《Mostly Dead [A Paranormal Urban Fantasy]》


 Prologue - A Long Way Down ????

    The obsidian typewriter clacks, its crimson keys moving of their own accord, each stroke a relentless pulse that drills into my skull. It¡¯s like the machine is alive, feeding on the words that spill from me, drawing out the last remnants of my soul. Whoever dredged it up from the abyss knew it belonged here¡ªlike it¡¯s been waiting for this moment, for my story. To drain me dry and leave me cold, empty, husked.


    At the other end of the silver table, a woman sits cross-legged, a smug smile curling her lips as she leafs through a file¡ªmy file. I can tell she¡¯s not quite human, my keen detective instincts pick up on the subtle signs right away. The way her eyes linger on me, as if she¡¯s weighing whether to flay me slowly just to savor the screams or continue with the interview¡ªthe way her canines are just a bit too long, her smile stretched too wide, as if she¡¯s already envisioning my entrails as her next accessory. Oh, and the horns sprouting from her head¡ªyeah, those are a dead giveaway.


    I test the ropes again, feeling them bite into my skin, reopening the barely healed wounds on my wrists. In the corner, a shadow smokes a cigar.


    They¡¯ve been at it for hours, peeling back the layers of my mind, savoring every strip they tear away. I can see the twisted delight in their eyes, crafting a report that will be their golden ticket to some better hell. I¡¯m just another rung on their ladder, another stone ground to dust beneath their polished boots.


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    ¡°So,¡± the woman says, her voice cool and clinical, like a scalpel slicing through flesh, ¡°why don¡¯t you start from the beginning?¡±


    Her words coil around my thoughts, yanking me back through time like a dog on a leash. My vision smears, the present bleeding into the past.


    I¡¯m not here anymore. I¡¯m somewhere else.


    The Tearing? I wonder. Is that where you want to go?


    The world around me cracks, shatters, and I¡¯m there, standing at the edge of the abyss as the earth crumbles beneath my feet. The sky above splits open, a jagged wound in the fabric of reality, spilling chaos into the world below. The ground groans, buckling under the weight of its own destruction. Everything is caving in, collapsing, and I can¡¯t stop it. I¡¯m just a passenger, along for the ride.


    But that¡¯s not where she wants me. Not yet.


    ¡°Earlier,¡± she hisses, sharp as broken glass. ¡°Take me back to the night you first died.¡±


    And suddenly, I¡¯m yanked back again, the tearing world fading like a bad dream. The shadows close in around me, cold and familiar, pulling me deeper into the darkness, into the memory I¡¯ve tried so hard to forget.


    The typewriter clacks in the distance, syncing with the pounding of my heart, each keystroke a hammer driving nails into my coffin. She wants every detail, every moment of pain, every bloody step that led me here.


    And she¡¯ll get it. Every last drop.

 1. Unseen Hands ?

    Life¡¯s a deck, shuffled by unseen hands. Fate deals the cards, Death, the final adversary, and Time¡ªour precious minutes¡ªare the chips sliding across the felt.


    Some days, you¡¯re dealt aces; other days, it¡¯s a seven-deuce unsuited, tightening like a noose around your neck. You bluff, you bet, and you pray no one calls. But Fate¡¯s a patient dealer, and the House always wins. She watches with a cold, knowing smile as your chips slip away.


    When Death makes his move, you¡¯d better have more than a joker up your sleeves. It¡¯s never been about the cards¡ªit¡¯s about having the guts to call his bluff before he calls yours.


    But even then, the game¡¯s rigged, and no one leaves the table with chips in hand.


    <div>


    The world was dark, save for the faint glow of my cigarette. A breeze moved through me, playing waves on my shirt as I surveyed the scene. It was one of those old city winds that moved unashamed through the nooks and crannies of the streets, carrying mischief in its wake. It was the type of night that made my hair stand on end and my bones ache in anticipation, where no one needed to say it, because everyone felt it. The air swelled and seemed to hold its breath while the boundaries of normal and rational thought gave way, leaving one word to stand in their wake. A word more dangerous and profound than all the others combined. It sat at the tip of my tongue, unspoken but felt. I sensed it clawing for escape, begging me to give in to its desires. The wind, the strangers¡¯ footsteps in the distance, and the bustling of city sounds all entangled to spell this one word... ¡°Magic.¡±


    The world exhaled in a torrent of rain. Horrible night for a hunt. But I was paid not to mind. I leaned down to focus on the creature¡¯s tracks before they were washed away. Rift-soot and gravel clung between my fingers. I usually welcomed the rain. It washed the filth off things. Only problem¡ªit also washed away rift-soot, the monochromatic warning sign to get the hell out of there. Unless, of course, a door to Hell was what I was looking for.


    ¡°This way. Stay close and be quiet. Do not engage it. And if it gets out of my control, run. Got it?¡± The two men exchanged a look and a smile that only wealth and pampering could buy.


    ¡°Got it.¡± They grinned.


    Jac and Jean were twin brothers and identical one-hundred percent Grade-A prats. The kind of man-children who had never seen a day¡¯s work in their combined lives. I wondered if they wiped their own asses or if the maid did it for them. I also wondered what it would be like not to worry about money or where my next meal was coming from. I didn¡¯t care what the college kids said¡ªramen and beer didn¡¯t make a diet. My stomach growled indignantly, protesting the ramen and beer within.


    ¡°Focus,¡± I told myself. I needed to concentrate if I was going to find the creature we were after and give these guys a good show. Business had been slow, after all. I wasn¡¯t sure if my head was hurting from dealing with the twins or the lack of coffee.


    We were tracking what looked like a lower demon¡ªbarely more dangerous than a stray cat. It was small, maybe one or two feet tall, with claw marks scarring the cement as evidence of its presence. This little terror had been raiding warehouses downtown, snatching up leftovers and unguarded lunch boxes. The plan was simple: catch and release, sending it back to the Otherworld where it belonged.


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    I didn¡¯t usually take an audience with me on my hunts. It was dirty work. But these two were¡­ financially persuasive. Ever since ¡°Grayson Shade: Demon Hunter¡± hit the small screen, rich kids were pouring out of their mansions, trying to buy a guided tour. TV wasn¡¯t enough. They wanted to see the real thing.


    Sadly, the real thing was almost never as exciting as the shows. There were no explosions. No scantily clad girls brandishing longing looks and torn dresses. And the hunters weren¡¯t rippling-muscled heroes. At least, I wasn¡¯t. ¡°Paunchy¡± was what they called it. No, hunting wasn¡¯t all that exciting. Not that it didn¡¯t have its benefits. My own hours. No boss to micromanage me. Freedom.


    Oh, who was I kidding? It was pest control for the underworld at best. Garbage disposal at worst. But it had to be done. And these kids wanted ¡°the real thing.¡± They wanted danger and darkness wrapped up in a fedora hat.


    And who was I to say no to rich stupidity? Worst case: the world would be short two mouths to feed. Best case: I¡¯d make a hefty chunk of change and could pay my plumbing for the next month. How the hell did I get here? I used to be somebody. I think.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be a tough one. Dangerous,¡± I said.


    I paused dramatically and sniffed the air. I thought I¡¯d seen them do that on the show once.


    Its tracks wound around Skid Row, back to the docks, and through the old warehouses. Its scent twisted across the city like the twine in grandma¡¯s knitted socks.


    ¡°You smell that?¡± I asked.


    I took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and this time, I actually smelled something. ¡°Sulfur. We¡¯re close.¡±


    ¡°I hope so,¡± Jac said.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been walking around this shithole for hours,¡± Jean added.


    ¡°I told you, we can¡¯t risk using the car. Demons hate the smell of Nightstone. Spooks ¡¯em.¡± That, of course, was a complete lie. Demons actually loved lurking around gas stations and refineries, the stink of their realm blending perfectly with the acrid tang of rift fumes. But the wonder boys didn¡¯t need to know that. They also didn¡¯t need to know that my car was stuck in the shop, held hostage by an unpaid bill. Or that even if I had it back, I couldn¡¯t afford an ounce of the stuff with the prices these days. No, there was plenty Jac and Jean didn¡¯t need to know.


    The scent led us toward an abandoned street hidden away near the dock. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side, their jagged edges reaching for the sky like dying giants. If you squinted, you could almost see the grandeur of their past, now long forgotten.


    Once-grand buildings stood tall, their ornate architecture now covered in a thick layer of grime and graffiti. The sound of our footsteps echoed off the decaying walls as we walked. The only source of light came from a flickering streetlamp ahead, casting eerie shadows and revealing shards of broken glass scattered along the pavement like sharp jewels. A chill wind blew through the empty streets, carrying with it a sense of unease. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the shadows, lurking just out of sight.


    The light flickered, sputtered, then faded out for a few heartbeats before grudgingly flaring back to life. Damned Infernum fluctuations. Could mean a rift was tearing open nearby, or maybe this side of the city just forgot to pay its dues. Either way, it was a bad omen.


    Infernum hummed through the bones of the city, a low, unyielding thrum that kept the lights flickering and the machines grinding. It was the pulse of this place, flowing through blackstone veins buried deep beneath the streets, connecting everything in a web of dark energy. Most didn¡¯t think about it¡ªuntil it stuttered, that steady heartbeat faltering. That¡¯s when you realized just how fragile it all was, how much of this world leaned on a force that didn¡¯t give a damn if we lived or died.


    ¡°Hear that?¡± Jac asked nervously.

 2. I Should Have Brought My Coat ?

    ¡°I don¡¯t hear anything,¡± Jean replied.


    I lifted my hand with the universal sign for ¡°shut the hell up.¡±


    There was an eternity of silence, and then¡­ something shifted. A can rolled out from around a corner. Then there was the sound of claws on metal. A garbage can. Not too unusual to find lost demons rummaging for leftovers. But something was wrong. The sound was... wrong.


    I signaled them to stay back and moved forward, every step deliberate, avoiding the slightest noise. Touching the ground, I confirmed it. More rift-soot. Except this time my hand was covered. This was no small fission.


    I was a few feet from the corner when I felt something sticky under my feet. It wasn¡¯t until the streetlamp flashed again that I saw it. Blood. Not the type of blood you wanted to see alone at night. Demonic pale blood, almost white. My breathing stopped and I froze. The streetlamp flashed again, and the carnage illuminated around me. I was standing in the middle of countless chunks of flesh, bone, and blood. This was the demon I was hunting¡ªsomething had gotten to it before I could. I heard the sound of a low growl, scraping, and wet gnashing teeth in the darkness.


    I slowly started walking backward toward the twins. Inch by inch, I moved back with the silence of a trained cat burglar.


    ¡°Hey! What¡¯s taking you?¡± One of them shouted from behind me.


    The alley went silent and my face must have turned pale as the moon.


    I frantically held up my hand again, mouthing for them to be quiet. We stood there in silence for a heartbeat.


    Maybe it didn¡¯t hear them. Maybe it went away. Where are you?


    As my body flew sideways across the street and slammed into the hood of an abandoned car, I got the answer to my question. Blood stained my shirt as adrenaline quickly numbed the pain. It was going to be a long, cold night. Too cold for this time of year. I should have brought my coat.


    Gritting my teeth against the sharp stab of pain, I pushed myself off the dented hood of the car, scanning the murky shadows for any sign of the demon. My mind raced, cycling through every survival tactic I¡¯d ever learned, but none seemed promising against a creature that had just massacred its own kind with such brutal efficiency.


    The twins crouched behind a dumpster, their eyes wide with terror. I gestured wildly for them to run, to get as far from this nightmare as they could. But as they turned to flee, the air trembled with the heavy, deliberate steps of the beast.


    The world grew colder, thick with the scent of iron and fear. From the darkness, it emerged¡ªtowering, its form grotesquely twisted, skin a sickly pale that seemed to glow under the flickering streetlamp. Its eyes, deep red, fixed on me with a predator¡¯s focus. I knew then there was no outrunning this fate.


    I drew the silver sword from my belt, the last sliver of hope. It had seen better days. But then again, so had I. My arms felt like lead, yet I raised the weapon, steadying my breath. The demon laughed, a sound like cracking bones. It moved with unnatural speed, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat.


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    The clash was brief. My blade met its mark, slicing through thick flesh, but the demon was swifter, more ruthless. Its claws raked across my chest, tearing through flesh and bone with sickening ease. Pain exploded through my body, a raw, searing agony that drowned out all else.


    I really should have brought my coat.


    With a guttural roar, it lifted me by the neck, my feet dangling helplessly. The world blurred, the edges of my vision darkening. I could feel its breath, cold and foul, as it leaned close, its lips peeling back into a gruesome smile.


    With a violent thrust, it hurled me through the air like a ragdoll. Time slowed as I spun, the world a dizzying swirl of lights and shadows. I flew through the wooden railing of the nearby dock with a splintering crash, my body wracked under the impact.


    With a strength I didn¡¯t know I possessed, I pushed myself to my feet. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but I forced my trembling legs to move. My instincts took over, guiding me through the chaos and pain. The demon charged once more, its black eyes gleaming with malice.


    With a guttural roar that felt more primal than human, I confronted the demon head-on. My body moved on instinct, sidestepping just as its claws swiped the air where I stood a heartbeat ago. The silver blade in my hand flashed once before it buried itself deep into the demon¡¯s chest.


    Its scream tore through the night, a sound sharp enough to freeze the blood. The demon convulsed, its twisted form casting jagged shadows that writhed across the ground, the splattered blood gleaming like molten silver as it pooled around the beast.


    I fell to my knees beside it, body shaking from adrenaline and pain. I caught sight of Jac and Jean peering out from behind the dumpster, their faces ghostly in the moonlight. One of them raised a trembling hand in a hesitant wave, as pale and uncertain as the night itself.


    But my victory was fleeting, slipping away as a shadow loomed over me. The demon, stubborn in its death, rose one last time, my blade still lodged in its chest.


    It trembled like a dying man, but the hatred in its eyes cut through the haze, sharp and cold. With one last spiteful swipe, its claws raked from my neck to my abdomen. The pain hit like a hot iron to the flesh, searing and immediate. I stumbled back, gripping my neck as blood spilled between my fingers, the world fading to a blur at the edges.


    My legs gave way, and I tumbled, the broken railing of the dock offering no resistance as I toppled over it. The icy water below embraced me with an unforgiving grip, the salt biting into my wounds like a thousand tiny daggers.


    The weight of my soaked clothes pulled me down, tugging at me like the hands of the damned, but the bulk I¡¯d added over the years¡ªan accumulation of bad habits and worse decisions¡ªkept me afloat, just skimming the edge of the abyss. Strength slipped away, my vision a narrowing tunnel of shadowy nothingness. The last thing I saw before the cold took me was a crumpled cigarette pack drifting down to the bottom of the ocean, forgotten and adrift in the vast, uncaring void. The darkness watched, indifferent, before it swallowed me whole.


    My body floated in the water, a silhouette of my former life. The waves pushed at me, relentless and indifferent.


    And then, stillness. Not the gentle lull of a sleepy afternoon, where the world sighed with the weight of its dreams. Nor the hallowed hush of a library, where secrets slumbered between the pages of forgotten books.


    No, this stillness was ancient¡ªa stillness that belonged to crumbling ruins and hollowed-out cities, where memories didn¡¯t dare to tread.


    And in that stillness, as if he had always been and always would be, stood a man.

 3. Death and Drycleaners ?

    Death leaned lazily against the hood of a black-and-yellow checkered cab, staring down at my lifeless corpse as it drifted in the water. The ocean¡¯s idle ebb and flow made my body dance, bouncing against the stilts of the dock. The motion only made it seem more dead. I stood silent and still, trying to make sense of the scene.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned. Jack Callaghan, in the spectral. I¡¯m a huge fan.¡±


    Death¡¯s smile faded as he placed a hand on my shoulder. ¡°Real shame,¡± he said, thrusting a long finger toward the body. ¡°It¡¯ll be a few hours before anyone finds it, at least. Hate to see water damage like that. Not to mention the hungry fish. I¡¯m not a betting man, but if I were, I¡¯d put money down on a closed casket.¡± He reached down with one slender arm and lifted my face out of the water, taking a moment to consider it. ¡°Yep, definitely closed.¡± He dropped it with a splash.


    Death looked different from what you¡¯d expect. He wore a cloak and bore a scythe, as he¡¯s classically depicted. But the cowl was pulled back, revealing the face of a man. He looked middle-aged, with faint lines around his eyes, the kind etched by years of smiling. His skin was sun-kissed, though still pale at the neck. He had the air of a dad who never missed his son¡¯s soccer games. But most notable about him was that he seemed real while the rest of the world felt hollow, like the way a photograph feels in place of the real thing. Sort of empty. Just a picture of what was. My mind raced to catch up, my life feeling foggy, like a dream I was struggling to remember.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the mind fog,¡± he said, with the bedside manner of an experienced nurse. ¡°The memories come back... or they don¡¯t. You¡¯re thinking without a brain now. New sensation. Don¡¯t know why people try to think with their brains anyhow. Gums up the works, if you ask me. But what do I know? I¡¯m just the embodiment of Life¡¯s Ending, the face of Transition itself.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s coming back to me. But it¡¯s a bit of a blur,¡± I replied.


    ¡°Quite right. Few people like to hold on to their lives. Easier to sort of let it all go. Try not to think too much about it. Gives you a headache.¡± His accent was peculiar, shifting from one region to another every few sentences.


    I looked at him closely, then down at the body again. I should have been more startled by the whole thing than I was. Maybe I was just used to weird. Images of demons flashed in my mind. A leather jacket with an attitude. A cursed house with grand plans of its own. Hell, I¡¯d been through The War. But this? This was different.


    From this perspective, the corpse hardly even looked like me. Maybe it was because it was dead, or because I wasn¡¯t used to looking at the back of my own head. Then again, and more likely, I just wanted to pretend it was someone else. That I was looking at the body of some other poor hapless schlub. That this was all just a dream. The details of my life came slowly when I let them, but they slipped through my fingers like gossamer if I reached too hard.


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    ¡°So, this is it?¡± I asked. ¡°I¡¯m dead?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so, buddy. But don¡¯t sweat it, no-body¡¯s perfect.¡± Death waited with an expectant stare before shrugging off his smirk with a sigh. ¡°Tough crowd.¡± He shook his head subtly. ¡°What do you expect when talking to stiffs?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not really what I expected,¡± I said.


    ¡°You know, I get that a lot. It¡¯s like the hood and scythe aren¡¯t enough anymore. People want the whole song and dance. I mean, that was good and all for the first thousand years, but come on, can you honestly tell me you¡¯d prefer this?¡±


    He lifted his hood over his head. Black tendrils of smoke spiraled around him, raising him into the air several feet. His face, hidden behind the deep and endless darkness of his hood, left two fiery orbs peering back at me. His hands, skeletal and grotesque, pointed down at me as he rose higher and higher still. Winds crashed hard, and I struggled to stay on my feet.


    Then a voice as old as time itself. To say it spoke would be wholly lacking. Rather, it intoned without speaking. Deep and full and all that was.


    ¡°DEATH HATH COMETH, PUNY MORTAL. BOW NOW FOR YOUR TIME IS AT ITS END. ACCEPT THE FATE OF ALL. FOR I AM THE DESTINY OF ALL CREATURES. THE FINAL WORD OF ALL WORDS. THE¡­¡±


    ¡°Okay! Okay! I get your point,¡± I shouted out against the whipping winds.


    Within a blink, he was the middle-aged man again. ¡°See what I mean?¡± he said, straightening up and dusting himself off. ¡°And all that smoke leaves a smell. Heck of a time at the dry cleaners.¡± He assessed me briefly. ¡°Hey, you don¡¯t happen to know of a good dry cleaner in town? Possibly one familiar with shawls. Good cleaners are hard to find. I¡¯d machine wash, but I hate to...¡± He looked up and caught my eyes before shaking his head. ¡°I suppose not. Well, no matter. It¡¯s about time to go.¡± He opened the backseat of the cab and made a sweeping motion with his hand.


    I watched him closely, half-expecting another one of those unsettling transformations, but he just stood there, one hand casually shoved into his pocket, the other gesturing toward the cab door, like he was the chaperone at a school dance. It was almost disarming¡ªtoo normal for someone like him¡ªand that¡¯s what bothered me.


    Death wasn¡¯t what you think. It was like the punchline to a joke that you missed, leaving nothing but an empty, bitter feeling at the end. Maybe life was the joke after all. I glanced down at the corpse sprawled out in front of me, bloated and already becoming a feast for flies. The sight was familiar, yet the finality of it felt distant, like something just out of reach.


    Then I looked at Death¡ªreally looked at him. I¡¯d never imagined what he might be like, but this wasn¡¯t it. There was something familiar in his eyes¡ªa look I¡¯d seen too many times before. It was the same haunted stare I¡¯d caught in worn-out car salesmen and down-and-out hustlers: nervous, desperate, like he was about to pull a fast one on me. It was as if...


    ¡°Alright,¡± I said, turning towards the cab, pushing down the gnawing unease twisting in my gut. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    Before I could reach the door, Death materialized in front of me, his eyes now brimming with concern. ¡°Just like that?¡±


    Something didn¡¯t sit right. He was holding back; I could feel it.

 4. Pretty Damn Dead ?

    ¡°Why not? I sure look dead to me,¡± I said, nodding at the waterlogged corpse. ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve got anything better to do. So, tell me¡ªcan you catch the game in the afterlife, or wherever I¡¯m headed?¡±


    Death raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of incredulity and something close to amusement. ¡°This is where most people beg. You don¡¯t want more time? No unfinished business? No lost love or vendetta to settle?¡±


    I¡¯d seen cons before, and this smelled like one. Death wanted me to plead, to bargain for another shot. And maybe a part of me wanted to, but a bigger part of me hated being played.


