter 1

MONDAY 3:38 A. M.
Wabash Ave. and W. Van Buren St., Chicago, IL

This morning like the thousand before it, whispered, "Nothing to worry about, I'm just another day."

The first breath of breeze from Lake Michigan flitted through the streets. While bakers along with other early denizens, dreamed of coffee and still wiping sleep from their eyes, headed for work. The bundles of Chicago Sun Times Morning Edition, tossed from delivery trucks, bounced on the sidewalks. While leviathan city street sweepers, caution lights blinking, lumbered along on their rounds brushing trash from the gutters and the 'EL' trains rumbled past on the overhead tracks.

Nothing seemed out of place or extraordinary in any way, until the manhole cover in the bakery's alley shifted position and set off the 'Nexus Portal' alarm.

By comparison to the reaction this minuscule movement produced, four alarm fires are completely ignored. But, of course, four alarm fires only summon Firemen, Police and Paramedics. Not Dwarves that crush rock barehanded for fun, nor Elven Princes wielding 'Monomolecular' sharp swords and certainly not Diamond hard Blue Dragons.

At that moment Puff's distinctive mental voice chimed in, 'I've got this one, ' she broadcast, 'Come to Mama you little flea hoarding collection of garbage.'

The Demon now poking it's head out of the manhole had obviously never heard the saying 'There Is No Free Lunch', or perhaps it just mistook the 'Realm of Men' for 'The Promised Land'.

Whatever fallacy this thing was operating under was cleared up immediately by decapitation; courtesy of the aforementioned Dragon and the remains unceremoniously returned through the 'Nexus Portal' by a tail tip. After all, living above the alley on top of the bakery building, she didn't have far to travel.

Her plaintive cry flew through the mind net, 'Whew!! Don't these things EVER bathe?'

The laughter floating around the side of the building in answer, and the mental 'Nice job Puff'. Were almost as good a reward as the tray of Chicago's best pastries that materialized in front of her ... almost.

The return mental image of 'A dragon buffing its claws with pride on a pair of coveralls' raised a bigger chuckle and got her a scratch behind the ears too. Of course, being a practical girl, it was pastries first please. But, ear scratching coupled with pastry eating, was making a seriously determined run at the 'top ten' slot on the Draconic 'Things I Like' list. The Purr kicked into high gear just to prove it.

Yeah, it was just another typical Chicago day break.

MONDAY 8:35 A. M.
Fox River Run, Aurora, IL

The Fox River area north of Aurora IL would never have been considered a headquarters for organized crime by anyone driving through it. Homes around there ranged from the lower end of one point six million, to in excess of fifteen million. The security the area was laced with, was very discreet.

Of course, there is always an exception to every appearance. Nestled along the banks of the Fox river rested the home of one Allen Joseph Mitchell II. This home didn't need even the 'discreet' security offered in the area. It was protected by 'reputation'. Anyone stupid enough to even think about a B & E at this residence just simply disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Mitchell's family had connections with the Chicago City Government going back almost three generations, or at least as long as the 'Daley show' had been in charge. He was also one of the largest philanthropic donors in the entire Chicago area. His PR firm had told him it was good for business.

Mr. Mitchell's interests ran in two distinct channels: power acquisition and efficiency. These two interests worked hand in glove with each other. Power being his personal drug of choice and efficiency being the glue that held it all together. These interests were not truly a surprise considering his family background. He had been born Antonio Giuseppe Maldanado and had been hand raised on power from day one.

For the past six to nine months he had been keeping an eye on a section of downtown that was showing all the signs of a rebirth, but without the proper financing ... his financing.

Perhaps he should have had that second cup of coffee this particular morning. Fuzzy thinking can lead to hasty decisions, as he was about to prove, by making the greatest criminal blunder in recorded Chicago history. Well, certainly the greatest since Al Capone's 'boo-boo' with that empty cigarette pack.

A discreet call assured him that fifteen teams would be canvassing the area by tomorrow. Their orders were very simple. Find out who the money was behind this new renaissance. After that information was in hand, 'other' discreet calls would be placed.

MONDAY 9:15 A. M.
Hell, Upper Level 1.5

Alzor, Lord of Hell Upper Level one-point-five was ready to chew his own tail off. Even knowing that the denizens of his realm operated on a purely instinctive level, didn't help alleviate the frustration.

'These incompetent twits couldn't get ANYTHING RIGHT! Six mortal months they've been at it. Throwing attack after attack at the Nexus, and still had NOTHING to show for it#!' His mind raged. 'I have got to try something new before I run out of idiots.' Then, wincing at the inevitable, he thought wryly to himself, 'Oh hell, come on. Quit chasing your tail around and summon the damn council. You could get lucky.'

His mind scream shot out. 'Assemble#!' Instantly the council of twelve lay in obeisance before him. The fear wafting from the group was oh, so tantalizing, that it took a supreme act of will to suppress his feeding response. 'Hum, the little bugs are quick today.' Mused Alzor. 'Very well, let's see if they can come up with anything useful.' The hissing command erupted, "Find a way through that Portal, or pay with your lives." Followed seconds later by. "What are you still doing here?"

Bursting soap bubbles operated in slow-motion compared with the disappearing act the twelve pulled.

'I wonder if there isn't a more powerful motivator than fear?' He pondered. 'Nah. Not a chance.'

The hunger continued to churn within and torment his bowels. 'The world of Men, what a smörgåsbord.' The thought coursed through his mind, while hunger, pain, and fear fought for supremacy in his guts.