    ¡°Nope, I¡¯m good.¡± I shrugged, trying to keep the weight of it all from crushing me. ¡°I¡¯ve lived my life. Wasn¡¯t the best life, but it was mine. And, as my old man used to say, ¡®when it¡¯s your time to go, it¡¯s your time to go.¡¯¡± I attempted to dodge around him, but he moved to block me again.


    ¡°Hold on,¡± he said, raising a hand. ¡°Are you really ready for what comes next? Don¡¯t you even want to know where you¡¯re headed?¡±


    I paused, considering his words for a moment. ¡°Don¡¯t care.¡±


    His grin faltered, darkening into something almost... worried. ¡°It¡¯s not where you think.¡±


    ¡°I said, I don¡¯t care.¡± I made toward the cab door again, but Death didn¡¯t budge. His eyes narrowed, sharp as a knife. Then, as if deciding something, he deflated a bit.


    ¡°Alright, fine, you got me,¡± he muttered, frustration clear in his voice. With a swift motion, he slammed the cab door shut, the lock clicking ominously. From his cloak, he pulled out an hourglass and turned it on its side. Instantly, the world ground to a near halt¡ªthe ocean froze, waves suspended mid-crest, and the flies buzzing around my corpse hung motionless, their wings caught mid-flap.


    ¡°What¡¯s with all the theatrics, Death?¡± I asked, my patience wearing thin. ¡°Think I¡¯ve had enough of the song and dance routine.¡±


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    ¡°I figured if you asked me, it¡¯d be easier than... well, it doesn¡¯t really matter. They warned me you¡¯d be difficult,¡± he said, shaking his head.


    ¡°Why are you really here? And what the hell is going on? You make a habit of collecting every soul personally?¡±


    Death¡¯s eyes darted around, his movements suddenly jittery, like he was expecting someone¡ªor something¡ªto be watching us. ¡°Keep it down,¡± he said, his voice low, tinged with a Manhattan accent that wasn¡¯t there before. He was trying to sound casual, but there was an edge to it.


    The realization hit me like a brick. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be doing this, are you?¡±


    ¡°Technically, no,¡± he admitted, his reluctance palpable as his gaze slid away from mine. ¡°But then again, you weren¡¯t supposed to die just yet either, so we¡¯re both in a bit of a gray area.¡±


    A knot of anger tightened in my gut. ¡°What do you mean, I wasn¡¯t supposed to die? I¡¯m standing here, pretty damn dead, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    Death sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was shouldering the weight of a thousand worlds. ¡°Someone snipped your thread too early. Cut you loose before your time.¡±


    I narrowed my eyes, suspicion and anger mingling. ¡°So what, someone whacked me?¡±


    ¡°In an Eternal sense, yeah,¡± Death replied with a shrug, as if tampering with the cosmic order was just another Tuesday. ¡°Someone¡¯s been messing with the scales. I had a word with Fate¡ªit¡¯s not her doing, which is saying something if you know how tight she keeps her threads. That little detail should keep you up at night.¡±


    ¡°Eternal?¡± The word felt heavy in my mouth, like the cold weight of a loaded Glock.


    ¡°There¡¯s a handful of us,¡± he said, waving it off like it was no big deal. ¡°Time, Fate, War, Love, even the Devil himself.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying you guys are, what, gods?¡±


    ¡°Eh, not exactly. We keep the show running, sure, but gods? No. I¡¯m still on the fence about whether there¡¯s really someone up there pulling the strings or if it¡¯s just us making it up as we go along. If there is a man upstairs, you¡¯d have to admit he¡¯s made some weird decisions. I mean, just look at sex¡ªor the duck-billed platypus. Who thought that little guy was a good idea?¡±


    He smirked, but the darkness in his eyes didn¡¯t fade. ¡°No, we¡¯re not gods. And the positions aren¡¯t permanent either. Think of it more like an immortal nine-to-five.¡±


    ¡°Good benefits?¡±


    ¡°Eh,¡± he shrugged, ¡°not a lot of vacation time.¡±

 5. Unalived ?

    "So, some not-god decided to move up my number? How''s that supposed to work?"


    "It doesn¡¯t," Death said, his tone darkening. "We Eternals have a delicate balance. Each of us has total control over our own domains, but we¡¯re powerless to interfere with one another. If we start tipping the scales too much, we grant what¡¯s called Permissions¡ªa free pass for the others to step in and mess with things too."


    "The problem is, when someone breaks the rules, it¡¯s not like we get a memo of who, how, and where. We just get a feeling¡ªa Permission that lets us step outside our bounds. The more they push, the more room we have to push back."


    Death¡¯s gaze sharpened. "The biggest rule of all is we don¡¯t encroach on each other¡¯s territory. Ever. Which brings us to you, Jack. You¡¯re in a dangerous spot. Someone¡¯s breaking the rules to get to you, and that gives me a little leeway to bend some of the rules myself."


    I leaned against the cab, hands tangled in my hair, trying to make sense of it all. "Why the hell would someone want me dead?"


    "Now that¡¯s the million-dollar question, isn¡¯t it?" Death said, leaning in, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that chilled me.


    "Someone took you out early, and you better believe they had a damn good reason. If it wasn¡¯t me, and it wasn¡¯t Fate, that leaves us with a very short list of suspects, none of whom you¡¯d want to meet in a dark alley. And trust me, Jack, when someone starts skipping protocol like this, it¡¯s never just about one man. They¡¯re playing a bigger game, with pieces even I can¡¯t see yet. You¡¯re just the first move we¡¯ve caught. And changing someone¡¯s schedule like this? That¡¯s a pretty big move."


    There was a tremor in Death¡¯s voice, the kind that creeps in when you¡¯re staring down the barrel of a gun, but you don¡¯t know whose finger¡¯s on the trigger.


    "Alright, I¡¯ll bite," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Someone wants me¡ªa washed-up Hunter P.I.¡ªout of the way. Why? What could I possibly do that someone with that kind of power would care about?"


    Death threw up his hands in exasperation. "What do you want me to say? It¡¯s destiny¡ªyou¡¯re the hero, the chosen one, the protagonist of this twisted tale¡ªthe late, great Jack Callaghan, demon hunter and private eye."


    I snorted. "I call bullshit."


    "Oh, of course you do, because it is bullshit. But you¡¯re what we got. You think I¡¯m happy putting this on you?"


    "There are a dozen other Hunters out there far better suited to be a hero than me. Maybe a decade ago, sure, but you¡¯d have better luck grabbing Greyson Shade."


    Death chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Oh, I love that show. We watch it religiously at the office. No, we checked, and Greyson¡¯s not due for..." He stopped mid-sentence, catching the hard edge in my stare.


    "I¡¯m gonna need a little more honesty here."


    "You want honesty?" he asked, leaning in. "Alright, honestly, I didn¡¯t even know who you were until today. Honestly, the only reason I¡¯m here is because someone didn¡¯t want me to be. They slipped up, I got curious, and decided to check things out for myself. If they hadn¡¯t, you¡¯d already have transitioned automatically¡ªswoosh." He made a flushing motion with his hand. "Down the cosmic toilet with the rest of you miscreants. Why¡¯d they cut your thread in particular? No clue. But I know they did, and that means they stepped into my domain without so much as a ¡®how¡¯s your mother.¡¯"


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    "Alright, I get it. They stepped on your toes. But, for argument¡¯s sake, and just out of curiosity¡ªwhat if I don¡¯t care?"


    "Excuse me?" Death asked, giving me a sharp look.


    "What if I... don¡¯t... care? Right, wrong, or otherwise, I¡¯m dead. And what you¡¯ve got sounds like a problem for the living. I¡¯ve done my time. What if I want out?"


    "You¡¯re really chapping my ass, you know that?" He glanced up at the sky, his hands flying up in exasperation, fingers pinched, as if the universe itself could see the injustice. "Anybody else, huh? You couldn¡¯t have picked anybody else?"


    "I thought you didn¡¯t believe in God."


    "I specifically didn¡¯t say that. I said ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯ But if there is a god, he¡¯s got one hell of a sense of humor, cursing me with a walking migraine in the form of an out-of-shape asshole. Listen good, you whiny little ingrate, not everything is about you."


    He leaned in closer for emphasis. "The boundaries between this world and the Otherworld are fraying. Demons are getting bolder, slipping through the Rift more often, and with far too much ease." He nodded at my lifeless body. "Case in point. We¡¯re not just dealing with pups anymore. Whoever snipped your thread is likely the same one tearing open the Rifts," Death said, like he was talking to a child.


    "I didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be this hard to explain... Jack, too much is riding on what happens next. We need you back at the table. The world needs you. It¡¯s your duty."


    "Duty?" I let out a bitter laugh. "I¡¯ve heard that line before¡ªfrom recruiters, old war buddies, and every damsel in distress who ever crossed my path. ¡®Duty¡¯ is just a leash they use to make you think you¡¯ve got a choice. But this time, I do have a choice, and I¡¯m choosing to walk."


    I turned toward the cab, but Death¡¯s hand clamped down on my shoulder, hard. He leaned in, his voice a razor-sharp whisper. "This isn¡¯t about you. It¡¯s not even about me. It¡¯s about the world. And this... this is just the beginning. But if you won¡¯t fight for your world, then fight for Molly¡¯s."


    Cold fury surged through me at the mention of her¡ªhow dare he drag her into this? How dare he use her name to pull my strings? But the worst part was, it was working.


    I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the car. "What do you know about Molly? Talk fast."


    "I¡¯m sorry, I shouldn¡¯t have brought up your daughter. But," he paused, considering his next words. "¡ªjust because she Transitioned doesn¡¯t mean she stopped existing. When souls leave the body, they go where they¡¯re meant to, and honestly, that¡¯s not even up to me. I¡¯m just the driver. But I do know one thing¡ªwherever she is, she wouldn¡¯t want you letting the world fall apart."


    I assessed him, calculating exactly how one might go about killing a not-god.


    "They¡¯re poking holes in the curtain, Jack. And when that curtain falls, it¡¯s lights out for everyone¡ªno matter where they are, this plane or the next." He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before delivering the final blow. "No Otherworld, no Normies¡ªjust a big, empty void. Everyone inside? Gone. Or worse, trapped in eternal torment. Fire, brimstone, death on repeat. You get the picture?"


    I let him go, and Death straightened, smoothing out his cloak as if brushing off cosmic dust before he spoke again.


    "Now, I¡¯m going to let that one slide because you¡¯re in a bad way, and I know this isn¡¯t easy. But if you touch me again, they¡¯ll be picking up pieces of your soul across every dimension of the cosmos. You can¡¯t technically kill a soul, but you can damn sure hide one in tiny bits. Catch my drift?"

 6. Somewhat Alive ?

    A bitter realization washed over me, my anger morphing into something darker, more suffocating. He had me cornered, and we both knew it. I was a rat in a maze with no way out. I tried to take a deep breath, but frustration simmered just below the surface. If he was right, if this was as wide-reaching as he said, there was no escape¡ªnot in this life, not in the next. And if he was right about Molly...


    Death noticed the shift in my expression, and his tone softened. He leaned in, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Hey, it¡¯s not all bad. We could be worse off. You¡¯ve got your perks. Sure, you¡¯re rough around the edges," he said, giving my gut a light tap, "but you¡¯ve got connections, knowledge, and an endearing lack of self-preservation. Plus, you¡¯re already dead. What more could they do to you?"


    He wasn¡¯t wrong. I could get close to things¡ªand people¡ªothers couldn¡¯t. And there were still a few loose ends I wouldn¡¯t mind tying up.


    "So, what do you need me to do?"


    Death considered me for a long moment. He wasn¡¯t just looking at me¡ªhe was looking into me. It was unsettling, to say the least.


    "Get back to living, Jack. Be who you were¡ªthat¡¯s it. Whatever path you were on that got you killed? Stay on it. You¡¯ll know you¡¯re headed in the right direction when things start heating up. And keep an eye out for the other Eternals. Do this for me¡ªmaybe save the world while you¡¯re at it¡ªand I¡¯ll put in a good word. Might even let you finally rest. Deal?"


    I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him to kick rocks back to wherever the Eternals came from. But then Molly¡¯s face flashed in my mind, and the decision was already made. I took a breath, steeled myself, and nodded. "Alright, fine. I¡¯ll do it."


    Relief washed over Death¡¯s face. "Great. Only took half an hour of my life that I¡¯ll never get back." He exhaled deeply, visibly relaxing. "Just remember¡ªlive your life like you always have. Do what you would¡¯ve done before, and avoid what you wouldn¡¯t have. It¡¯s pretty straightforward."


    He pulled a small, shimmering vial from his cloak, filled with a dark, swirling liquid. "Drink this. It¡¯ll bind your soul back to your body."


    I uncorked the vial but hesitated, narrowing my eyes at Death. "There¡¯s a catch, isn¡¯t there?"


    "What do you mean?" he asked, a little too casually.


    "A catch. A scheme. The fine print," I said, my voice sharp.


    "Well, now that you mention it¡­ it¡¯s a trifling thing, really. Barely worth noting," Death admitted, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Just a little give and take, a bit of a bumble and a stumble."


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Spit it out."


    "When I send you back, you won¡¯t be exactly the same. There¡¯s always a cost. Hard to say what it¡¯ll be, but... with a fair degree of certainty, you¡¯ll be... somewhat alive," he muttered, the last part barely audible.


    "Somewhat alive? Did I hear that right?"


    "Well... mostly dead. But if you take care of the body, it should hold up¡­ for a while, at least. Think of it like a loaner."


    "Great. That¡¯s just great."


    I shook my head and downed the contents in one searing gulp. The taste was startling¡ªa bitter mix of herbs laced with a sweetness that lingered, burning as it slid down my throat. My vision blurred, and a violent tug yanked me back toward my body.


    "Now, this part is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me," Death said, hopping into the water. He stood easily on the still surface between cresting waves, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a glowing, thrumming crystal. It looked like an amber shard of life itself, pulsing with raw power.


    My body floated toward him, the potion working like threads binding me to my corpse¡ªtoo many strings, old and rotten, reeking of rancid decay. Agony tore through me as he rammed the pulsing crystal to my chest, right into my unbeating heart. The shard sank deep, yellow light flaring as it fused with me.


    The world spun¡ªnausea, burning, freezing¡ªwaves of torment crashed through my veins, my body unable to decide which agony to settle on.


    "And Jack, one more thing. This is crucial. Whatever you do, for the love of all that is good and right, don¡¯t¡ª"


    The world snapped back into focus, cutting off his words. I gasped, air tearing into my lungs like acid. Clawing my way out of the water, I shivered, drenched and trembling to the bone.


    "For hell¡¯s sake, finish the sentence," I muttered, glancing back to where Death had stood, but he was gone, and the cab with him. The only trace of our encounter was the faint smell of brimstone lingering in the air, the burn of the scar etched into my chest, and, oh yeah, the fact that I was now a walking corpse.


    As I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the water, I saw it¡ªskin pallid and gray, eyes faintly glowing with an unnatural light. The truth hit me like a sledgehammer: I wasn¡¯t quite dead, but I definitely wasn¡¯t alive, either.


    "I hate Tuesdays," I grumbled, flexing stiff fingers that didn¡¯t feel entirely like my own.


    I stumbled away from the dock, every step heavy with the darkness now pulsing within me. But I pushed it back, forcing myself to focus on what lay ahead. There was a mystery to solve, demons to stop, and maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªa world to save. No pressure.


    Breathing heavily, battered and bloodied, I staggered away from the scene. I found a payphone, vision blurred with a distant, creeping pain, and fumbled with the receiver as I dialed Cali¡¯s number.


    "Cali," I croaked when she picked up.


    "Jack? You sound awful. What happened?"


    "I need a ride."

 7. Facelift ?

    The deafening roar of the engine broke through the stillness as Cali arrived in a pickup truck. Its body shimmered with a vivid turquoise. The headlights cut through the darkness like knives, revealing a chaotic tableau of destruction. Shards of glass glinted in the harsh beams, scattered debris littered the ground, and the twisted remnants of a recent struggle were illuminated in stark detail.


    My legs gave out beneath me, and I stumbled towards a nearby post, my hands grasping at the rough, weathered wood for support. The gravel beneath my feet crunched loudly as Cali came running over, her boots kicking up small clouds of dust in her wake. Her eyes were wide with alarm and worry, her blonde hair tousled and wild. A metallic tang filled the air, mixing with the sharp smell of burnt rubber and sending shivers down my already trembling spine. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, dulling the pain but heightening my senses as I weakly returned Cali''s concerned gaze. My vision blurred, and I struggled to stay upright against the post, a puppet with frayed strings.


    "Jack!" Cali exclaimed, her voice laced with concern as she rushed to my side.


    I tried not to bleed on her overalls. Her smooth features were etched with worry as she slipped an arm around my waist, supporting me as I struggled to climb into the passenger seat. I settled into the worn leather seat as Cali slid behind the wheel. The powerful engine roared to life. The scent of Nightstone filled my nostrils as we drove off into the night.


    "Just ran into a bit of trouble," I muttered through gritted teeth, unable to hide the grimace of pain that crossed my face with every movement. My voice was harsh and strained, and I clutched my neck reflexively. "Thanks for coming."


    Cali''s voice, touched with a gentle Southern twang, wrapped around me like a warm embrace, making the world feel just a little less cold. ¡°For devil¡¯s sake, Jack.¡± Her eyes were filled with kindness and concern. "Let''s get you sorted out and figure out just what kind of mess you''ve gotten yourself into this time." Her gaze wandered over my battered form, tracing the angry red cuts and dark bruises that marred my skin.


    Cali¡¯s worried eyes flickered between the road and my face. ¡°Jack, you look like hell. What happened to you?"


    As the truck sped through the night, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror. She wasn¡¯t wrong.


    I hesitated, trying to find the words. ¡°It¡¯s... complicated.¡±


    Her brow furrowed. "Complicated? Like how? You owe someone money complicated? Or you picked a fight with a werewolf again complicated?"


    I forced a weak smile. ¡°No, more like I had a run-in with Death. Literally.¡±


    She scoffed. ¡°Death, huh? Well, that¡¯s new.¡± She paused, glancing at me. ¡°He stop by for tea and cookies?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± I said, my voice barely a whisper.


    The truck drove on, its engine a steady, comforting growl, filling the silence that followed. We passed the exit to my place. ¡°Where are you taking me?¡±


    ¡°The hospital, where else?¡±


    ¡°No, Cali. We can¡¯t. We need to keep this under wraps.¡±


    She looked at me like I had just suggested she eat a dead slug off the sidewalk.


    ¡°Oh sure, because patching you up in my garage is the smart play. I think I''ve got a new carburetor that should do the trick. Jack, you¡¯re half-dead!¡±


    "Cali, I''m undead."


    She snorted with the kind of refined elegance that only comes from years of perfecting the art of not giving a damn.


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    ¡°You¡¯re telling me you¡¯re a zombie now?¡± She glanced me over, more intently this time, stealing quick looks while keeping her eyes on the road.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, trying to keep it casual. ¡°Undead, reanimated, Death¡¯s errand boy. Take your pick.¡±


    She smiled, brushing it off with a shrug, like it was just a bad joke. Which, in a cosmic way, it was. But then, as the warm glow of streetlights swept across my face, I saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes¡ªa subtle shift I couldn¡¯t miss. I didn¡¯t envy the rollercoaster she was on tonight¡ªfirst the shock of hearing my voice crackle over the pay phone, desperate, then helping me shamble up, and now this. I caught the moment it hit her that I wasn¡¯t joking. But still, she couldn¡¯t fully accept it. I had to rip off the band-aid.


    "Look." I turned on the light in the cab so she could see me clearly. A bloody gash was open across my throat, and three lines were bleeding from my side where the demon clawed. My face was puffy from the waterlog. Anyone else in my state would be dead. Well, I guess I was no exception.


    I cursed as she nearly sent us careening off the road. The tires screeched, the truck fishtailing before jerking to a stop. She threw me a sideways glare, caught between exasperation and disbelief.


    ¡°Satan on skis, Jack! What the hell is going on? Fighting demons is one thing, but this? What kind of mess have you dragged yourself into this time?"


    I explained the series of events leading up to my death and the surreal conversation with the Eternal. Cali took a deep breath, her grip on the steering wheel loosening and tightening. After I finished the story, silence hung heavy between us, a long pause that made me wonder if she was about to throw me out of the truck.


    ¡°Only you, Jack. Only you.¡± Her voice was soft, almost as if she wasn''t speaking to me at all.


    Slowly, she shook her head, her gaze drifting off into the distance as cars streaked past like steel bullets, racing toward whatever destiny awaited them. She took another deep, slow breath, gave a subtle nod, and shifted the truck back into gear. She shot me a smile, as if nothing was wrong¡ªand for a moment, I almost believed it. She had that way about her, an unshakable faith that everything was just as it should be, part of some hidden plan. I wished I had even a drop of that certainty.


    ¡°Alright, zombie boy. Let¡¯s get you patched up at the shop.¡±


    She hit the gas, and we were back on the road, speeding towards her garage. The tension slowly eased, replaced by a strange sense of normalcy in the midst of the chaos. I leaned back, feeling the weariness creep in.


    The steady hum of the engine lulled us into a comfortable silence as we drove down the winding road. My friend smiled genuinely as she started talking again. "I finally finished fixing her up," she said, her voice filled with pride. "She¡¯s waiting for you back at the shop. And I even managed a few improvements."


    She shifted gears effortlessly. I furrowed my brows, concern etched on my face. "Improvements?"


    Cali grinned mischievously and reassured me, "You''ll love it, you big grouch."


    I reached out to pat her shoulder in friendly thanks, but a sharp pain shot through my body like a bolt of lightning, causing me to recoil in agony. Every movement felt like being stabbed with hot knives, and I gritted my teeth to hide the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.


    "You''re the most skilled mechanic I''ve had the pleasure of knowing. If I trust anybody with her, it¡¯s you."


    Cali chuckled, the sound light and melodic. "And don''t you dare forget it." Her eyes, bright and sparkling like stars in the night sky, radiated with pride and confidence as she playfully nudged me with her elbow. I squashed the pain down.


    We reached her place, a modest apartment behind her family¡¯s fuel station and repair shop. She helped me inside, her touch careful yet firm. Martin, her scruffy mutt with one ear flopped over and a tail that never stopped wagging, came over at the noise. He hesitated at first, but after sniffing me for a moment, he started nuzzling my leg. I petted him absentmindedly.


    Cali guided me to sit on a stool in the kitchen. She turned on the light and got her first good look at my entire body. Her eyes widened, and she took a sharp breath, clearly trying to keep it together.


    ¡°How bad is it? Give it to me straight.¡±


    "You look like a half-eaten dog biscuit," she said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t hold back now.¡±


    ¡°You look like you lost a fight with a wood chipper. Like last month''s meatloaf.¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay, I get it.¡±


    ¡°You ever see a pi?ata after a kids'' party? It''s kind of like that, except they didn''t stop after they got the candy.¡±


    ¡°Alright already.¡±


    She left for a moment and rustled around in the shop. She came back with black tape, a first aid kit, needle and thread, a few vials, and a mirror. Taking the mirror, I inspected myself under the harsh kitchen light. She wasn¡¯t kidding.

 8. Patched Up ?

    My skin carried the hue of a forgotten relic, an ashen gray that caught the flicker of the streetlights in a ghostly glow. It wasn¡¯t just the color; it was the texture too¡ªlike dried leather left out to rot, rough and cracked, the kind of surface that told you time gave up trying to erode it. Deep creases slashed across my face, the remnants of a past buried long before its time, and my eyes, sunken into shadowed hollows, peered out like they¡¯d been staring at the dark for too long.


    Cali took a small vial of viscous liquid out of the first aid kit and started to clean my wounds. It was a standard healing tonic. Her hands were deft, but she wasn¡¯t gentle. When I yelped, she looked at me with a smirk. "Big baby."


    "You don¡¯t have to take so much enjoyment in it," I said through gritted teeth.


    Her lips curved into a wide grin. "Keeps you honest. Besides, good to know you can still feel things," she quipped. But I was getting a little worried about that; this all should have been much more painful than it was. She thrust the vial toward my face.


    "Drink up, zombie boy."


    My gaze hovered over the clear liquid, my grotesque reflection staring back at me. Cali''s eyes were practically drilling holes into my skull. With a reluctant hand, I accepted the familiar healing concoction, swirling it around skeptically. Cali¡¯s glare intensified.


    ¡°Just drink it, you old mop.¡±


    I took a deep breath, bringing the glass to my lips and forcing myself to swallow. The thick liquid moved down my throat, making me grimace. Usually, the taste was unbearable, like drinking snails coated in battery acid. But this time it was different. It barely tasted like anything. I wondered if my dying nerve endings were to blame.


    I gulped it down, feeling the tingle as the potion started to work, knitting my skin back together. Relief flooded in for a moment¡ªuntil it didn¡¯t. A sharp hiss filled the air, and my flesh began to sizzle like someone had dropped acid on it. The pain was instant, searing. I thrashed wildly, trying to spit it out, but it was too late. She grabbed a glass of water, shoving it into my hand, but a sip only spread the burn, making it worse.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± I managed to croak, clawing at my throat.


    She scrambled, then appeared with a gallon jug of milk. I ripped off the cap and downed it in desperate gulps, pouring the rest over my neck where the potion had turned my skin into a smoldering mess. The hissing finally started to fade, and I sagged in relief, even as the milk dribbled out through the raw, open wound.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Jack.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I rasped, feeling the last remnants of the potion working their way down to my gut, where it settled like a lead weight. ¡°Neither of us could¡¯ve known it¡¯d do that. Guess health potions aren¡¯t meant for the undead.¡±


    She watched as the milk slowly seeped out of my neck, a mix of horror and resignation in her eyes. ¡°We need to find something that actually helps.¡±


    She got back to patching me up, this time sticking to tape and stitches, while the rest of the potions got shoved far, far away.


    "So, this deal with Death, what''s the scoop?"


    "Just some freelance work," I explained.


    ¡°And what about the whole zombie thing? Should I be worried you¡¯ll start craving brains, or are you more of the cute and cuddly variety?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a cuddly type?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Jack. I¡¯m not exactly an expert on the undead.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I paused, considering. ¡°Honestly? Still figuring that part out myself.¡±


    She let out a low whistle. As she resumed her work, I leaned back, feeling the weariness creep in. The pain was dulling, replaced by a new sensation - an emptiness, a gnawing hunger that was starting to grow. I shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.


    Cali''s nimble fingers moved with expert precision, the needle and thread dancing in her hands as she carefully stitched up my skin. Years of growing up on a farm had given her plenty of practice stitching up her brothers long before she could even ride a bike. Her natural talent and dexterity, honed by years of hard work, also made her a formidable mechanic.


    The night stretched on as Cali tended to my wounds. We slipped into a comfortable conversation. But deep down, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.


    As she finished patching me up, I couldn''t help but admire her. Despite the grease and dirt smudged on her face and clothes, she exuded a raw beauty that was both wholesome and devilish.


    In her early thirties, with ocean blue eyes and a warm smile, Cali radiated genuine kindness.


    She¡¯d told me once how they¡¯d all come down from Montana together¡ªher, her father, and her brothers¡ªback when the shop still buzzed with their voices and the clatter of tools. But the boys were always restless, like stray cats who couldn''t stand being penned in. Charlie took off west, chasing stardom in Hollywood, while Jim hopped a train to Chicago, convinced he¡¯d strike it big in the stockyards.


    Now they were scattered across America, chasing dreams in a booming, chaotic world. She¡¯d been left to pick up the slack, and it showed¡ªher hands, rough and calloused from years of hard work, always had traces of oil clinging stubbornly beneath her nails, no matter how much she scrubbed. There¡¯s a metaphor in there somewhere¡ªsomething about the city sinking into your skin, leaving its mark¡ªbut I was too tired and too hungry to care.


    The shop was quieter now, emptier, but she kept it running, same as always. She said she preferred it that way¡ªcalmer, less chaos. Fewer voices meant fewer arguments, and she could focus. At least, that¡¯s how she put it. But I¡¯d catch that flicker of nostalgia in her eyes, like she missed the noise more than she¡¯d let on.


    I think she would¡¯ve walked away long ago if it weren¡¯t for the ghosts keeping her company. Maybe that¡¯s why we got along so well¡ªboth of us clinging to something that refused to fade, like oil stains that never quite washed out.


    When she was finished, I leaned back. "Thanks for the patch-up, Doc. Got any spare brains lying around?"


    She rolled her eyes but smiled weakly. ¡°You are obviously in want of one.¡±


    I closed my eyes, the weariness finally taking over.


    "We¡¯ll figure this out," she said, her voice steady. "We always do."


    "Yeah," I muttered. "We always do."


    I cleaned up in her bathroom, and she lent me some clothes her older brother had left behind. She offered to let me take my car home, but I couldn''t afford the repairs, and my pride wouldn¡¯t let me accept the favor. When she suggested giving me a lift in her truck, I reluctantly agreed.


    As we headed to my place, I let out a defeated sigh. "I''ll pay you back for all you do for me, Cali, I promise."


    She waved off my words, her eyes fixed on the road. "You were a hero, Jack. You helped a lot of people. The world might have forgotten, but I haven¡¯t. You gotta let people help you once in a while."


    Her words hit harder than any punch. You were a hero. Were being the key word. I managed a small smile and whispered, ¡°You must¡¯ve been kissed by an angel, Cali.¡±


    She glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. "What was that?"


    "Nothing," I said, chuckling. "Just thinking out loud."


    Rain pounded the truck¡¯s roof, the wipers slashing like blades against tiny bullets. Each mile we covered, the past clawed at me, but Cali¡¯s presence kept me grounded. She was something special, that girl. She was a beacon in the darkness.


    As the miles stretched out beneath the steady hum of the engine, an old, familiar ache resurfaced - a memory with the rawness of grief and the weight of regret. Part of me clung to that pain, almost welcoming its bitter taste. I took a deep breath, allowing myself to be swallowed by the past for just a moment. In that fleeting darkness, her image appeared before me: golden hair splayed out on the cold concrete, a stark contrast against the brutal splash of red that surrounded her.


    People loved to say ignorance is bliss, but that was a load of crap. It wasn¡¯t the worries you braced for that gutted you¡ªit was the sucker punches you never saw coming. They also liked to tell me her death wasn¡¯t my fault, that there was nothing I could¡¯ve done. People said a lot of things.


    If I had just taken the day off...

 9. Murphys Law ?

    We pulled up to a large, two-story New England-style house with a loud neon sign that read "Murphy''s Saloon." A painted shingle above the door said, "On the Corner of Lost and Found." I was renting a room above the bar. I got out and headed for the entrance.


    Best bar in town. Helps that it¡¯s the only bar in town. Seeing figures outside the bar wasn¡¯t unusual. The stairs to my place were inside and to the back, and you had to go in through the bar to reach it. It was called Murphy¡¯s because anything that could happen there, did. It was called Murphy¡¯s because it defied all logic, where magic was just another word. Might also have been called Murphy¡¯s because the owner¡¯s name was Murphy.


    "Goodnight," I said, flashing Cali a smile as I climbed out.


    She leaned out the window, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Goodnight? That''s it? Not even a ''thanks for the ride,'' old man?"


    I chuckled. "Thanks for the ride, m''lady." I bowed with a grimace and tipped an imaginary top hat. "Good?"


    Her grin widened. "That was terrible, but I suppose it''ll have to do. You better get out of the rain. You¡¯ll likely melt."


    "Thanks, Cali. I mean it. Now git. And be safe out there."


    Cali rolled up her window, leaving a thin crack. She gave me one last look before pulling away. "You too, Jack."


    I watched as her taillights disappeared into the night, the thrum of the engine fading into silence. I stood outside, feeling the raindrops on my skin, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.


    The thunder and rain created a peaceful overwhelm, the sound drowning out all other noises. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth. I closed my eyes and listened to the storm. I felt peaceful despite everything. Logically, I knew I shouldn¡¯t, but I did. It was as if Mother Nature herself was placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.


    A distant noise shattered my reverie. I focused, straining my ears to listen. There it was again¡ªa blood-curdling scream. I cautiously made my way around to the side door, the scream growing louder and more frantic with each step.


    Instinctively, my hand reached for where my gun used to sit. I¡¯d gotten rid of it a long time ago, but old habits died hard. I reached to the other side where I kept my sword, only to find it missing. I¡¯d lost it to the ocean when I died. Reality hit hard¡ªI¡¯d left behind my days of being a hero. What was I doing? I should just go home. I was barely alive. I¡¯d been given a single shot at life again. This could only end badly.


    But I couldn¡¯t walk away. I moved faster toward the sounds.


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    Through the rain and darkness, I could barely make out four figures at the other end of the parking lot, not more than fifty feet away. The streetlights were out, but a car had its headlights on off to the side. The figures appeared ghostly in the dim green glow of a distant neon sign. As I drew closer, the scene became clearer. Three large men huddled around a lone woman, drenched in the rain. Her once pristine clothes were now ripped and torn. My gut twisted with anger, fear, and something darker as I realized what was happening. Her purse lay discarded on the wet ground.


    Her screams resonated through my bones, and the question of fight or flight hit my fraying nervous system. It wasn''t a question.


    ¡°Hey.¡± I tried to sound menacing, but it was hard to shout without tearing open the stitches in my neck under the tape.


    They didn¡¯t notice me.


    "Hey! Back off!" I shouted.


    They stopped and turned toward me. A nasal, sharp voice cut through the storm. "Why don''t you mind your own business, pal?"


    "How about I make it my business? Lay another hand on her, and I¡¯ll end you."


    Hero complex, Jack? What the hell am I doing?


    The leader sneered into the darkness. "Looks like the old-timer wants to play hero, boys."


    Heat surged along my spine, flooding every extremity with fierce, visceral rage. I felt the amber shard pulsing in my chest as a guttural roar tore from my throat, and I lunged forward, transformed into crude fury.


    Without warning, a man I hadn¡¯t seen before charged at me from behind, knocking me to the ground. With a quick buck and a fierce thrust of my shoulder, I sent him flying over my back, his body colliding with the slick pavement with a sickening thud.


    Before I could take a breath, a sharp pain erupted at the base of my skull¡ªthe impact of a foot hammering down on me. The force knocked me off balance, and I tumbled face-first onto the cold, unforgiving gravel.


    A never-ending barrage of heavy boots descended upon me, each one slamming into my body with ruthless abandon, obliterating any coherent thought and reducing my world to one primal instinct: survival. The stitches were like gossamer against the onslaught. Cali was going to kill me... if I survived this. Every muscle in my body strained to absorb the relentless blows.


    The storm raged on, a symphony of pain and madness. My world narrowed to the rhythm of fists and boots, each impact a note in a brutal, relentless score. I could feel my stitches pulling apart, my flesh giving way, but amid the tempest, something shifted.


    Calmness. I felt it again as I let my breaths slow and the world wash over me.


    The blows didn''t hurt as much as they should. It was as if my nerves were remembering pain that my body no longer truly felt. I let them think I was done for, a lifeless sack beneath their feet. I certainly looked the part. As they turned back to her, I rose.


    The rain dripped from my hair, the cold water mingling with the faint glow of my eyes. "I warned you." My voice moved through the storm, raw and powerful, the voice of a man who had danced on the edge of death and returned.


    The men froze, their heads whipping around. They saw me, standing there, undead and unbroken, a revenant in the rain. It was then I saw it¡ªthe look on their faces; the slow, creeping grip of fear. And for the first time in a long time, I felt none.

 10. Tainted Love ?

    My vision narrowed. The rain and the world around me faded to black. It was just me and them. Nasal Goon fumbled in his jacket, pulling out a knife. Perfect. He lunged at my chest. I let him connect, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him close. His eyes went wide, and I grinned, a smile that screamed, "you messed up, kid." I twisted his wrist until I heard a loud crack. He screamed.


    The hunger grew. Another thug swung a punch at my gut. I sidestepped, closed the distance, grabbed his collar, and hammered my forearm into his neck, over and over, until he crumpled.


    Weakness crept in now. The first attacker stumbled forward again. I rushed him, tackled him to the ground, and slammed his head into the concrete. Each impact a punctuation mark in my furious tirade.


    Two more thugs stepped up, one with brass knuckles, the other with a rusty pipe. Where in the abyss did he get that?


    The bar doors swung open. Murphy stepped out, shotgun in hand, his red hair slicked back. "You¡¯ve got until the count of three to get the damned rift off my property," he growled. "Three¡­" He fired a shot, aiming high. The goons scattered, dragging their fallen comrades with them.


    Murphy lowered the shotgun, eyes locking onto mine. "You alright, Jack?" he asked, voice softer now. I nodded, still catching my breath. Murphy shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips.


    I blinked away the haze, my senses returning. "You okay, miss?" I asked, trying to soften my voice.


    The woman, drenched and shaking from shock, clung to her red dress. Strands of brunette hair stuck to her face, framing her eyes. Even soaked and shivering, she exuded elegance. I chided myself for thinking of such things at a time like this.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she managed between shivers.


    ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get you inside and warmed up.¡±


    Murphy led us in. He saw me in the full light of the bar. ¡°Jesus, Jack, you look like something the cat dragged in, ate, and then puked up.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see you too, Murph.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve had prettier bowel movements. Much prettier.¡±


    We settled by the fire, and Murphy brought our mystery woman a towel.


    Walking into Murphy''s Lost and Found Saloon was like stepping into another world, perched between the strange and the familiar. The flickering fireplace took center stage, casting a warm glow over the cozy space. Plush armchairs circled the hearth, inviting patrons to relax. This place was more than a bar; it was a home filled with the mingling scents of wood smoke and whiskey, cut with just a hint of magic.


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    Saints, I could go for a coffee.


    The saloon occupied what used to be the living and dining rooms of a two-story house. Instead of a grand dining table, there were barstools and small, round tables for intimate chats. The back rooms served as storage, and I called the upstairs home. Murphy, ever the gracious host, seated us by the fire.


    The bar itself was a polished mahogany monolith, standing tall and imposing. Each scratch and groove whispered tales of countless toasts, shared laughter, and spilled tears. Soft orange light from the streetlamp filtered through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the well-worn wooden floor. Murphy tended the fire, shadows dancing on the brick wall behind him. Shelves behind the bar overflowed with bottles of every shape and hue, creating a shimmering mosaic. A potion to cure any ailment. A drink for love lost, a drink to deal with terrible bosses, a drink for the hapless, and a drink to celebrate. But not a drop to cure my particular condition.


    In the corner, a piano played itself, weaving a soft, haunting melody that mingled with the low hum of conversation. The room was a vibrant tapestry of beings from all walks of life, human and otherworldly. Their voices created a symphony of strange words and dialects, blending into a universal language of camaraderie and chaos.


    Murphy glided through the bustling crowd, his red hair catching the flicker of the fireplace¡¯s warm glow. He was the guardian angel¡ªor perhaps a fallen one¡ªof this quirky sanctuary, a protector for the lost and the found. He offered a nod here, a comforting word there. Murphy¡¯s was more than a bar; it was a safe haven where the bizarre and the broken came to find a moment of respite. A place where time and space bent to the power of human connection and the resilience of the human spirit. Amidst the clinking glasses and murmured stories, reality blurred, and for a fleeting moment, everyone found their true place in the vast expanse of the universe.


    Murphy brought us blankets to warm up, though I didn¡¯t feel cold. An unspoken truth lingered among the patrons¡ªI couldn''t shake the suspicion that Murphy was Devil Kissed. He¡¯d spent his life surrounded by magic, welcoming everyone into his bar. Maybe he had a bit of fae in his ancestry, or perhaps he made an old deal with a demon. Who could judge? There was so much good in the worst of us and bad in the best of us that it was an abyssal shame for any of us to talk about the rest of us.


    Full demons couldn¡¯t linger in our world without going mad, but their influence left a mark. Those who dabbled with demonic artifacts or made pacts with demons started to change, earning the name Devil Kissed. The more they were influenced, the more they bore the mark of the Otherworld.


    Then there were the Hexborn¡ªthose with non-human ancestry in their bloodlines. It was a forbidden topic, something that could ruin lives if mentioned in unfriendly company. But here, in Murphy¡¯s establishment, the Devil Kissed and Hexborn found a fragile truce, their secrets safe.


    Devil Kissed showed signs¡ªfaintly glowing eyes, an unnatural grace, a voice with a hint of the abyss. The Hexborn had non-human ancestry¡ªPixie Touched, Fae Touched, Wolf Touched¡ªeach with distinctive traits.


    In my heyday, even I started showing signs. Until I put Frank away, hints of demon influence clung to me.


    Some folks were real hypocrites. They called themselves Pure, like they were better than the rest of us. But they ran their lights on Infernum, cooked their meals with Shadefire, and drove cars fueled by Nightstone oil. Their homes were powered by the same dark currents that kept our world ticking, yet they still had the gall to call us Tainted.

 11. Better Left Buried ?

    Rift soot coated everything in monochrome, draining the world of color. You only saw real color inside homes, on magical items, or when you wiped the soot away.


    These self-righteous clowns would persecute you, fire you on the spot if you were found to be Hexborn. Like they were somehow above it all. But guess what? Even they couldn¡¯t escape the rift. Rift stuck to the backs of angels and demons alike, so the saying went. We were all Devil Kissed to some degree.


    Magic wasn¡¯t just a part of our lives now, it was our lifeblood. Ever since those rifts started tearing open, we couldn¡¯t live without it. But that was a thought for another time.


    I sat and stared at the woman before me. The rain outside died down. The fire crackled, our hands slowly thawing in the warmth. Silence hung between us like an old friend we didn''t need to entertain. And I was perfectly fine with that.


    The piano stopped playing as a bard sauntered up to the makeshift stage in the corner, her lute resting easy against her hip. With a few practiced strums, the bar hummed to life with soft, melodic chords. For a breath, I let the world''s weight slip off my shoulders.


    She was a woman with warm brown skin and eyes that gleamed like jade. Faint lines creased her face, the only tell of her years. Angelica. Her voice? It was a lullaby for the restless, smoothing out the jagged edges of my thoughts. She crooned about lands we dreamt of and adventures we craved, spinning tales of fierce damsels who saved themselves and rugged men discovering their souls. Her songs were like a cozy quilt on a bitter winter''s night.


    The room hushed, spellbound by her melody. I savored the quiet, a rare gift for my stormy mind.


    As her first song faded, I broke the spell. Leaning forward, elbows digging into my knees, I finally spoke.


    "So, how about we start with a name and what brings you to my dingy little corner of the world?" I asked, keeping it light, though my curiosity was anything but casual.


    She looked at me, and for a moment, her eyes pulled me in like a riptide. Pain seared through my chest, snapping me back to reality.


    "Aylin. Aylin McGuffey. I''m looking for someone," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.


    "Who exactly are you hoping to find around here?" I scanned the room, noting the usual suspects - locals, lowlifes, and the kind of riffraff that blended in perfectly with the worn-out decor.


    "A man named Jack Callaghan. Do you know him?" Her voice wavered, and she stared down at her hands as if they held the answers.


    I frowned. "Yeah, I know him. What''s your business with that particular piece of work?"


    She hesitated, fingers knotting together. "I... I can''t say."


    I leaned back, arms crossed, giving her the once-over. "Can''t or won''t? Look, if you want my help, honesty¡¯s not optional."


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    Her eyes lifted, fear mingling with a desperate plea. "I... I need his help."


    I sighed, realizing this was going to be a long night. The flicker of the fireplace danced across her face, casting soft shadows that highlighted her raw, unrefined beauty. There was an authenticity to her that was hard to ignore.


    "Alright, Aylin. Spill it. What''s so dire that you''d seek out the infamous Jack Callaghan? Haven¡¯t you heard? He¡¯s washed-up, out of business. Hasn¡¯t had a steady job in years."


    Murphy returned with a few more towels and two steaming mugs. "What''s this?" I asked, eyeing the drink with suspicion.


    "Second fastest way to warm someone up that I know of," he replied. The aroma hit me gently: sweet, hot, and undeniably alcoholic. I was pretty sure it was Earl Grey spiked with buttered rum.


    "Second?" Aylin blushed at his knowing wink.


    "Go easy on it. This stuff will knock you on your ass faster than your mother can spit," Murphy warned.


    I took a cautious sip. It barely registered on my tongue. "Watering down the drinks again, Murph?"


    He shot me a quizzical look, then grabbed another bottle from the shelf and poured me a shot. "Alright, big shot. Have a go at this one."


    I downed the shot. Still nothing. I shrugged.


    "Saints help you, Jack." Murphy had never been one to back down from a challenge. The fire in his eyes told me he¡¯d made it his personal mission to find something strong enough to hit.


    "Jack? You''re Detective Jack Callaghan?" Aylin''s eyes widened in recognition.


    ¡°I haven''t been called that in a long time.¡±


    ¡°You look nothing like your photo.¡± She pulled an old newspaper clipping from her purse. Famed Hunter Faces Tragedy... There was an old photo of me and Frank.


    The sting of the memory knotted my nerves, leaving me on edge. "Mind telling me what in the abyss is going on here?" I snapped. "How do you know who I am? And who were those men?"


    "I''m sorry. It wasn¡¯t easy finding you."


    "Talk faster, kid." I braced myself on the seat, ready to bolt at the next wrong word.


    ¡°Listen, Mr. Callaghan, I¡¯ve come a long way. If you could just hear me out. It¡¯s my uncle,¡± she paused, searching for the words.


    ¡°Spit it out.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been murdered. And those men who attacked me, they¡¯re after me too.¡± Her eyes, deep and blue like an ocean storm, threatened to pull me under.


    "I didn''t know where else to go. You''re my last hope, Jack." Her hands trembled¡ªfear or cold, didn¡¯t matter. Both were dangerous.


    ¡°Go to the police.¡±


    Aylin¡¯s voice dropped to a whisper. Tears shimmered in her eyes. ¡°The police say it was suicide. But I know that can¡¯t be true.¡± She clutched a delicate silver key, hands shaking. ¡°My uncle Robert was found in his study. But suicide is ridiculous. He couldn¡¯t stand the sight of a paper cut, let alone...¡±


    Robert McGuffey. The name clicked. Rich guy, big shot collector, found with his throat slit in a locked room. Suicide, they said. Simple as that. But in my line of work, locked doors were just polite suggestions to the supernatural.


    "Collectors," I muttered. "Always digging up things better left buried."


    Her eyes widened with hope, or maybe it was just the bar''s dim light playing tricks. "You believe me?"


    "I believe the dead don''t always stay quiet. And collectors? They have a knack for pissing off the wrong kind of spirits." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Tell me everything you know about those men."

 12. Nightcap ?

    Her voice steadied. "They wanted something my uncle found. Something... old and powerful. He wouldn¡¯t give it to them. He was a collector of rare artifacts. And he had gotten his hands on an old jewelry box and key." She handed me the key, an intricate filigree glinting in the dim light. "Gave me this the day before he died. Told me to hold on to it, to keep it secret. Was acting strange, paranoid even."


    I took the key, feeling its weight. "Collectors," I said again, shaking my head. "Always think they can handle the dark stuff."


    Aylin''s voice trembled. "Do you think... it had something to do with his death?"


    I met her gaze, seeing the desperation and fear. "If he was messing with something that powerful, it''s a good bet. But you¡¯ll need more than just a hunch."


    Collectors. They blew their fortunes on trinkets, thinking they were buying power. Most of the time, they were just getting fleeced. Some "demonologist" would sell them a busted toaster dressed up with runes and a good story, and they¡¯d fork over a small fortune, convinced they had the key to ancient power. The dirty demonologists got a kickback, and the collectors got conned. It was a joke¡ªusually.


    But sometimes, they stumbled onto something real. And when that happened, it wasn¡¯t just their money at stake. They welcomed darkness into their homes, thinking they could control it. They were wrong. Darkness didn¡¯t get controlled; it consumed. It turned their lives into nightmares and brought ruin to their loved ones. They wanted power, and instead, they got horror.


    Guys like McGuffey¡ªgreedy, desperate for something they didn¡¯t understand¡ªthey got what was coming to them.


    Aylin¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°I just want his name cleared. The police won¡¯t listen. The papers are smearing him left and right. It¡¯s sickening. They see an open-and-shut case. But I know it¡¯s not. I need a private investigator. Someone who understands..." She looked at me, pleading. ¡°And when it comes to demons, your name¡¯s the only one in the book.¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°I took my name out of that book, Aylin, for good reason.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pay five hundred upfront just to check it out. Another five hundred if you take the case, and a bonus thousand if you solve it.¡± She dropped an envelope on the table, stuffed with twenties. ¡°Please. Just promise to look into it.¡±


    I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Damn. There was something in her eyes¡ªa blend of desperation and determination¡ªthat was hard to ignore. Plus, the money didn¡¯t hurt. I might be undead, but I still had to pay rent.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ll ask around. But no promises. I¡¯ll cast the line, but if nothing bites, we are done.¡±


    A flicker of hope lit up her face. ¡°Thank you.¡± She left the key, the money, and a handwritten note with her number on it.


    As she walked out, I picked up the key, studying it. Collectors. They always thought they could dance with the devil and come out unscathed. But in the end, it was the devil who led.


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    The key glowed faintly silver, pushing the rift soot away like two magnets repelling each other. I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Demons. Why is it always demons?"


    I sat there, unmoving, as the bar¡¯s bustle swallowed the distant howl of the wind, whipping through the trees outside. Why did she have to do that? Tug on my heartstrings like that. I was out of the business. Not going back in. But damn it, her uncle had been mixed up in something nasty, and if there was a demon involved, it wouldn¡¯t end with him.


    The night dragged on, the bar slowly emptied. Murph locked the door, slid another drink my way. ¡°What¡¯s the deal, Jack?¡±


    I took a sip, sighed, and laid out the whole mess about my run-in with Death and our little arrangement.


    Murph arched an eyebrow. ¡°Didn¡¯t peg you as the deal-with-the-devil type.¡±


    I went behind the bar and fixed Murphy a whiskey neat.


    ¡°Not the devil, Murph. Death. But yeah, usually not my style. When it¡¯s that or oblivion, reincarnation, or whatever fresh hell waits around the corner, you play the smart hand.¡±


    Murph chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°You sound like a character from one of those old dime novels.¡± He rummaged through the bottles, found something, and poured me another shot, eyeing me like I was a puzzle. I downed it without any fanfare. He frowned, diving back for something stronger.


    ¡°Yeah, well, things are getting weird. When Death starts making deals, you know it¡¯s bad. He¡¯s spooked about the other Eternals.¡± I paused, about to explain, but Murph nodded knowingly. How the hell does he know about the Eternals?


    ¡°Something¡¯s brewing, Murph. Something big. Rifts are popping up more and more. You¡¯ve noticed, right? The rift mining could be a factor, but we¡¯ve been batting that theory around for years.¡±


    He handed me another drink, this one letting off a soft smoke. It vanished in a single pull. Smoke drifted from my lips as I continued talking.


    ¡°Rifts have been steady since Edison, but now they¡¯re getting bigger and more frequent. What do you make of it?¡±


    Murph leaned back, thinking. ¡°Heard a lot of chatter from folks passing through. It¡¯s not just here. Even places that don¡¯t touch the stuff or mine in the rift. Middle of nowhere spots. Same weirdness.¡±


    He vanished into the back. I heard a loud crack and the slosh of liquid. He returned with a can of coffee and an old surge battery. When he came back, the liquid was bubbling. I took a swig and felt like I¡¯d been plugged into a power line. A zing shot through me. The coffee¡¯s rich, like a punch in the face. ¡°Damn, Murph, I feel like I just got hit by a rift surge.¡± I took another swig.


    ¡°Technically, you have.¡± He held up the battery, now cracked and empty. He smiled with satisfaction. ¡°Never has there been a customer I couldn¡¯t find a drink for.¡±


    "You''re going to have to tell me how you know so much, one of these days."


    He smiled, a sly glint in his eyes. "And lose my air of sophistication? I don''t think so." For a moment, he looked younger, like a man who¡¯d seen too much but still held on to a carefree heart.


    I nodded, the surge still humming through my veins. ¡°Keep your ears open, Murph. If Death is making deals, there¡¯s something big brewing. I despise being left in the dark.¡±


    His expression shifted, eyes darkening in a flash as he nodded.


    I helped Murphy clean up the bar, trying to push Aylin out of my mind. It was a long night, and sleep didn¡¯t come easy. When I finally drifted, I was haunted by her big doe eyes.


    Damn dames.

 13. Another Fine Morning ?

    Minutes before dawn, I woke, hollow with exhaustion and gnawing hunger. The sun dragged itself over the city, not in a blaze of color, but with a slow, disinterested crawl. It crept between rooftops, slinking down alleys and over streets where summer¡¯s ghost lingered¡ªthin and obstinate. It was that stubborn warmth, clinging like a memory that should¡¯ve slipped away but wouldn¡¯t, fighting the inevitable. There was a quiet conflict in the air, heat and cold wrestling like old enemies locked in a hopeless dance.


    I felt the tension settle into my bones, the last of the warmth curled around the earth like regret that refused to let go.


    Slept like the dead¡ªwhat a joke. I winced and dragged myself out of bed, feeling every stiff and aching muscle. That was a good sign; at least I could still feel. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed my fears¡ªI looked like death warmed over, and not in the metaphorical sense.


    I peeled off the tape; the gash in my neck and sides was gone, only remnants of the torn stitching remained. Cali¡¯s help last night must have done the trick. Or was it the drink Murphy had made me? So many questions about this whole undead gig, and I needed answers fast if I wanted to avoid rotting, or worse.


    Aylin¡¯s memory lingered like a faint scent. I eyed the loose board in my room where Frank was hidden. I debated talking this whole thing over with him, but I couldn''t bring myself to do it. It would make it all too real. I decided to leave Frank out of it for as long as possible. Besides, I managed without him for most of my life. I could handle this.


    Instead, I grabbed a roll of thick silver coins from a hidden compartment in my nightstand and headed out.


    Time to visit an old contact, Jeff "The Newsie" Brown. Maybe he could put some feelers out for strange happenings and increased demon activity. If anyone knew, it was The Newsie.


    I grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses and a hat, pulling the brim low. It wouldn¡¯t fool anyone up close, but it would keep the stares to a minimum. A scarf around my neck hid the more obvious decay. Passably human, I grabbed a cab and headed into the city.


    The city sprawled¡ªtook an hour to cross on a good day, no traffic. But today? The traffic was a nightmare, way too brutal for that early in the morning.


    For forty minutes, the cab jerked forward with spurts and stutters, like some wounded creature caught in a slow death march. Early bird pedestrians glided by, unconcerned, and soon we crept past them again¡ªuntil the same faces reappeared. There was the mother with the stroller, pushing ahead again. Irritation gnawed at me. I paid my fare and stepped out, surrendering to the sidewalk. It¡¯d be faster on foot.


    The breeze, colder now, cut through me, sharp as a blade. Summer¡¯s fight was futile. This was the beginning of the end, the first breath of the season¡¯s death, quiet but certain.


    The light had faded, drained of its former gold. It stretched thin over the city, pale and weary, casting shadows long and brittle, like echoes of something that was once alive but now just... wasn¡¯t. Trees held on to their leaves like gamblers with too little to lose, their final bets trembling on the branches. But the wind was patient, indifferent, pulling them down one by one, casting them aside to join the others already broken and scattered beneath my feet. There was a finality in the way they fell¡ªan unspoken goodbye, not of sorrow, but inevitability.


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    With each step, the leaves didn¡¯t crunch; they sighed underfoot, like a secret the earth was trying to share but I was too tired to hear. The warmth was slipping away with every breath, seeping out with each exhale. My breath fogged the air for a moment before the wind snatched it away, another piece of summer claimed by autumn¡¯s grasp.


    Everything was poised, balanced on that edge between what was gone and what was coming. The past was fading, and the uncertainty of tomorrow pressed in.


    I pulled my collar close, but the chill sank in, deeper than fabric could reach. There was no fight to be had. The battle was already over. It always was.


    There was a brief period of calm before the rest of downtown woke up. I cherished it for a few peaceful minutes, enjoying the early birds, though there were too many of them. And then, like a clown with a pie, the city hit me with a slap in the face.


    The noise was a living thing¡ªhorns blared, tires screeched, conversations blurred together into a buzz of chaos. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and joined the river of people flowing down the street. The sidewalk was uneven, cracked, like it¡¯d seen better days.


    The air smelled like exhaust and cheap food¡ªhot dogs, maybe, or something fried that¡¯d seen more grease than heat. My shoes hit the pavement in time with the rhythmic pulse of the city, every step bringing me closer to...well, nowhere really. I wasn¡¯t in a rush. Not anymore.


    Up ahead, a man was yelling into a payphone, face red, veins bulging at his neck like he was ready to burst. No one cared. People just sidestepped him, like he was a pothole in their day, not worth acknowledging. He gave me a sideways glance, eyes wild, and I could feel the emptiness of his anger, like it was all for show.


    The bustling streets felt suffocating as I navigated through them, the living brushing past, blissfully unaware of the walking corpse in their midst.


    It had been years since we¡¯d talked; Jeff and I. He always had a knack for keeping low while running the show. Years back, he had a handful of newspaper stands dotted across the city. They looked innocent enough¡ªlegit, even. But behind the crinkled headlines and cigarette smoke, Jeff was pulling the strings on an info network that fed the city''s dirtiest players. A gang of street kids, posing as newsies, funneled him intel. He¡¯d helped me out more than a few times when I was still in the game.


    Now I heard he¡¯d set up shop way up in Northern Goodrich¡ªNoGo, the wealthier part of the New Amsterdam city districts, where the skyline gleamed and the streets bustled with quiet power. It was just as busy as the south, but the crime here wore a suit and tie, deals inked over martinis instead of back-alley handshakes. In a city this sprawling, NoGo felt like a different country altogether. If Jeff was operating up there, he was playing a bigger game now. Seemed his little empire had grown into something far more dangerous¡ªand a lot more refined.


    I¡¯d spotted him now and then over the years, lingering on the periphery, always just outside my new life. I tried to leave that world behind, but once you¡¯ve seen it¡ªonce the curtain lifts and you catch the old man yanking the strings¡ªthe puppet show never quite looks the same. You can¡¯t unsee the wires. And no matter how far you walked, it was always in the corner of your eye, waiting for you to look again.


    The newsstand looked the same as any other¡ªweather-beaten wood, plastered with faded headlines, and a flimsy plastic canopy sagging under the weight of dust and time. The kind of place you¡¯d pass a hundred times without a second glance. But the closer you got, the more it felt off. The stacks of newspapers, arranged just a little too neat, like they were hiding something. The chipped counter, dark with years of grime, but the cash box? Too clean. A battered stool leaned against the side, empty, but you could feel someone¡¯s eyes on you before you even stepped up. The smell of stale ink lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes, but beneath it, something else¡ªsomething sharp, like a deal about to be made. This wasn¡¯t just a newsstand. Never was.


    Jeff¡¯s voice cut through the air like a knife. His greasy hair was slicked back, revealing a receding hairline that made him look even more desperate. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the one and only,¡± he said.

 14. No News Is Bad News ?

    "Expanding north, are you, Jeff?" I asked, keeping my tone polite despite the contempt.


    "Would appear that way," he said.


    "Thought you had ¡®staff¡¯ to run your stands nowadays. What are you doing out on the front line?"


    "Oh, you know me," he replied with a smug grin. "I like to keep my finger on the pulse. I go where the news is, Jackie boy." He scanned the street before turning his beady eyes back to me with a dubious squint. "So, what brings you back to these parts? You back in the game?"


    I gave a nonchalant wave of the hand. ¡°Just passing through.¡±


    Jeff wasn¡¯t convinced. He eyed me up and down, sizing me up. I resisted the urge to smack him - he always loved to play games, act like he was somebody important. But now, after everything that¡¯d happened, all I saw was a small-time con artist desperately trying to hold onto power in a dying city.


    A wide, almost eerie grin spread across his face, revealing a glistening gold tooth that caught the sunlight and winked at me. Charming. ¡°I heard you were working local. Trash man, they say. Chasing down local runts. Is that right? That ain¡¯t no job for a man with your... talents.¡± His voice was oily and smooth, like an old hand at the used car lot, hawking lemons.


    I clenched my jaw and fought to keep my composure.


    "Work is work, Jeff."


    He squinted at me. "You know, you don''t look too good, Jackie. You sick or something?"


    "Just tired. Long nights, you know how it is."


    He shrugged. His eyes glittered with greed as he got down to business. ¡°Can I do anything special for you today?¡± He gave me a smile that stretched ear to ear but somehow never reached his cold, calculating eyes.


    I mentally prepared myself, bracing for the task at hand, as if I were about to plunge my bare arm into a dirty toilet to unclog a stubborn blockage. And I felt just about as dignified.


    ¡°Just looking for some news. Two questions.¡±


    "Jackie, you¡¯ve come to the right place. You remember the fee?" Jeff was slick and nearly as greasy as his hair.


    I put two silver coins on the counter, each pressed with the symbol of the Midnight Council¡ªa raven in front of the moon. His hand moved over them and they disappeared like magic.


    The city felt heavier, the air thicker.


    ¡°One: The Rifts, they¡¯ve been happening more lately.¡±


    ¡°Is that your question?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s a fact. My question is, what do you know about it?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna need to get a little more specific than that,¡± he said. ¡°I know a lot of things.¡±


    ¡°Any indication of the cause, Jeff? Why the increase?¡±


    ¡°Ah, now if that ain¡¯t the million-dollar question, Jackie.¡± He set a silver coin back on the table. ¡°Afraid that info¡¯s been bought and locked.¡±


    ¡°So someone else was looking for that answer? What¡¯s the release price?¡± I asked.


    ¡°More than you¡¯ve ever had your hands on, even in your heyday.¡±


    ¡°How much, Jeff?¡±


    ¡°Fifty gold.¡±


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    Fifty gold coins. Whoever wanted this knowledge wanted it to themselves. You could get a head of state magically knocked off for less.


    I took the silver coin back, returned because he couldn¡¯t provide the info. But that fact alone said a lot.


    "Fine. Second question. A case a few weeks ago, Robert McGuffey, found in his study, surrounded by his own blood."


    "Yeah, I know it. A gruesome way to go."


    "He was involved in ''collecting''."


    Jeff stared at me blankly, not giving anything away.


    "Have you heard any whispers about him? Any talk along the grapevine about what actually happened?"


    "I thought you retired from all this, Jackie. You¡¯re asking a lot of questions for someone that¡¯s retired."


    "I have, but this is personal. For a friend."


    His voice got louder, more polite and formal. "Anything else I can help you with, sir?" he asked.


    Just then, a woman walked up with her daughter in tow. The little girl immediately spoke up, demanding a candy.


    "You can have a sweet when we get home, Matilda," the woman scolded gently before turning to buy a newspaper.


    The little girl looked up at me. I smiled and lifted my hat slightly in a nod. Her eyes went wide and she hid behind her mother¡¯s dress. Right, my face. I needed to get used to this.


    Jeff''s voice suddenly took on a friendly and surprisingly light tone as he handed a free candy to the little girl. ¡°Here you go, little one. On the house.¡± She took it, and she and her mother disappeared down the street.


    He turned back to me.


    As I reached into my pocket to grab a nickel, my fingers closed around something unexpected. It wasn¡¯t the coin I was searching for, but the small silver key. Its surface was adorned with intricate filigree designs that caught and reflected the light in mesmerizing patterns.


    "That''s quite something," Jeff remarked. I felt a sudden self-consciousness wash over me.


    "Yeah, indeed it is. I think it¡¯s connected to the death somehow. So, you got any dope on it?¡±


    He thought for a long moment. ¡°Is this a private inquiry, Jackie, or public?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the cost difference?¡±


    ¡°Goes from silver to gold for private.¡±


    ¡°Christ man, inflation isn¡¯t that bad.¡±


    ¡°Prices go up. Just the way it is.¡±


    I didn¡¯t have a gold coin. I spent most of my stock buying my way out of the game.


    ¡°It¡¯ll have to be public, you little rat.¡±


    Jeff smiled at me darkly.


    ¡°In that case, I can tell you two things. Firstly, it wasn¡¯t no suicide, as I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve guessed.¡±


    ¡°And the second thing?¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t the only one after that key¡¯s mate, the little jewelry box.¡±


    ¡°Anything else? Can you tell me who is looking for it?¡±


    ¡°Afraid that¡¯s all I got. If you want, you could leave the key with me and I could ask around a bit.¡± Jeff¡¯s eyes glinted.


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking I¡¯ll be fine holding onto it for now.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself,¡± he said.


    Jeff''s expression turned serious. "Some free advice¡ªdrop this one, Jack. Nothing¡¯s worth the answers you¡¯re looking for. You¡¯re messing with fire here. If you keep poking around, some people might get the wrong impression. And you don¡¯t have the same protections that you used to."


    I gave him a curt nod and pulled the nickel from my pocket, tossing it to him before grabbing the paper and making my escape. As I scanned the headlines, one caught my eye: "Crime on the Rise in New Amsterdam. Artifacts sold to Amsterdam Museum discovered faked."


    Jeff wasn¡¯t directly helpful, but in a roundabout way, he¡¯d told me what I needed.


    I knew that the now-confirmed murder of Mr. McGuffey was tied to the key and jewelry box, and thus to magic.


    And that the rifts were speeding up, and someone powerful was behind it or at least trying to keep it a secret. I mulled over the list of players who could throw that kind of weight around. Couldn''t be Calico, could it? Maybe the Council itself?


    I wouldn¡¯t put it past those sniveling, power-hungry bastards. They were a bureaucratic nightmare, always hiding in the shadows, their filthy little fingers in everything. They hoarded knowledge like dragons hoard gold, terrified of losing their grip on power. I was all for looking out for your own interests, but these guys took it to another level. They squashed anyone who dared to threaten their so-called "order," not out of necessity, but out of cowardly malice and hypocritical righteousness.


    My stomach grumbled loudly, a not-so-gentle reminder that I¡¯d skipped breakfast. Gotta eat. The sweltering heat of the summer afternoon beat down on me as I headed to my favorite breakfast spot downtown. The sun cast a warm glow over the freshly washed streets. Last night''s heavy rain had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a thick layer of humidity and a fresh sheen of soot just beginning to form.

 15. Frank ?

    New Amsterdam was prettiest after it rained, in that brief, magical moment when the world¡¯s vibrant colors returned. The city sighed with relief, shedding its grime for a fleeting heartbeat before the soot spread again, sucking the life and color back into its weary bones.


    My head felt heavy and foggy as I spotted Mel''s Diner up ahead. The mostly empty parking lot brought a sense of relief. No long wait, and less chance of bumping into old acquaintances. It was quiet as I approached the entrance, the only sounds being the clacking of my footsteps and the rustle of the newspaper tucked under my arm.


    Time to grab a bite and maybe a slice of normalcy, if only for a moment.


    A scruffy dog with matted fur and a snaggletooth poking out of its jowls trotted out from a nearby alley. It startled me just enough that I almost tripped over him.


    ¡°Damn it, Sarge,¡± I muttered.


    His fur was a patchwork of dirty white and brown, and one ear stood while the other flopped down. His eyes, a mismatched pair of blue and brown, met mine with a mix of curiosity and desperation. He sniffed the air, then seemed to recognize my scent and decided I was still a friend, which brought me a small comfort. His tail wagged furiously, but his body was tense, as if he was deciding whether to trust me or bolt.


    Sarge, a mutt with a heart as big as the city, was the unofficial guardian of this block. He was a stray who¡¯d earned his keep through loyalty and a fierce, if often misdirected, protective instinct.


    As I moved to step past him, he tugged on my pant leg with surprising strength, trying to pull me back from the diner. I knelt down, ruffling the fur behind his ears, and he leaned into my hand, whining softly.


    ¡°Not now, boy,¡± I said, giving him a gentle pat on the head. ¡°I can¡¯t play right now.¡±


    He hesitated, then relented, sitting back on his haunches with a resigned huff. I straightened up and pushed open the diner door, the familiar clang of the door chimes ringing out as I entered.


    I slid onto a stool at the counter, nodding to the waitress, Sally. She was a staple here, with a beehive hairdo and a pen tucked behind her ear.


    ¡°The usual, Jack?¡± Sally asked with a smirk.


    ¡°Extra sauce this time.¡±


    She nodded and poured me a coffee. Black. I took a sip and frowned. Nothing. Tasted of nothing.


    I sat, lost in thought. The diner was a vibrant slice of Americana: red vinyl booths, chrome stools, and the low buzz of a jukebox in the corner playing some forgotten tune. The usual smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee fell dead on my senses, like a memory I couldn''t quite grasp. My fingers absently played with the key in my hand, tracing its intricate design. I didn¡¯t recall taking it out of my pocket.


    "How did you get all the way out here?" I whispered to it, my eyes locked on the silver filigree.


    Sally interrupted my thoughts by setting a cheeseburger with extra sauce and fries in front of me. "That''s a pretty little thing," she remarked, her eyes lingering on the key. Without thinking, I carefully tucked it away in my pocket and took a sip of my flavorless coffee.


    "It''s just an old souvenir," I lied, my voice flat. I took a bite of the burger, chewing mechanically. The taste was a distant echo, barely there.


    The door clanged open again, and two unfamiliar men strode in. They immediately caught my attention with their slick suits and polished shoes.


    I shook off the unease settling in my stomach and pushed any thoughts of Aylin and her cursed music box to the back of my mind.


    I did my part. I checked on it, like I said I would. I could drop it here.


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    I heard Sarge bark outside.


    As I lifted my mug to my lips, I felt the cold, hard barrel of a gun press against my back. The sudden pressure jolted me, and I froze.


    ¡°Hand over your cash,¡± the voice said, nasal and thick, like he was trying too hard to sound tough.


    ¡°Not the best way to start a conversation,¡± I replied, calm, casual. ¡°How about we step outside, and I¡¯ll give you my money there¡ªbefore anyone does something they¡¯ll regret.¡±


    I could almost hear the grin spreading across his face, feel the tension in the air thickening. Then came the click, the unmistakable sound of a thumb pulling back the hammer. Adrenaline hit me like a shot of cold whiskey¡ªthis wasn¡¯t a robbery. It was a hit.


    Instinct took over. I dove to the side, the crack of a gunshot echoing through the room as a bullet ripped into the countertop where I¡¯d been standing a heartbeat ago.


    Without hesitation, I flung the scorching coffee into the assailant''s face. His howl mingled with the sizzle. Taking full advantage of his momentary distraction, I delivered a swift kick to his legs, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thud. He hit the floor with a CRACK, his knee shattered. His gun skidded away. I kicked it out of reach.


    "Who are you?" I demanded, my voice a growl.


    The man¡¯s voice was gritty, tinted with a thick New Amsterdam accent. I had him pinned, my fist clenched around his shirt collar. "You shouldn''t be snooping where you don''t belong," he snarled.


    "Yeah, well, I¡¯m a nosy bastard," I replied, tightening my grip. "What the hell is going on here?"


    Before he could answer, the deafening sound of gunfire erupted in the small room. I dove for cover beneath the nearest table, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling my nostrils. As the shots rang out, I quickly realized they weren¡¯t aimed at me.


    Peeking out from my hiding place, I saw my attacker lying lifeless on the ground, two bullet holes marring his chest.


    Who the hell were these people?


    Silently, I slipped out the back door, sticking to alleyways and side streets to avoid any unwanted attention. A quick cab ride dropped me off a few blocks from my destination¡ªMurphy''s. I approached with the same practiced caution, entering through the back in case anyone was watching the front.


    ¡°Murphy!¡± I called out, but there was no answer. He was either dead asleep or out prepping for the night¡¯s crowd. I hoped it was the latter as I climbed the stairs to my room on the second floor.


    Hells.


    It was time for Frank.


    Dread coiled in my gut as I knelt, prying up a loose floorboard to reveal a small box hidden beneath. Dust and dirt clung to the surface, mingling with memories I¡¯d spent years trying to bury. With a steadying breath, I slid the lid open. Inside this makeshift coffin of my past lay my old private investigator¡¯s permit and a faded black trench coat.


    But this coat wasn¡¯t just fabric¡ªit was a relic from a war that left scars too deep to see, a forgotten battle no one spoke of anymore. A withered old woman in some backwater town insisted I take it after I saved her granddaughter¡¯s life. That night was hell¡ªdemons tearing through the village like wolves among sheep, the sky a tapestry of fire and blood. Screams filled the air, chaos ruled, and I fought like a man drowning, grasping at anything to stay afloat.


    I found the girl pinned under rubble, a demon closing in fast. One shot, one kill. Her eyes, wide with terror, softened into gratitude. Her grandmother, tears streaming down her face, pressed the jacket into my hands. ¡°Protect you,¡± she whispered in broken English. ¡°Keep you safe.¡±


    What she didn¡¯t say was the price. This jacket wasn¡¯t just leather¡ªit was Frank, a demon trapped in his own skin, bound to this coat, and a constant, unwelcome presence in my life. I swore I¡¯d never use him again. But here I was, staring down the barrel of necessity. There was no one else who could help, no one else who spoke the twisted language of the Abyss like Frank.


    I hated that it had come to this, that I had to rely on him, knowing full well the danger he brought. But the truth was, without Frank, I was flying blind¡ªand in this world, that was a quick way to end up dead.


    I let out a heavy sigh, resigned to the inevitable, and pulled the coat from the box. The moment it was in my hands, the familiar, unsettling connection snapped into place. Frank¡¯s presence stirred in the back of my mind, as intrusive and persistent as ever. I tried to steel myself against it, but deep down, I knew I was out of options. I needed him. And that¡¯s what I hated the most.


    With another sigh, I pulled myself back to the present and slipped the jacket on. The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a dark cloud. Shadows clung to me, and my hands tingled with the pulse of dark energy, like I was holding a live wire.


    A familiar voice slithered into my mind, smooth and smug, like a jazz tune you couldn¡¯t shake in a smoky, forgotten bar.


    Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The illustrious detective graces us with his presence. Here to take credit for my handiwork again, Jack?


    "Shut it, Frank."

 16. Reunited ?

    The demon¡¯s name was my doing¡ªhe refused to give me its real one, said my mortal tongue would butcher it beyond recognition.


    ¡°We¡¯re in deep, Frank. I don¡¯t have time for your usual bullshit.¡±


    Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty. Seven years cooped up in the luxurious accommodations of 123 Dusty Box Under the Floorboard, and I¡¯m not allowed a little chit-chat? You could¡¯ve stashed me somewhere with a window, you know. Pretty sure I¡¯ve lost my tan.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have skin,¡± I shot back, biting down the frustration. Arguing with a jacket¡ªmy life in a goddamn nutshell.


    I resent that, Frank retorted, his tone cutting through my thoughts like a dull blade. ¡¯Skin¡¯ is all I have left. I¡¯m a demon bound to leather, much in the same way as you are a schmuck bound to that pathetic meat sack you call a body. Speaking of which, you¡¯re looking a bit more droopy than usual. Like someone left a block of cheese out in the sun and forgot about it. Time hasn¡¯t been kind to you, Jack. You haven¡¯t been doing those exercises we talked about, have you?


    ¡°One more word, and I swear, I¡¯ll shove you back in the box and bury you twelve feet deep,¡± I growled, my voice low and dangerous. The silence that followed was thick, like a sulking child retreating to the corner. That¡¯s more like it. Now, I need your help. I focused on the telepathic link, trying to reach him with my mind. It felt strange, like speaking through tin cans connected by string. Funny¡ªI used to be good at this.


    There was nothing but silence in response. ¡°Frank, you hear me?¡±


    Still nothing. I gritted my teeth and took a slow, steady breath. This¡ªthis was why he got the box.


    Oh, may I speak now? Does His Grace allow it? Frank¡¯s voice oozed mockery, each word a needle stabbing at my sanity. You stash me away for years and then drag me out whenever it suits you. I feel used, Jack. And I don¡¯t like it.


    ¡°What do you want me to say?¡± I kept my voice low, ears straining for any hint of movement outside.


    You know what I want you to say.


    I stared into the middle distance, my patience fraying like a threadbare suit. ¡°Fine. I need you, Frank.¡±


    A long pause. ¡°Okay?¡±


    Silence.


    I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding out the words. ¡°And... I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Was that so hard, Jackie?


    ¡°We good now? You willing to help?¡±


    I live to serve, Master Jack, he said, sarcasm dripping like blood from a fresh wound. What¡¯s the order of the day?


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    ¡°Information. I need everything you know about this key.¡±


    The pause that followed crawled under my skin, making me wonder if the demon was actually thinking¡ªor just toying with me.


    Hmmm. Old. Definitely old. Has that ancient reek, you know? Like something from back when I was still ripping souls apart for fun. This thing¡¯s been around for centuries, easy. How¡¯d you get your grubby paws on it?


    The sound of breaking glass cut through our exchange. I pocketed my permit card and slid the floor panel back into place. Heavy footsteps thudded from downstairs, growing louder with each passing second. I pressed myself behind the door, holding my breath.


    Wait a second, did I need to breathe? I wondered.


    Why wouldn¡¯t you need to breathe? And why do you smell¡­ like that? What''s going on, Jack?


    Hell''s pits, I¡¯d forgotten how much I hated this. I never did figure out how he could see and smell without eyes or nose. ¡°Remember boundaries, Frank?¡±


    Oh, but where¡¯s the fun in that?


    Suddenly, a pair of hands appeared, clutching a glinting gun. Without hesitation, I slammed the door onto the hands, using all my strength to knock them off balance. A gunshot rang out in the enclosed space. Like lightning, I grabbed the man''s arm and twisted it over my shoulder in a swift motion. His elbow cracked and bent at an odd angle, his pained scream filling the air.


    Another man burst into the room. In a split second, I aimed and fired three quick shots from the stolen gun¡ªtwo in his chest, one to his head. His body crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thud. I quickly reloaded the gun with bullets from the first man''s belt. The injured man on the ground tried to stand, but I kicked him in the side of his knee, causing him to collapse again in agony.


    Now this is more like it. If the demon could smile, he would¡¯ve been smiling then.


    ¡°You can jump in any time,¡± I whispered.


    Oh, you seem to have everything under control.


    I moved toward the stairs, keeping my gun ready. Each step down felt like descending into a lion''s den. The sounds from the bar below grew clearer; bottles clinking, footsteps shuffling, the indistinct murmur of voices.


    As I reached the bottom, I saw them¡ªmore goons, rifling through shelves, smashing bottles of top-shelf liquor like it was amateur hour. The coat stretched itself wide, flexing as if caught in a windstorm.


    Ah, it is good to be out again, Frank said.


    I stepped out, firing. Bullets shattered glass and splintered wood, a symphony of destruction. Goons ducked behind the bar, scrambling for cover. They returned fire, bullets thudding into the bar, nicking the fireplace and sending shards of brick flying.


    I dove behind a table, reloading in a flash. Popping up, I took out two more goons. Chaos erupted, the bar turning into a battlefield of debris and spilled booze. Murphy was definitely not going to be happy about this. There went my deposit. I winced at the thought of my tab.


    I slithered on my belly toward the garage; the floor littered with debris. A barrage of bullets whizzed past me, the sharp cracks piercing the air. What was once a peaceful bar was now a war zone. Splinters of wood, jagged glass, and streaks of blood scattered across the ground like shards of deadly confetti.


    I inched closer to safety. Every inch felt like a hard-fought victory against the madness outside.


    Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my head, clearly amused. Enjoying yourself, Jack?


    ¡°Shut up, Frank,¡± I muttered, gritting my teeth. This day just kept getting better.

 17. Hunger ?

    As I entered the garage, a hulking figure barreled into me with brute force. The impact sent me staggering back, gasping for breath as I felt a sharp pain in my side. I fell to my knees, cradling my wounded abdomen where the knife had sliced through my coat and skin. But it wasn¡¯t just a simple cut¡ªthe fabric of my coat seemed to writhe and twist with a malevolent energy.


    Pain seared through Frank, his words coming out in a sharp hiss. That hurt.


    In an instant, I was on my feet, fueled by Frank''s raw rage flowing through me. My hands curled into fists, ready to unleash their fury upon the goon who stabbed me. The man''s fear was palpable as my fists landed with brutal force, each strike accompanied by a sickening thud.


    Two more hulking goons slithered into the dimly lit garage, their beady eyes trained on me like predators stalking their prey. But as soon as Frank''s commands took over my body, I moved with lethal fluidity, my muscles pulsing with deadly precision. The smirks on their faces quickly faded as they realized they were no match for the possessed man before them.


    They advanced cautiously, but it was too late. In one swift motion, I was upon them, unleashing an onslaught of unbridled strength and ferocity that left them crumpled and lifeless on the cold floor.


    But there was no time to revel in my victory. The sound of gunshots echoed through the garage as I burst through the door leading to the house. I found myself in a chaotic scene, shadows flickering at the corners of my vision. More goons emerged from the darkness, their guns aimed straight at me.


    Without hesitation, I fired back with deadly accuracy, taking one out. The rest charged at me, but I met them head-on using every weapon at my disposal¡ªincluding the butt of my gun and swift kicks¡ªto incapacitate them. I was feeling strange. Dizzy. Confused. Moving without thinking.


    In a terrifying dance, we moved in perfect sync. Blood spattered across the walls and floor as I fought for my life, each move fueled by rage and survival instinct.


    The hunger gnawed at me, more intense than ever before. It was like a beast inside me, clawing to get out. And when the last goon fell to the ground with a thud, the hunger overwhelmed me. Before I realized what I was doing, I was on him, teeth sinking into his flesh. The taste of blood was both revolting and intoxicating. I couldn¡¯t stop myself, my instincts overriding my reason.


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    Jack! What are you doing? Frank¡¯s voice was a distant murmur in the haze.


    Blood dripped from my mouth, the goon''s flesh torn where I bit him.


    Jack! For heaven''s sake, this is disgusting. I demand you stop this right now.


    I slipped further away. There was a pause as Frank assessed me. When he spoke next, his tone was firmer, a steadying force.


    Focus, Jack. Don''t let whatever this is control you.


    I felt Frank forcing his way into my mind; a lighthouse in the storm. I focused on it.


    With immense effort, I tore myself away from the goon, forcing the primal urge back down. My stomach still clawed at me. Horror and disgust washed over me. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to steady my breathing. ¡°Thanks, Frank,¡± I muttered, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and revulsion.


    Oh Jack... what have you become? Frank¡¯s voice carried a rare note of concern.


    ¡°Take a look for yourself,¡± I said, opening my mind and memories fully to him.


    There was a pause and then Frank spoke again, realization dawning. Why didn¡¯t you tell me?


    ¡°The smell didn¡¯t give it away?¡± I asked.


    I thought you were just getting old. In all fairness, it''s not too different from your usual smell.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t notice the lack of a beating heart?¡± I snorted. ¡°Wait, don¡¯t answer that.¡±


    We need to talk about this.


    ¡°Later. Right now, we need to find Cali.¡±


    I sprinted towards Murphy''s sleek black car. I fumbled with the hot-wiring as my hands shook in hunger. The engine roared to life just as gunfire erupted behind us. I slammed my foot on the accelerator; the tires screeching as we tore through the garage door in a shower of splintered wood and twisted metal, leaving behind the destruction.


    Frank''s torn fabric slowly stitched itself back together.


    We headed for Cali¡¯s, taking several loops and doubling back to make sure no one was following me.

 18. Cursed Couture ?

    Cali looked up as I stumbled in, her brow furrowing at the urgency in my eyes. She looked exhausted, her bloodshot eyes a stark contrast to her usual confident demeanor. The garage was dimly lit, shadows playing off the walls, casting an eerie glow on the various tools and parts scattered around. The air smelled of motor oil and metal.


    ¡°Heavens, Jack. Get in here. Did you already feed?¡±


    ¡°Had a bit of a... lapse. But I stopped myself.¡±


    She nodded, though her expression remained grave. She gestured for me to sit on a worn-out stool by her workbench. ¡°While you were off lollygagging, I was up late trying to figure out how to help you. Got a book from one of my contacts.¡±


    My stomach tightened. ¡°You went to the Shadow Market for this, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Of course I did. I¡¯ve been going there for years. I¡¯m a big girl, Jack. I can handle it.¡±


    The Shadow Market was a labyrinthine world that shifted like a snake in the dark, entrances appearing and disappearing with the whims of the arcane. Only those who knew what to look for could find a way in or a way out, slipping through alleys and hidden doors. It¡¯s where the Hexborn and Devil Kissed traded their secrets, spells, and forbidden goods. It¡¯s also where the Midnight Council got their mail. The Market was as dangerous as it was alive¡ªone wrong move and you were hexed, cursed, or worse.


    Cali went into the back room and came back out with an ancient tome, its cover worn and faded, the leather cracked with age. The book looked like it had seen centuries of darkness, its pages yellowed and brittle. My stomach churned, not just from the sight of the book, but from the gnawing hunger that whispered Cali looked delicious.


    Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my mind, curious. Who¡¯s this?


    I sighed. This is Cali. We became friends shortly after I stuffed you away.


    Introduce us.


    I rolled my eyes. No. We have more important things to do.


    Introduce us, Jack. Or I¡¯m not helping anymore.


    I breathed out through my teeth while Cali stared at me quizzically. Fine, Frank. But be nice. We like Cali.


    ¡°My jacket wants to meet you.¡±


    She blinked. ¡°Your jacket?¡±


    Tell her my name¡¯s Frank. With some respect, please.


    ¡°His name is Frank,¡± I said, trying to keep a straight face.


    The jacket flapped in an invisible breeze, showing off.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Cali just shook her head. ¡°Cursed couture. Why not? When it rains, it pours.¡±


    I explained the situation to her, summarizing the demonic binding. Cali listened, her confusion turning to resignation.


    ¡°Frank and I started working together during the War.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Alright, Frank. Nice to meet you.¡±


    Pleasure to meet you, Cali, Frank said in my mind, sounding almost smug.


    Cali flipped through the pages of the massive book. ¡°It¡¯s a tome about the undead. It¡¯s all written in old Abyssal, and I¡¯ve been slowly translating it. So far, I¡¯ve figured out two things.¡±


    The pages she flipped through were filled with dark, twisted symbols and runes that seemed to pulse with an eerie light. Each one was like a little promise of doom.


    I braced myself, sensing bad news. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Eating people is bad,¡± she said.


    I grunted, my body twitching as I tried to hold onto my sanity. The hunger gnawed at me, a relentless beast inside. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a revelation. What do I owe you for the advice, Doc?¡± My voice dripped with unintended venom.


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°But it¡¯s inevitable. If you don¡¯t, you¡¯ll go feral and lose yourself. And if you find a way to stop yourself fully, you¡¯ll just fall apart.¡±


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the bad news?¡±


    ¡°Here¡¯s the catch-22. The more you eat, the faster your hunger will grow. You¡¯ll need to eat sooner and sooner after each... ¡®meal¡¯. Until it reaches a breaking point where you simply can¡¯t catch up with the hunger. This is really a bad deal, Jack.¡±


    ¡°Probably should have stayed dead,¡± I muttered.


    She grimaced. ¡°Don¡¯t say that.¡±


    My heart sank. ¡°So what do we do?¡±


    ¡°There are some things we can do to slow the process.¡± She pointed to a passage in the book, her finger tracing over the ancient, cracked leather. The page was filled with dark, twisted symbols. ¡°Turns out health potions don¡¯t work the same for you as they do for the living, but they aren¡¯t totally worthless. They have a key ingredient that can help¡ªblack root. We need that. And a lot of it. I bought up all I could get my hands on this morning.¡±


    She shoved a large cup of blue-black tar into my face. I noticed the piles surrounded by other dishes and a mess. It looked like a mad scientist had a field day here. The concoction hummed with a faint blue glow as she handed it to me.


    ¡°This will calm the hunger. Takes the edge off. But you¡¯re going to need to drink this regularly.¡±


    I stared at her, feeling the hunger clawing at my insides, more beast than craving. I drank it. It tasted awful, which was a surprise, as nothing had been tasting like much of anything lately. But I felt pressure easing off, and my mind stopped spinning.


    She stared at me, tension radiating off her like a live wire. I let the silence stretch out, feeling my senses return. I allowed another beat to pass before I snarled and made my eyes go wild.


    She jumped back, yanking out a gun from who-knows-where, and pointed it right at my face. Her eyes were glossy with tears, but her hands were steady.


    I threw up my hands, laughing despite myself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry! It worked, okay? I feel better!¡±


    She narrowed her eyes, keeping the gun trained on me, clearly weighing whether or not to put a hole in my head. Finally, she lowered the weapon, but just as I started to breathe again, her fist came out of nowhere and clocked me in the jaw.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ever pull that crap again!¡±


    I was on the floor, holding my jaw, and I couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°Alright, alright. Bad timing. It won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    You¡¯re a bad person, Jack.


    I snorted, rubbing my sore face. Calling the cauldron black, Frank.

 19. Nightstone ?

    She took a deep breath, setting down her gun, but keeping it within arm¡¯s reach. ¡°Just drink your sludge and shut up, Jack.¡±


    We sat in silence for a long moment. She flipped through the tome, each turn of the page revealing more cryptic text and illustrations of arcane rituals.


    ¡°And then there¡¯s this,¡± she said, her voice low. ¡°A line about Nightstone. Says it needs to be taken in¡ªabsorbed. Can help stave off the change.¡±


    I nodded. Infernum may have kept the lights on, but Nightstone¡ªNightstone was the city¡¯s dark heart. Thick as molasses and twice as treacherous.


    ¡°Tell me, Cali,¡± I said, a wry smile tugging at my lips, ¡°should I plug myself into a battery or suck on an exhaust pipe?¡±


    ¡°Neither,¡± she retorted, her tone cool. ¡°That wouldn¡¯t even slow your decay. You need the raw stuff¡ªunfiltered, unprocessed.¡±


    When I thought of Nightstone, I pictured what most people did¡ªthe oily sludge that dripped slow and heavy into the tray before it was bled into an engine. The process was filthy, and the stench clung to you like a guilty conscience, but it was the only way to keep a car running. The exhaust spewed rift soot into the air¡ªa dark stain that coated everything it touched. You could always spot the drivers by the grime under their nails and the cough that never quite left their lungs.


    But what we were dealing with here wasn¡¯t the usual sludge¡ªit was the raw stuff, glassy and dangerous. When Infernum was compressed too long and too tight, it hardened into a black, reflective stone. This pure form of Nightstone was volatile, a concentrated force that didn¡¯t just power a car¡ªit could tear one apart. And after it was burned out, the charred remains got repurposed into Shadefire coal, another form of controlled destruction.


    That¡¯s why I smoked¡ªit soothed the lungs and gave me the illusion of control over the chaos. I grabbed a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep pull. But there was no relief, not even the familiar taste of ash in my mouth. The smoke just hung there, a hollow reminder of my recent choices.


    ¡°Great. So where the hell do we find raw Nightstone?¡±


    She gave me a wry smile. ¡°Where the city bleeds.¡±


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    I stared at her, deadpan. ¡°You don¡¯t cross rifts on the best of days, let alone the worst, and now you¡¯re telling me to walk straight into one?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you to stay alive¡ªand to avoid going berserk in some quiet town full of grandmas.¡±


    ¡°Never trust a sweet old lady,¡± I muttered.


    Cali sighed, exasperated. ¡°You¡¯re edging closer to full undead, Jack. Sooner or later, there won¡¯t be enough of you left to crack jokes.¡±


    She took a deep breath to calm her nerves before continuing. ¡°Here, on our side of the rift, the dead are supposed to stay dead. But the Otherworld? It¡¯s more accommodating to your new... constitution. You know how Full Bloods lose their minds when they step through a rift?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the only thing that keeps the Demon Lords out,¡± I said.


    ¡°You¡¯re in a similar boat now. The more you feed, the closer you get to becoming ¡®full blood,¡¯ so to speak. But things from the Otherworld might, theoretically, slow that down. Buy us some time to figure this out.¡±


    I arched an eyebrow. ¡°Are you sure about this?¡±


    She gave me a withering look. ¡°Satan¡¯s tits, Jack, of course I¡¯m not sure. I got this book from a sketchy vampire in a dark alley at the Shadow Market. This isn¡¯t exactly my area of expertise. Just be glad I took a year of Abyssal in college.¡±


    ¡°Okay, Cali, I get it. So, let¡¯s say we get the Nightstone, then what?¡±


    ¡°Then you find somebody who knows what they¡¯re doing. There¡¯s a lot here that doesn¡¯t translate, Jack. Look at this.¡±


    She showed me the strange symbols bracketing the lines she just read. ¡°There¡¯s no translation. Nothing in any of the books I¡¯ve got. We¡¯re in uncharted territory.¡±


    I glanced at them, and a sudden twinge of anxiety rippled through Frank. ¡°I might be able to help,¡± I said.


    Cali raised an eyebrow. ¡°You studied ancient Abyssal?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I replied, ¡°but I know someone who did.¡±


    I focused on the symbols, bringing Frank closer to the book. The ancient script twisted and turned, a dark, tangled language that seemed to writhe on the page. Frank went quiet for a moment, digging through the fragments of his memory.


    He¡¯d lost most of the important stuff when his skin was tanned and turned into a leather jacket, or so he says. You can never fully trust a demon, even one as... altered as Frank. But having him around had its perks. The only reason he hadn¡¯t gone mad, as far as we could tell, was because he was already dead¡ªa ghost trapped in his own skin. Creeps me out just thinking about it.


    Let me use your eyes. Frank¡¯s voice whispered in my mind.

 20. One for the Road ?

    I relaxed, allowing the connection. My vision blurred for a second before snapping into sharp focus as Frank took control. My eyes darted over the page, following the twists and curves of the script.


    Old Tongue, he said. Lower demon caste notations added later. That symbol at the start? It¡¯s a warning. Says the information is from a dubious source. The one at the end? Tells you not to get your hopes up. Means the text might not mean what it seems to.


    My vision snapped back to normal, but a pounding headache hit right after. I hated doing that¡ªit felt like unleashing leeches in my brain. I gritted my teeth and relayed Frank¡¯s interpretation to Cali.


    She studied me for a moment, skeptical. ¡°Frank told you all that?¡±


    ¡°He has his uses,¡± I replied.


    Unlike you, Jack, I¡¯m not just a tool.


    Cali smirked. ¡°If that¡¯s true, it says a lot about the demon caste system. Demons with warning labels? How considerate.¡±


    Not all of us are out to destroy, Frank interjected, demanding that I relay for him.


    Ever been to the rougher parts of town? Yes, they¡¯re dangerous, but you will also find some of the kindest people¡ªbecause they have to be. It¡¯s like sharing a lifeboat in a storm.


    ¡°He¡¯s got a point,¡± I added. ¡°There¡¯s a weird bond in the worst places, an unspoken rule of survival.¡±


    The Abyss beyond the Rift isn¡¯t just chaos. It has rules¡ªa code. Even the damned look out for each other.


    ¡°A language built on survival,¡± she mused.


    Precisely.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s comforting,¡± I added.


    Jack, you know who we need to see about this.


    ¡°No way. I¡¯m already too deep in her debt as it is.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Even if we get the Nightstone, we¡¯ll need someone who knows how to distill it properly.


    ¡°Not happening, Frank. We don¡¯t even know if Mildred will help us or gut us. She¡¯s not exactly my biggest fan.¡±


    But she tolerates me, Frank insisted.


    Cali watched me argue with Frank, who, as always, was only in my head. She didn¡¯t hear his voice, but by now, she knew the drill.


    ¡°I hate to say it, but Frank¡¯s right,¡± Cali said, breaking the silence. ¡°She¡¯s the best option you¡¯ve got.¡±


    ¡°Mildred always gives me the creeps,¡± I grumbled.


    Cali stepped back, a determined glint in her eyes. ¡°Then it¡¯s settled.¡± She tossed me a few bottles of her tar concoction. ¡°It¡¯s the best lead we¡¯ve got, and we need that Nightstone, Jack. Sooner rather than later.¡±


    I slipped some cash into her hands, more than half of what I earned from the Aylin gig. She tried to push it back, but I insisted. I was starting to think I got underpaid.


    Out back, my car waited in the second garage¡ªa ''55 Chevrolet Bel Air that had weathered the years with a quiet dignity. The once-shiny black paint now bore the scars of a life well-lived, the patchwork of dents and scratches a testament to countless close calls. Cali did a hell of a job fixing it up. Despite the wear, the curves and lines of its body still held a timeless elegance, a reminder of a world that hadn¡¯t completely gone to hell.


    As I approached, the scent of aged leather and old rift soot greeted me, stirring something deep within. The car¡¯s red seats were lovingly maintained. The dashboard, a mix of chrome and polished wood, featured an array of analog gauges and dials.


    We stocked up the car with a day¡¯s worth of the gunk.


    ¡°It¡¯s all I¡¯ve got,¡± she said. ¡°Whenever you start to get peckish, drink up.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Cali. I owe you one.¡±


    ¡°You owe me more than one,¡± she retorted, her tone light despite the tension.


    I slid into my car, the engine¡¯s purr a comforting sound amid the chaos. As I pulled away from the garage, Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my mind.


    She really cares about you, you know.


    Yeah, I know, I replied, feeling a pang of guilt. But I can¡¯t drag her into this any more than she already is.


    The hunger gnawed at me, but Cali¡¯s brew took the edge off. I felt like a model on a Hollywood diet, sipping lemon water to stave off the pangs. Things were going to get a lot worse before they got any better.


    ¡°You even filled up the tank,¡± I muttered, gratitude washing over me.


    Tires squealed as I pulled away from the curb, leaving the garage behind in the harsh midday sun. The Bel Air glided over the asphalt, its engine growling with power. The city blurred into streaks of color as I sped through the streets.


    The wind whipped through the open windows.


    I needed a weapon. Time to visit the Shop.

 21. Water Under the Bridge ?

    I took a sharp right turn down the desolate road leading to the old warehouse district. My heart raced as I approached the abandoned buildings, knowing that my contact, Al, operated within them. His reputation preceded him¡ªex-military turned arms dealer, owner of the most elite chop-shop in town. The grimy exterior of the warehouses belied the well-guarded fortress within, where Al could procure anything from a simple switchblade to powerful cursed bullets. As I pulled up to the entrance, my hands gripped the wheel tightly with anticipation and fear.


    The air was thick with the scent of stale liquor. The neighborhood was quiet, a dangerous calm that sent shivers down my spine. Slipping through the shadows, the tufts of grass sprouting from the cracked pavement softened my footsteps. As I approached Al''s nondescript building, a single light over the door cast a dim glow on the faded brick.


    The faceless voice of my demon companion whispered in my mind. Do we really think it''s a good idea to visit the Shop, Jack? Didn¡¯t Al stab you once?


    That was a long time ago, I replied. And it was a misunderstanding.


    With a slightly apprehensive feeling in my gut, I knocked out the code on the door. It swung open to reveal Al, towering at 6''2", his dark skin gleaming under the light. His muscular frame filled the doorway, clad in pajama bottoms and bunny slippers, a barely-there cigar stub clenched between his teeth. Despite his intimidating stature, Al was known to be a good guy to have on your side. Internally, I let out a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Jack! It''s been too long,¡± he boomed, tossing the cigar stub out the door. He engulfed me in a bear hug that could crush bones. ¡°Sorry I didn''t make it to the funeral. Never got around to wishing you my condolences after¡­¡±


    ¡°I know, I know," I cut him off. "Sarah would have understood. Listen, I¡¯m not here to talk about that. I hate to skip the pleasantries, but I need the menu.¡±


    Al nodded, leading me inside and closing the door behind us. From floor to ceiling, shelves and racks were lined with weapons of every shape and size.


    ¡°Hell, you look terrible, Jack. What happened, get run over by your own car?¡±


    ¡°You''re looking as suave as usual," I retorted, nodding toward his slippers.


    "It''s my day off, asshole. You''d know that if you ever came by," he said with a grin.


    The chop shop was a labyrinth of metal and chaos. The ceiling was high, crisscrossed with beams and hanging chains that clinked softly with the faint drafts. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly yellow glow, barely piercing the dimness. Workbenches were cluttered with tools, half-assembled weapons, and the occasional severed demon limb, preserved in jars filled with viscous liquid. The back of the warehouse was open to a large private yard.


    So, what''s the occasion? Frank asked. Anything special?


    Lost my sword to a demon. Need a replacement, I thought back.


    The junkyard outside was a sprawling graveyard of twisted metal and shattered glass. Rusting carcasses of cars were stacked haphazardly, some stripped to their frames, others still bearing the scars of their last moments on the road. Weeds and wildflowers poked through the cracks in the concrete, adding a touch of rebellious life to the desolation. The distant hum of the city was a constant backdrop, a reminder of the world beyond this industrial wasteland.


    Al led me to the back, a knowing grin plastered on his face. He stopped in front of a massive, cluttered workbench piled high with old metal and junk. With a dramatic flourish, he pressed a hidden button. The junk vanished, the shelves shifted, and suddenly, a hidden vault of weapons was revealed.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Lights snapped on one by one, illuminating glass cases and sleek racks. Razor-edged swords glinted under the light. Knives with intricate designs begged to be held. Guns of every make and model lined the walls, each one exuding deadly precision. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil and ancient metal, a symphony of danger.


    Al crossed his muscular arms over his chest, scars from battles crisscrossing his skin like a map of his life. "So, what¡¯s it going to be?" he asked.


    "I need something with stopping power," I said, scanning the array of firearms.


    Need to stop anything in particular? Frank asked, raising an eyebrow in my mind.


    "I need some versatility. Something that can stand a Rift Dive."


    Al''s expression darkened. "You''re not thinking of going Diving, are you, Jack? That''s suicide without a crew, even for a younger man."


    "Don''t have anything up to the task?" I challenged.


    Al grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. He slid over a case and flipped it open, revealing a collection of guns of all varieties. He went straight for one with intricate silver runes etched into its sleek surface. He picked it up with reverence. "This here is the Dragon''s Breath Mark IV. Custom-made, hand-engraved, and built for precision. Those carvings? Runic inscriptions to channel elemental magic into your shots. See these grooves?" He pointed to the barrel. "They stabilize the bullet''s flight, giving you pinpoint accuracy. And this barrel?" He tapped it lightly, a metallic ring echoing through the room. "Reinforced with blessed steel, capable of piercing even the toughest demonic hides. A single shot from this baby will drop a Category Three demon like a sack of potatoes."


    He handed it to me, the weight perfect in my grip. Think you can handle it? Frank teased, his voice smug.


    I turned the gun over in my hands, feeling the power thrumming just beneath the surface. "Yeah, I can handle it," I replied, my voice steady. "Got anything for up close?"


    Al¡¯s grin widened. "Follow me."


    We moved deeper into the room, stopping in front of a glass case. Inside, a deadly assortment of close-combat weapons gleamed ominously. Al slid the case open, his fingers dancing over the lethal instruments.


    "Here we¡¯ve got some real beauties," he said, lifting a medieval morning star forged from obsidian steel. He hefted it like it was a spatula.


    Al¡¯s grin widened as he picked up a pair of knuckle dusters, their surfaces etched with intricate, menacing sigils. "These beauties? I call ''em Snake Kiss," he said, his voice dripping with pride. "These bad boys amplify your strength with every punch, channeling raw energy into each blow. Perfect for when you need to get up close and personal."


    To demonstrate, he sauntered over to a pile of metal scraps. With a swift, almost casual punch, he drove the knuckle dusters deep into a sheet of old metal. The impact reverberated through the warehouse, leaving a gaping dent and nearly punching a hole through the thick steel. The echo of the strike bounced off the walls, adding to the chaos that defined Al''s shop.


    He turned back to me with a smirk. "They''ll make you a walking wrecking ball."


    "Pretty. But not really my style," I said.


    "I think I know what you are looking for." He flicked another switch and a series of panels moved, revealing several gleaming swords. He pulled out a sword that took my breath away. The blade was long and slender, with a subtle curve that exuded elegance and lethal grace. The metal shimmered with a faint blue sheen, hinting at a minor enchantment. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, worn smooth by countless hands, and inlaid with intricate silver filigree.


    Al held the sword up, admiring it with a satisfied smile. ¡°This is the Whispering Blade. Forged with shadowsteel alloy, it''s light but strong enough to handle most creatures you¡¯ll face. The enchantment dampens sound, perfect for when you need to stay under the radar.¡±


    He handed it to me, and the sword felt balanced and responsive in my hand. As I gripped the hilt, a faint hum of energy coursed through me.


    ¡°The runes along the blade are simple bindings,¡± Al continued. ¡°They weaken a demon¡¯s essence with a solid cut, slowing it down. The grip, made from treated shadow beast hide, gives you a steady hold even in the thick of it. It¡¯s not the most powerful piece I¡¯ve got, but it¡¯s reliable and won¡¯t let you down.¡±

 22. Manners Maketh Man ?

    I nodded, feeling the sword¡¯s practicality and craftsmanship. ¡°I¡¯ll take them,¡± I said, pulling out the last of my silver coins and placing them on the table. It felt strange to finally be out of tokens after all these years. Al tossed in some ammo, a new holster, and a sheath for the sword, complete with a strap for easy carrying.


    ¡°You back in business?¡± Al asked as he palmed the silver.


    ¡°No, just settling a personal matter,¡± I said, holstering the gun, pocketing the ammo, and swinging the sword over my back.


    ¡°Whatever you say, Jack.¡±


    ¡°Hey, on the off chance, you still got that old essence scale around?¡±


    He smirked, a glint in his eye. ¡°I do. Need something weighed?¡±


    I pulled out the key, its cold metal biting into my palm, and placed it in his hand. ¡°Ever seen anything like this?¡±


    He studied it under the harsh fluorescent light, his eyes narrowing. With a grunt, he pushed aside a mess of papers and retrieved an old-fashioned device that looked like a cross between a scale and a medieval torture contraption. He placed the key on it with meticulous care, watching the readings like they might suddenly jump off the scale and start a cabaret number.


    He frowned. ¡°Don¡¯t see that too often.¡±


    What¡¯s that? Frank asked, curiosity leaking into his tone.


    ¡°It¡¯s a Category Four Essence. Worth a pretty penny if you want to sell it. Not sure what it¡¯s meant to do, but it could be used for scrap mana. This amount of power, turned raw, could fetch you as much as five gold coins.¡±


    My eyes widened. ¡°As much as that?¡±


    ¡°Maybe a little more if we can figure out what it¡¯s meant to do. That¡¯s just the scrap price, mind you.¡±


    Beyond that, I can¡¯t tell you much, Frank said with a sigh. It¡¯s got a pull to it, alright. If we weren¡¯t friends, I¡¯d probably be tempted to beat you half to death and keep it for myself, he mused, chuckling.


    Al paused, weighing his words as much as the key. He handed it back to me with a shrug. ¡°You might want to check with Mildred.¡±


    I pocketed the key, feeling its weight settle like a cold stone. ¡°Thanks, Al.¡±


    I turned to leave, but before I could take a step, I heard footsteps outside.


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    Just then, a sharp knock echoed through the room. Al shuffled across the creaky floorboards, his slippers dragging behind him. He grabbed a rolled-up newspaper that had been tossed on the ground. With a gentle click, he closed the door, muffling the sounds from outside. The heavy thud reverberated through the room, sealing us in our small world.


    Shit. The Newsies, Frank cursed, his voice tight with tension.


    A tense silence filled the room as Al read the latest paper, his brow furrowing with each line. ¡°I thought you swore off this life, Jack,¡± he finally said, his eyes darting to the gun now gripped in my hand. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine, though I tried to play it cool.


    ¡°I did,¡± I replied, my voice steady but my grip on the gun tightening.


    ¡°Someone seems to have a different opinion,¡± he said, lifting the newspaper, his eyes sharp and knowing.


    He sauntered back to the counter. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick cigar and kept talking like it was just another day. ¡°So, what¡¯s the news, Al?¡± I realized that the gun wasn¡¯t loaded. I holstered it.


    ¡°The missus wants me to retire. Spend more time at home. But there¡¯s something about this place that keeps pulling me back,¡± he said, lighting the cigar with a practiced flick.


    ¡°A man¡¯s gotta have a trade, Al. Stop living and you start dying.¡± I shifted my weight, the tension coiling in my muscles.


    ¡°True enough,¡± he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. ¡°Job just came in the mail. Open hit. Guild¡¯s offering big bucks for this one.¡±


    ¡°Well, good thing you don¡¯t need extra money.¡±


    ¡°Times have been tough, Jack. Ain¡¯t the same since you got out.¡± He moved to a workbench, fiddling with a dismantled rifle, his back to me. ¡°You¡¯ve pissed someone off real bad, old friend.¡±


    ¡°I see. It say who¡¯s paying? Who put on the hit order?¡± I slowly angled my way toward the door, putting myself between him and the treasure trove of weapons. But with Al¡¯s size, he wouldn¡¯t need more than his hands.


    Al shook his head. ¡°Nope, being run through the Guild anonymously.¡±


    ¡°That''s a shame,¡± I said, fingers twitching near the hilt of the Whispering Blade. ¡°If I¡¯m going to die again, wouldn¡¯t mind seeing the face of the person doing the killing.¡±


    ¡°To be so lucky,¡± Al said, his voice heavy with irony. ¡°But I¡¯ll tell you what, Jack. Seeing as we go back and you¡¯ve helped me out once or twice, I¡¯m going to give you a half-hour head start.¡±


    ¡°Awful kind of you, Al.¡± I started backing toward the exit, my eyes never leaving his.


    ¡°Manners make the man,¡± Al said with a smile.


    I turned on my heel and headed for my car, every sense on high alert. Just as I was about to leave, Al called out, his voice echoing in the dimly lit garage. ¡°What¡¯d you do to get all this attention?¡±


    I paused, hand on the car door, searching for an answer. ¡°You know, Al, I haven¡¯t the foggiest.¡±


    ¡°And hey, Jack.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°One last thing. Don¡¯t let anyone kill you out there. At least, not until I get to ya.¡±


    I smirked. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    The engine roared to life, a comforting growl in the silence. As I drove off, the shadows of the warehouse district closed in behind me, and I couldn¡¯t help but feel like the day was just getting started.

 23. House Call ?

    As the hours dragged on, smooth highways surrendered to snaking country lanes, winding like something trying to suffocate the land beneath. The moon hung high in the sky, painting the twisted trees in silver¡ªbranches like skeletal fingers clawing at the night as if trying to tear through the veil of stars. I arrived at the towering steel gate of the McGuffey estate, its wrought-iron design looming over me like an accusing figure, casting long shadows that trembled across the cracked asphalt of the approach.


    The estate had been taped off, the crime scene markers flapping in the wind, mocking remnants of the terrible thing that happened here. No one had dared to live in it since. The lock on the gate was simple enough to deal with, especially given the bolt cutters Al had packed into my kit. The sharp snap of metal breaking under my hands cried through the night, louder than I expected, as though the place was rejecting my intrusion.


    I slipped through the gate and up the drive toward the main house¡ªno, calling it a house was a cruel understatement. Mansion wasn¡¯t even big enough to describe the vast sprawl of it. This place belonged to another time, one of opulence and unbridled excess. It loomed above me like a monument to vanity, an architectural relic from an era that believed itself immortal.


    White pillars framed the entrance like bleached bones propping up a decaying giant. The copper railings caught the moonlight, their intricate scrollwork still gleaming despite the wear of time. Memories of lavish parties seemed to hum in the air¡ªart deco laughter, the faint whisper of champagne-soaked sin. Every corner dripped with luxury, mocking the rot festering within.


    Instead of the front door, I found a different way in, rounding the estate until I spotted an open window¡ªsecond floor, slightly ajar, just wide enough to permit a fool with no better options. ¡°This used to be easier,¡± I muttered to myself. ¡°And windows used to be larger.¡±


    I¡¯m sure that¡¯s it, Jack, Frank chimed in.


    A smarter man would¡¯ve laughed at my attempt to scale the wall¡ªevery brick was a personal reminder of how much I was no longer that spry kid eager to break the rules. My breath came harder as I reached the window, gritting my teeth while I shoved it open and tumbled in, landing with a muffled thud. The room was cold, shadows dancing, curtains swaying with the slightest night breeze.


    Graceful as ever, Frank murmured, his voice buzzing in my skull like static.


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    ¡°Bite me,¡± I hissed back, steadying myself as I rose to my feet. The hallway stretched ahead, long and twisted¡ªone of those endless types, where every door along the way seemed to multiply in the moonlight. The air was heavy here, almost sullen, with the scent of aged wood and decay barely masked by some long-spent perfume. Dust lay in soft layers, undisturbed by any hand, except for something more recent¡ªthose streaks of chaos, claw marks gouged along the walls, like someone had been dragged against their will.


    I moved forward, reaching the grand staircase. It spiraled downward like a broken spine, each step creaking underfoot, betraying my every move to an unseen audience. At the base of the stairs, the scent shifted¡ªa sharp, metallic tang beneath the dust, clinging to the walls and floor. They told Aylin it was a clear suicide¡ªan open-and-shut case. They wouldn¡¯t let her or any media into the building. How did I know? Because if they had, she would¡¯ve uncovered all the evidence to prove they were lying.


    Blood. The sort of dried-brown stain that clung stubbornly to everything, refusing to be forgotten. And it wasn¡¯t just any blood. There was too much of it, splashed in arcs that made no earthly sense¡ªa macabre kaleidoscope staining the once-beautiful wallpaper. Carnage that made their claim of ¡°suicide¡± an insult to even the most casual observer. But why would the police be covering this up? Who had the power to pull their strings and keep it out of the papers? I knew of only one answer¡ªthe Midnight Council.


    ¡°You¡¯d think the cops would have cleaned this place up by now,¡± I muttered, stepping over a patch of congealed gore. It was sticky, resisting my movement as if the house itself was trying to pull me into its dark history. ¡°But this place... it would need to be burned down.¡±


    Got a bad feeling about this, Jack, Frank said, his voice a cold shiver through my brain.


    ¡°You don¡¯t say,¡± I muttered back. I paused at the door to the study¡ªthe room where Robert McGuffey had supposedly ended it all. I pushed the door open, the hinges groaning like a wounded animal. The portraits hanging along the walls stared at me¡ªhollow-eyed, frozen smiles that didn¡¯t quite touch their painted expressions. I hated the way they watched, as if judging the intrusion into this monument to someone¡¯s tragedy.


    The study was a war zone¡ªfurniture overturned, heavy gouges scratched along the surface of the mahogany desk. Blood splattered in gruesome patterns, mingling with shattered glass and upended ink. There were handprints smeared across the walls, dragging marks that led from the desk to the floor, where a dark, coagulated pool had formed. I could see where the cops had tried to clean it up¡ªthe streaks left behind by desperate scrubbing, as if they hoped to erase the horror with enough bleach and elbow grease. But this wasn¡¯t something you could scrub away; it clung to the air, thick and wet, turning my stomach with every breath.


    A path of destruction led down the hallway, ending with the private study door¡ªlocked from the inside, the iron latch still hanging secure. A chilling detail¡ªa paradox of impossible containment. Nothing added up, not with the sheer magnitude of the wreckage.

 24. Haunted ?

    I moved upstairs, reaching the master bedroom. Odd¡ªeverything seemed untouched. A collection of jewelry, a bed made with military precision, and a bare spot on the nightstand, dust rings clearly marking where something had once been. A music box, if I had to guess. But the room didn¡¯t feel¡­ right. It felt untouched, yes, but like it was untouched by life, as if it were nothing but a stage set after the actors had long since abandoned the scene.


    I rifled through the drawers, trying to ignore Frank¡¯s snide remarks¡ª¡°Oh, sure, because that¡¯s where the clues are, Jack, next to the socks.¡° Nothing substantial¡ªjust expensive silks and satin, unaffected by anything significant.


    My attention turned back to the study, something gnawing at my thoughts. I returned, the air even colder now, almost oppressive, pressing down with the weight of what happened here. There¡ªa faint seam in the wall, an imperceptible line only visible when you knew what to look for. My fingers traced along it, feeling for some inconsistency. A small indent gave way under pressure, and the wall shifted aside¡ªa door within a door, sliding into darkness.


    Inside, the passageway pressed in, narrow and suffocating¡ªjust wide enough for me to edge through, with shelves crowding both walls, their edges biting into me. The shelves were stuffed, cluttered¡ªartifacts, old books, bizarre relics stacked side by side, drenched in dust and something else¡ªan energy that made my skin crawl. It felt wrong, unholy¡ªthe kind of magic that left residue on your soul just by being near it. The relics whispered secrets from the past, but they were empty¡ªdead echoes. Everything here was nothing but a shell of its former power.


    There were jars¡ªdozens of them, filled with murky liquid, things suspended inside that I couldn¡¯t quite make out. Shapes twisted and floated, their forms distorted, like fetuses or things pretending to be fetuses, each one staring back at me with milky, sightless eyes. I felt bile rise in my throat and forced it back down, the sour burn stinging my nostrils.


    Except for that pedestal¡ªa smooth surface, devoid of dust. Something had been here, and recently taken. My gut tightened, suspicion turning to certainty. My eyes swept the floor, catching the glint of something small and unexpected¡ªa matchbox. Bright red, with garish lettering. Lux, a strip club down on the West Side. The kind of place where secrets were both currency and commodity. I knew it well, and that made my stomach drop.


    As I pocketed the matchbox, silence claimed the house once more, but this time, it was a waiting silence¡ªan expectancy hanging in the air like a held breath.


    The walls seemed to close in, and I could almost hear it¡ªthe low hum of something alive, something malevolent, lingering just beyond perception. The floor beneath my feet felt soft, as though it would give way at any moment, plunging me into the bowels of the earth. I shook the feeling off, but it clung to me like cobwebs. The stench of blood and rot thickened, the oppressive darkness pushing against my senses. The McGuffey estate wasn¡¯t just haunted¡ªit was damned, and I had a sinking feeling that whatever was left here wasn¡¯t done with me yet.


    I retraced my steps, the cold golden crystal in my chest thrumming where my heart should be, each beat reiterating the creak of the old boards beneath my weight. Each noise sounded like a sinister reminder of what had happened here, or worse, a hint of what was yet to come. The air thickened around me, felt almost heavy, like I was wading through something invisible but deeply oppressive. Shadows moved in ways that weren¡¯t quite natural, shifting too quickly, clinging to corners and seeming to breathe on their own. I could swear I felt them brush against me, reaching, retreating, and then growing bold enough to return.


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    There was something wet on the banister¡ªdried, crusted blood, fingerprints smudged into grotesque shapes. Whoever had been here before had tried to scrub it off, but some stains don¡¯t leave. They just soak deeper, festering in the bones of the house. My hand jerked back, and I wiped it against my coat, swallowing down the disgust that rose up, hot and acidic.


    I reached the kitchen¡ªanother place of supposed normalcy that had turned into something of a sick joke. Cabinets had been left open, their contents spilled out across the floor¡ªglass shattered, herbs strewn, bags of flour torn open, the white powder mingling with streaks of dark red, coagulating in the corners. The refrigerator door hung open, and the light inside flickered intermittently, casting strange, stuttering flashes across the room. The rotting smell hit me before I even got close¡ªa thick, fetid reek of spoiled meat and decay that made me gag. Something shifted in the fridge, and I dared not look closer.


    On the floor, next to the scattered shards of a porcelain plate, was a trail of crimson droplets, leading me onward, like a breadcrumb path meant to lure in the foolish. Frank was silent, and that was the worst part¡ªhis usual snark absent, leaving me alone in a silence that seemed to pulse with malevolent intent.


    ¡°Don¡¯t like this,¡± I whispered, my voice barely audible, swallowed by the dark maw of the house. My eyes followed the trail¡ªit led back to the hall, to a door beneath the stairs I hadn¡¯t noticed before. It was ajar, just barely, a thin line of darkness spilling out, like ink spreading across a page.


    My fingers touched the handle, and it was cold¡ªunnaturally so. I pulled it open, and the hinges protested, a loud, screeching wail that reverberated throughout the entire house. The darkness within seemed to spread out, rolling over my feet, seeping into the hallway. I could feel the chill on my skin, a clammy, death-like cold.


    I stepped inside. The basement was pitch black, the kind of dark that seemed to swallow the beam of my flashlight. The stairs groaned under my weight, and I descended slowly, each step feeling like a commitment I wasn¡¯t sure I could keep. The air was damp, and it stank¡ªof mildew, rot, and something metallic. My light caught on something hanging from the ceiling¡ªa rope, frayed at the end, swinging slightly as if disturbed by an invisible breeze.


    Beneath it, the concrete floor was stained¡ªa dark pool, almost black in the dim light. Blood, a lot of it, more than any one person should be able to lose. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. There were other things here¡ªscratches on the walls, symbols I didn¡¯t recognize, etched deeply into the cement, as if someone had carved them with desperate, bleeding fingers.


    A noise came then, from somewhere deeper in the dark¡ªa soft, almost imperceptible shuffle. My light swung towards it, the beam trembling. Something moved, just out of sight, a shadow slipping away, melting into the black. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. Whatever had happened here, it had left a mark¡ªa stain not just on the walls and floors, but on the very soul of this place.


    The feeling of being watched returned, stronger now. Eyes in the dark, watching, waiting, hungry. I backed away slowly, my crystalline ¡°heart¡± hammering in my chest, the beam of my flashlight shaking as I swept it across the basement. I turned, moving quickly up the stairs, feeling the darkness pressing in behind me, almost pushing me forward. I slammed the door shut, breathing hard, the sound slithering through the empty house.


    The McGuffey estate wasn¡¯t just haunted¡ªit was alive, and it was hungry. And I had no doubt that it wanted me. Whatever dark force had claimed this place, it wasn¡¯t finished. Not by a long shot.

 25. Chasing Shadows ?

    The sharp clatter of metal hitting the floor shattered the silence, as piercing as a gunshot in the stillness. Instinct seized me¡ªI ducked behind a desk, my fingers brushing the cool steel of my gun. I strained to hear over the adrenaline roaring in my ears. The shadows in the room thickened, stretching into the kind of darkness that made your gut twist with primal dread. The silence felt alive, vibrating with a low, insidious hum, as if the whole building was holding its breath.


    I stole a glance over the edge. In the dim, rust-flecked light, a figure moved, rummaging through a pile of boxes¡ªno more than a silhouette, all fluid and wrong. They moved too smoothly, almost gliding, like they were less solid and more an idea that hadn¡¯t quite made up its mind. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise, the creeping sensation of being somewhere I shouldn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t just them being here that was wrong¡ªit was them. Like they¡¯d been peeled out of a nightmare and set loose, something that should never have existed in the daylight, let alone here, in this derelict place. The air grew colder, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones, leaving you brittle and ready to shatter.


    The figure stilled, head cocked to one side, listening. I held my breath, tried to focus. Then they turned, and for one chilling second, we locked eyes¡ªor I think we did. I couldn¡¯t see their face, but I could feel their gaze, cold and sharp like a knife pressing against my ribs. There was no mistaking it¡ªthey knew I was here. A smile might have curled at the edge of their shadowed face, or maybe that was just my mind conjuring demons.


    The figure bolted, and something snapped inside me¡ªI was over the desk before I could think, feet hitting the ground hard, and gave chase. They were fast, too fast. The kind of fast that should come with a warning label. They flowed through the shadows, a whisper of movement in the darkened hallways, while I thundered after them, the air crackling with something wrong. Like static electricity before a storm. My legs pumped, muscles straining as I pushed myself harder, chasing the ghost that shouldn¡¯t exist.


    Every door we passed seemed to watch, every darkened corner a mouth ready to swallow me whole. My breaths were ragged, the burn of my muscles spreading like wildfire. I rounded a corner and caught sight of them, just a flicker, before they slipped into the next room. The house felt alive, shifting, the shadows pulsing, conspiring against me. Each step was a risk¡ªone misstep, and I¡¯d end up god-knows-where, maybe tangled in the thing¡¯s wake. The walls seemed to shift, narrowing, leaning closer, as if the building itself wanted to close in on me, crush me under its weight.


    They hit the main room, and I wasn¡¯t far behind, adrenaline narrowing my vision. They made a sudden, desperate dive for the window. There was a split-second where time slowed¡ªthe glint of the moonlight, the jagged shards of glass¡ªthen everything shattered. The window exploded, the figure going through like it was nothing, disappearing into the night. Glass shards rained down, and I heard myself curse, rushing forward to the broken window.


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    I caught a fleeting glimpse of them¡ªa blurred shadow sprinting away, swallowed by the dark. They left behind a jagged hole in the world, an emptiness that crawls under your skin like a slow, burning itch you can''t quite reach. My hands trembled as I gripped the window frame, shards of glass biting into my palms, pain barely registering over the pounding of my pulse. I couldn¡¯t let them get away¡ªnot now, not after everything.


    Blood. Smeared across the glass¡ªdark, shimmering under the moonlight like a perverse constellation. Evidence. Or maybe more. I knelt, pulling a piece of the glass free. Slick with their blood. There were spells for this. Dangerous ones. But then again, ¡°dangerous¡± was just another day at the office lately. I could almost hear the mocking voice of my old mentor: ¡°Play with fire, get burned. Play with blood, and, well... you know how that story ends.¡±


    The silence in the house shifted as I straightened up, the rush of the chase ebbing out of me, leaving only exhaustion. The wrongness, the creeping sense of being hunted, didn¡¯t disappear, but it took a step back¡ªlike a predator deciding, for now, to let its prey run. The shadows seemed to watch, judging, weighing whether I was worth the effort.


    I backed out the way I came, careful, my steps deliberate. Whoever¡ªwhatever¡ªI was chasing wasn¡¯t going to make it easy. But neither was I. There was someone who could track this blood¡ªif I was lucky, he wouldn¡¯t turn me into a toad for showing up unannounced. He wasn¡¯t exactly the sort of guy you called for casual favors. More like the kind of guy you reached out to when your life was dangling by a thread and you¡¯d run out of better options. The kind of guy who made deals with devils and walked away with a smile.


    The chill of the building seemed to cling to me as I made my way back to the window I¡¯d entered through, the shattered glass crunching beneath my boots. I took one last look at the room, the shadows shifting like something alive, something waiting. I needed a drink. And, if I was lucky, a night where I didn¡¯t end up dodging fists or spells or worse. A guy could dream, right?


    I climbed out the window, dropping down into the alley below. The night was cold, biting, and I pulled my coat tighter around me, the bloodied shard of glass safe in my pocket. The city stretched out before me, a labyrinth of darkened streets and flickering neon, the kind of place where nightmares felt right at home. Somewhere out there, the figure was running, hiding, and I intended to find them. I was growing tired of chasing shadows.


    But first stop¡ªa drink. Then maybe a visit to an old ¡°friend.¡±

 26. Velvet Shadows ?

    <hr>


    The vibrant neon lights of Lux shone like a beacon in the desolate urban landscape of the West Side. I parked my car and took a moment to gather my courage, memories of my last visit to this den of indulgence flooding back. I checked my weapons at the door. The bouncers at the entrance recognized me, their stern eyes narrowing before they stepped aside.


    The heavy bass of the music throbbed through my body, igniting a primal desire. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, promising forbidden pleasures. Dancers writhed on stage, their bodies glistening under the dim lights as they tempted and teased the eager crowd. Lux was a hedonistic playground, every corner beckoning with carnal delights. My senses were overwhelmed by the pulsating energy and sensual atmosphere, but I remained focused on my goal as I made my way deeper into this den of sin.


    Bare skin brushed against me as dancers swayed and ground, their bodies undulating in a hypnotic rhythm. Each one held an otherworldly allure¡ªpointed ears, iridescent wings, intricate tattoos glowing under the seductive lights. Here, the Hexborn and Normies melted together, distinctions forgotten. In this place, everyone was equally lost.


    Sweat dripped from their feverish movements, adding to the heady mix of scents in the air. A fae dancer caught my eye, her curves accentuated by strategically placed glitter. She danced closer, her fingers tracing down my chest as she whispered in my ear.


    "Want a private dance?" Her breath was hot against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.


    "I''m busy," I replied gruffly, trying to keep my focus.


    "But you''re so handsome." She pressed her body against mine, her breasts rubbing against my chest. A surge of lust washed over me, but I pushed it aside. It was good to know I could still feel that.


    "You¡¯re a terrible liar," I retorted coldly, pushing past her.


    She gave me an appraising look. "I''ve had worse," she said with a shrug, reaching for my hand. I pulled back, the thought churning my stomach. Not because of her, but because of what I was.


    Enjoying the view? Frank''s mocking voice echoed in my mind. Even a dead man like you must find something you like in this place.


    "Shut it," I growled back mentally, scanning the crowd. The fae dancer pouted and moved on to another customer, but her alluring aura lingered in the air as I continued through the sea of colors.


    I caught glimpses of Devil Kissed and Hexborn amidst the crowd. But zombies? That was a different story. My pale, sickly skin stood out even in the dim lighting. Frank could only do so much to hide it.


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    You''re blending in about as well as a fart in a perfume shop, Frank quipped. Just saying.


    "Keep your thoughts to yourself, Frank," I muttered under my breath, my eyes scanning the room for my target.


    Of course, he replied, feigning disinterest. Just making an observation.


    I could almost see him smirking in the recesses of my mind, trying to maintain his veneer of superiority while the hypnotic magic of Lux worked its way into both of us. I shook off the lingering effects of the fae dancer¡¯s touch. Lizzy was here somewhere, and I needed answers.


    I pushed my way through the sweaty, pulsating crowd, the thump of bass and chatter of voices drowning out any semblance of personal space. The overpowering heat emanating from the packed bodies made me feel like I was swimming through a humid ocean. As I approached the roped-off VIP section, glimpses of familiar faces from my past materialized within the sea of strangers. The bouncers stationed outside exchanged nods and hand signals with each other before granting me access to the exclusive area with a sly smile. The people inside parted slightly to make room for me, their expressions ranging from surprised recognition to eager curiosity as they took in my sudden appearance among them.


    Amid the grandeur of the palace, she sat on a red plush couch¡ªqueen of all she surveyed. Wavy strands of raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and piercing emerald eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit throne room. She exuded an otherworldly aura. Clearly a Touched, her striking beauty and seductive air betrayed her succubus ancestry. Lounging on a lavish chair fit for a ruler, her posture radiated power and command. As her gaze locked onto mine with a mixture of surprise and amusement, I couldn¡¯t help but feel drawn to her in a way that both intrigued and unnerved me.


    "Jack," she said, her voice dripping with mock surprise. ¡°Time has not been kind to you, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    She urged me to sit with her, and the goons to her side made sure I accepted the offer.


    "I¡¯ve had a rough few days," I replied.


    She raised her eyebrows. ¡°Just a few days? You look like the findings of an archaeological dig where they forgot to preserve the body.¡±


    ¡°Lizzy,¡± I said.


    ¡°It¡¯s Elizabeth now.¡± She smiled radiantly.


    ¡°Lizzy, I need your help.¡±


    She smiled wider. "Oh, Jack," she purred, her voice smoother than hundred-dollar silk. "It''s been too long. What terrible favor brings you back to my den of iniquity? I know you never liked my working here."


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware of the price on my head.¡±


    ¡°Not a small fee. You¡¯ve really tickled the wrong people upstairs, I¡¯m guessing.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not interested in claiming it, are you?¡±


    ¡°Now, Jack.¡± She growled softly and made a tisk-tisk sound. ¡°You know me better than that. Gold is good. But secrets? Secrets are a girl¡¯s best friend.¡±


    ¡°I need help with just that. A secret. It¡¯s about one of your ¡®clients,¡¯¡± I said.


    She slid closer to me, placing a hand on my leg. ¡°Always so serious, Jack. Straight to business.¡± She puckered her lips. ¡°No time for fun anymore?"


    I slid back and removed her hand from my thigh. ¡°Enough tricks, Lizzy. Are you going to help me or not?¡±

 27. Neon Lies ?

    Lizzy sat up and dropped the act. Her face took on an entirely different form, more refined and discerning. The goo-goo eyes were gone, like a mask she wore only for those who didn¡¯t know her. Her new demeanor was commanding, proving the lie to how she was acting before. She ran this place; she was no damsel in distress. She had dirt on half the politicians in the city and all of the important ones.


    "You really have gotten old, haven''t you, Jack?" Her voice was deeper now, more matter-of-fact. She flashed a familiar smile. "Have it your way, straight to business."


    She snapped her fingers and stood. We were led through a set of heavy wooden doors into a private room fit for royalty. A soft, curved couch sat against one wall, adorned with plush pillows and a cozy throw blanket. In the center of the room was a small table, intricately carved from dark wood and adorned with ornate decorations. I took a seat on one end of the couch while she settled gracefully on the other. It was quiet here, the faint muffle of the club barely audible.


    The air between us was thick with unspoken tension, memories of the past mingling with the present reality of my undead state.


    ¡°How can I help you, Jack?¡± she asked, her voice smooth yet commanding.


    The room exuded an air of luxury and elegance, making me feel out of place in my simple attire. But as always, she made me feel at ease with her effortless charm and grace. This was her sanctuary, where she could shed her title and responsibilities and simply be herself. She kicked off her heels and lounged back. A goon got her a drink of dark amber.


    A few women sat in the back of the room, watching us. I assumed they were her real bodyguards. The goons were just for show.


    Her piercing gaze met mine, a mix of curiosity and something darker flickering behind her eyes. She sighed after a moment, the sound laced with resignation.


    "So, how can I assist you, Jack?" she asked, studying me intently. "Back in the business?"


    I scoffed. "No, just fulfilling a favor." But deep down, I knew it was more than that. It was quickly becoming personal.


    I reached into my pocket and pulled out the matchbox, tossing it onto the table between us. Her relaxed demeanor faded as she stiffened at the sight of it.


    ¡°Got this from the pocket of Robert McGuffey.¡±


    "Jack, you know I can''t discuss my clients. It''s a matter of privilege."


    ¡°Even the dead ones?¡±


    She didn¡¯t seem surprised.


    ¡°Especially the dead ones,¡± she said, taking a sip of her drink.


    "I didn''t realize you still had a ''no kiss and tell'' policy," I retorted.


    She let out a sad chuckle. "Oh Jack, you of all people should appreciate our discretion."


    "Lizzy," I said, leaning forward, my eyes boring into hers. "This isn''t about some petty job. There''s something big brewing, and it¡¯s got everyone from angels to demons on edge. I need to know what McGuffey was into, and I need to know now."


    She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed, taking a sip of her drink. "You always knew how to get under my skin, Jack."


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    "Yeah, well, it¡¯s a talent. Now spill."


    She glanced at the matchbox again, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of the couch. "Fine. But you owe me. Big time."


    I nodded, knowing that whatever the cost, it was worth it. ¡°Deal.¡±


    A woman with a flowing gauze dress and pointed ears emerged from behind a nearby curtain. She moved with the grace and fluidity of a predator as she poured the fragrant liquid into my cup, never once breaking eye contact.


    ¡°Robert was a putz,¡± Lizzy said, matter-of-factly. ¡°Didn''t know his shoes from his shirt. Thought of himself as some sort of collector. Demon connoisseur. Guy was harmless, really. That is, until he found something. Don¡¯t know if it was dumb luck or a cosmic joke, but he got his hands on something real nasty, Jack. Don¡¯t know what it was, only that he was real worried about it. Told the girls all about it. People following him at night. Dark figures out of nowhere. Honestly, we just thought the guy was losing his marbles. Then, he turns up dead. He was a good customer, Jack. I don¡¯t like losing good customers."


    "Who else knew about it? The artifact."


    She hesitated, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°Everyone, Jack. From the highest echelons of the supernatural underworld to the dirty politicians in City Hall. They¡¯re all after it. This thing is no joke. And the price on your head? That tells me one thing. Someone wants you out of the picture, and fast.¡±


    I leaned back, processing the information. ¡°Thanks, Lizzy. I owe you one.¡±


    She smirked, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes. ¡°You always did, Jack.¡±


    We had a fling about fifteen years ago when she was fresh meat in this joint. Now she ran the show, and I was the one looking like a museum piece.


    I reached into my pocket for the key.


    I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a good idea, Jack, Frank¡¯s voice crackled in my head. She might be as beautiful as death¡¯s eternal night, but she¡¯s slipperier than a greased goblin.


    Her gaze lingered on me as I listened intently to Frank.


    Jack, this key isn¡¯t just a trinket. You sure she¡¯s the one to trust?


    We¡¯re running out of options, Frank. She¡¯s our best shot at figuring this out. Unless you¡¯ve got a better idea?


    Touch¨¦, Frank quipped. Just keep your wits about you.


    I chuckled silently. Not getting sentimental now, are you, Frank?


    A smile played on Lizzy¡¯s lips as she watched me. "Oh, I thought I smelled Frank. You''re still wearing him, aren¡¯t you? Old gentleman, how is he?"


    I shrugged, keeping it cool. "He''s still full of himself."


    ¡°I think I might be starting to get why the hit is on me. The artifact that Robert got his hands on. I have the other half.¡±


    I placed the key down on the table. "Do you know anything about this? Ever seen anything like it?" I asked.


    Her reaction was instant and raw, startling me. She jerked back from the key as if it were a red-hot iron, hissing in disgust. Her composed expression contorted into one of bitter disdain, her eyes ablaze with scorching intensity.


    "Where did you get that?" she spat out, her voice dripping with venom. There was a look in her eyes I¡¯d never seen before. Something visceral. Feral. A hunger like one I felt very recently.


    I grabbed the key from the table and backed away. The women in the back of the room edged closer.


    She slowly regained control of herself. But the danger still lingered in her eyes, like a smoldering fire behind a carefully constructed facade.


    "That key... I don¡¯t know what it is, Jack, but I need it," she said, her voice laced with a hint of fear. Her jaw was clenched.


    "Something in me, in my bones, tells me that if I could just touch it¡­ I could have anything. Everything." Her voice trembled with a dark longing, sending a chill down my spine. We were dealing with forces beyond our understanding. ¡°You need to get rid of it, Jack. For your own safety. Give it to me.¡± She hissed, stepping closer.


    Uh, Jack. We might want to start thinking about making a polite exit, Frank¡¯s voice cut through the tension.

 28. A Polite Exit ?

    I looked around and saw the other faces, the women, now feral. Their Hexborn features became more pronounced, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light as they edged closer.


    I think I know what the key opens. Jack, we need to get out of here. Now!


    The air around us felt heavy. Lizzy¡¯s head shook, long hair swaying around her worried face, a deep frown etched into her features. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, knowing this wasn¡¯t going to end well.


    I slid the key into my jacket pocket. The atmosphere shifted as Lizzy¡¯s goons sensed the change, their eyes locking onto me.


    ¡°Alright, folks,¡± I muttered, my voice low, ¡°time to make our grand exit.¡±


    The room exploded into chaos. I ducked a swing from one goon, then another, as Lizzy''s hiss of frustration cut through the din. Bottles shattered, and tables overturned as I fought my way toward the door.


    ¡°Give it to me!¡± she shrieked.


    Another punch flew toward my face. I ducked and weaved, feeling the wind of the blow brush past my ear. I grabbed a bottle from the bar and smashed it over the attacker''s head. A cacophony tore through the air¡ªsplintered wood, shards of glass, and spilled liquor splaying into a chaotic tapestry across the floor.


    ¡°You¡¯re costing me a fortune, Jack!¡± she yelled.


    ¡°Send me the bill,¡± I dodged another swing and sent a goon crashing into a table. The wood splintered under the impact, and the goon lay there groaning.


    I took a hit across the back of the head and spun, barely keeping my balance. As I righted myself, a woman with dark, wild hair and glowing red eyes lunged at me, her claws aimed for my throat. I dodged just in time, feeling the rush of air as her strike missed by inches. Frank, wrapped tightly around my torso, yanked me aside to avoid a second slash, his quick reflexes saving my neck yet again.


    Focus, Jack, Frank''s voice echoed in my mind.


    A figure with dark, smoky veins pulsating under her skin attacked from the side. I grabbed a chair and swung it at her, the wood splintering on impact but barely slowing her down. She snarled and leapt again, but Frank pulled me back, making me stumble out of the way. I retaliated with a swift kick to her midsection, sending her sprawling across the floor.


    Another woman dove from above, fae wings spreading wide. I rolled to the side, her claws raking the floor where I was a moment ago. Frank yanked me up with a sharp pull, and I used the momentum to drive my elbow into her back, knocking her off balance.


    Maybe try not to get us killed, Frank said.


    The dark-haired woman was on me again, her strength fueled by the cursed blood running through her veins. I grabbed a broken bottle and swung it at her, the jagged glass cutting through the air. She dodged, but Frank¡¯s timely tug allowed me to pivot and strike her across the face. She howled in pain, clutching her wound.


    The fae Hexborn recovered and charged, but I was ready. Frank tugged me forward, and I used the momentum to slam her into a wall. She slumped down, dazed. The redhead tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Frank jerked me to the side just as her claws swiped past my face. I grabbed a nearby lamp and swung it hard, the base connecting with her head and sending her crashing to the floor.


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    "Frank, a little help here?" I called, feeling the hunger gnawing at my insides, the pain and exertion bringing it closer and closer to the surface.


    What do you think I¡¯m doing? Frank wrapped around the blonde''s head and pulled down fast, slamming her into a table. She went down hard, the table splintering under the impact.


    You know, Jack, Frank said, for a dead guy, you sure do attract a lot of unwanted attention.


    The exertion was taking its toll. Two goons were back on their feet and heading my way. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and a gnawing hunger clawed at my insides.


    Lizzy¡¯s eyes narrowed as she noticed something was wrong. ¡°You¡¯re looking a bit worse for wear,¡± she said, shaking her head as if trying to clear away a lingering fog.


    My movements were getting slower, the hunger gnawing at my control.


    A particularly large goon grabbed a bottle and swung it at my head. I ducked, but the bottle shattered against my shoulder, sending shards of glass into my skin. Pain flared, and I staggered, trying to regain my footing. Blood seeped through my jacket, mixing with sweat. I took the broken bottle in his hand and rammed it into his neck with a deep growl.


    The rage inside me roared, threatening to overwhelm my senses. My vision blurred for a moment, and I nearly lost my grip on reality.


    I needed my drink. Why did I leave it in the car?


    Keep it together, Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my mind, a steadying presence amidst the chaos.


    I made it to the door, but two more goons blocked my escape. My eyes were filled with malicious glee. I felt myself losing it, teetering on the edge of control. Just as I was about to let go, I heard her voice cut through the din.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Lizzy, having regained some composure, locked eyes with me. She saw the pleading hunger rising in me.


    ¡°Let him go.¡± She raised a hand, calling them off.


    They hesitated, but eventually stepped aside. With great difficulty, I forced myself to calm down, my breaths ragged and shallow.


    ¡°You¡¯re still as stubborn as ever,¡± she said, forcing a half-hearted smile.


    ¡°Goodbye, Lizzy,¡± I said, my voice as steady as I could manage.


    ¡°Goodbye, Jack. I hope you know what you¡¯re doing.¡±


    The door burst open, and we were hit by the pounding bass and shrill noise of the club. We pushed our way through the crowd, the smell of alcohol and blood clinging to me. Finally, we stumbled into the cool night air, the chill biting against my sweat-soaked skin.


    I grabbed my weapons and half-ran, half-stumbled to the car. My limbs felt heavy, every movement a struggle. I didn¡¯t look back.


    I snatched a bottle of sanity juice from the passenger floor and started chugging. The liquid burned like hellfire as it went down, but slowly, the feeling subsided into a bearable ache. Sliding into the driver¡¯s seat, I fumbled with the keys before the engine roared to life. I peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the neon lights of Lux to fade into the distance. The weight of the key in my pocket felt like a lead brick.


    There was a long pause before Frank said anything.


    You okay, Jack?


    "Peachy," I said, taking a deep breath. "Just another night in paradise."


    The night hung over me like a bad hangover. The road stretched out before me, dark and uncertain, but one thing was for sure: I wasn¡¯t done. Not yet. The engine''s rumble was a steady reminder that I was still sort of alive, and as long as I was, there was hope.


    The hunger gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, a beast waiting to pounce, but I pushed it back, focusing on the task ahead. I downed my last bottle of Think Clearly. It barely moved the needle. The city lights blurred into a haze as I drove, the key in my pocket pulsing like a heartbeat.


    "What the hell happened in there?" I asked. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching under the strain.


    I was wrong, Jack. It¡¯s far worse than I thought. We have to find a rift, and fast.

 29. Sarge ?

    City lights blurred into a whirl of neon and shadow as I pushed the car faster, trying to outrun the creeping dread.


    It''s Hegemonic Hexcraft, Jack. The kind only the ruling class of the Otherworld use. Dark, potent, and cursed for all but royal blood. And the effects are only going to get worse as we near the Red Solstice.


    ¡°Why isn¡¯t it affecting you, Frank?¡± I asked, gripping the steering wheel tighter.


    Maybe because I¡¯m already dead, he replied, his voice as cold as the grave. Hegemonic Hexcraft is elite. Upper hierarchy stuff. For the Hexborn, it¡¯s a frenzy trigger just seeing it.


    Frank¡¯s tone darkened. You need to be careful, Jack. That key is half of a bad puzzle. The kind that was locked up for a reason.


    The effects of Cali¡¯s drink were wearing off faster and faster, temporary relief giving way to that familiar gnawing hunger.


    We need to find a rift. I can feel the hunger in you, and soon there¡¯ll be nothing we can do about it. If we¡¯re messing with this level of Hexcraft, people are in serious trouble. And we can¡¯t have you going all rabid before we stop it.


    ¡°You really think this is gonna lead somewhere good?¡± I asked, my voice a rough whisper.


    Not likely, Frank admitted. But it¡¯s the only plan we¡¯ve got. Without it, we¡¯re dead in the water.


    ¡°Dead in the water,¡± I echoed, a grim smile tugging at my lips. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first time.¡±


    The car tore through the darkened streets, engine growling like a caged beast. The near full moon hung low on the horizon, a silent harbinger of the chaos brewing. Happens twice a year, the Red Solstice, when the fates flip a coin and choose sides, tipping the cosmic scales with her fickle fingers. The decisive night was just two days away.


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    Whatever''s coming, it¡¯s coming then. I¡¯d bet my last dime on it.


    The night stretched out before us, an endless expanse of dread. A gut feeling told me we were barreling toward something monstrous, something that should never be set free. It felt like the die was cast, and all we could do was keep driving, keep fighting, hoping that when the moment struck, we¡¯d be ready for whatever was waiting.


    Where can we find a rift? I thought.


    Rifts were like bad luck¡ªplenty when you didn¡¯t need them, scarce when you did. I recalled the last place I saw one, a grim memory of Frank and the docks. Rifts had a habit of repeating, the fabric of reality thinning in certain spots.


    We headed back to the docks where I last saw Jac and Jean. Never did get paid. I shrugged off the thought. The city''s labyrinthine streets and alleys felt like a twisted maze designed to trap us, but I knew the way to the docks by heart. Tonight, though, every turn felt like it was leading us straight into the devil¡¯s jaws.


    It feels close, Frank said.


    I parked the car and stepped out, the night air biting against my sweat-soaked skin. Weapons in hand, I moved quietly. The lapping of the water against the dock kept a steady rhythm in the background.


    There¡¯s rift-soot here, Frank noted. Thank the saints for that.


    We tracked the black smudges through the dock, faint and clinging to the ground like ash.


    A noise. My muscles, already taut, stiffened further. I froze. Out of the shadows, Sarge trotted up casually, like he''d been part of this conversation the whole time.


    ¡°How the hell did you get here?¡± I muttered, rubbing my eyes. ¡°What are you doing by the docks, boy? You know there¡¯s a rift nearby?¡±


    Sarge nuzzled my leg, his fur brushing the edge of Frank¡ªthe jacket. Frank shifted uncomfortably, a low rumble vibrating in the leather.


    I hate that dog.


    ¡°Yeah, well, tough luck,¡± I mumbled. Funny thing was, Sarge didn¡¯t mind Frank. He trotted beside me as we pressed on, my body teetering between feral and collapse.


    The familiar blur in the air came into view ahead, shimmering like heat haze. No beasts nearby. That¡¯s a relief.


    I approached the rift cautiously, every dying nerve in my body screaming in protest. Sarge, unfazed, stuck by my side.


    ¡°Listen, boy,¡± I knelt, vision swimming. ¡°You can¡¯t come with me in there. Stay.¡±


    He barked softly in protest.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± I lied. He whined. Sarge knew better.

 30. Enter the Rift ?

    We went way back. He wasn¡¯t mine¡ªhe was everyone¡¯s dog, the town¡¯s unofficial mascot. Even the pound knew better than to mess with him.


    ¡°Tell you what,¡± I ruffled his ears, ¡°stay here, and when I get back, I¡¯ll dig up some treats from the car.¡±


    His mouth started to water at the word.


    I held out a hand. ¡°Deal?¡±


    He just stared, wide-eyed. I grabbed his paw and shook it. ¡°Deal.¡±


    Jack, what in Satan¡¯s asscrack¡ªit¡¯s a dog. We need to move.


    I gave Sarge a final pat, but my thoughts were fogging over, slow and heavy like molasses. ¡°You know, Frank,¡± I slurred, ¡°if you don¡¯t have anything to say... don¡¯t say it.¡± The words tumbled out wrong, my tongue thick in my mouth. ¡°That¡¯s what my mother always said...¡±


    Frank hissed in irritation, but I was too far gone to care. The ground shifted beneath me, tilting in ways it shouldn¡¯t. I shook my head, trying to pull the pieces together, but it was like grasping smoke. Time was slipping. Better get this over with.


    Hold on, Jack, Frank''s voice urged, wrapping himself tighter around me, his presence a buffer against the rift¡¯s disorienting effects.


    The rift was a swirling vortex, a tear in reality that defied all logic. I steeled myself and stepped through, Frank¡¯s comforting weight grounding me as the world shifted and twisted around us.


    Beyond the rift, the landscape twisted and churned in a chaotic dance of color and form, never settling into anything recognizable. The sky, a sickly green streaked with inky black, gaped like an ancient, hungry maw. Beneath my feet, the ground writhed and squirmed as if alive, and trees with gnarled branches clawed at the sky, their leaves glowing with an eerie bioluminescence.


    The air, thick as molasses, carried the stench of decay mixed with a sickly sweet rot, underpinned by a familiar sulfurous reek. Every step was a struggle, as if wading through knee-high mud, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down, trying to crush my spirit. The ground, cracked and red like a desert scorched by eternal flames, shifted beneath me. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. The uneven terrain was littered with jagged rocks.


    This was a bad idea.


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    Looking back, the rift into my world was nearly out of sight.


    Get it together, Jack. You''re losing it, Frank snapped in my head, but his voice felt distant, like it was coming from underwater.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine... I just...¡± I muttered to no one, but my voice sounded strange, muffled. I blinked hard, trying to clear the haze, but the dizziness only got worse. My legs wobbled. Everything felt... woozy.


    Stay focused, Frank''s voice cut through the chaos. We¡¯re here for a reason. Remember that.


    I nodded, taking a deep breath, and pressed on. The Otherworld twisted perceptions, warping reality until the path ahead was a haze. There was no turning back now.


    We need to find Nightstone, I thought, feeling my control slipping as the hunger grew more insistent. I was losing it.


    We trekked through the desolate wasteland, every step a battle against the oppressive heat and my own weakening body. Shadows flitted at the edge of my vision, monstrous shapes watching from a distance, their eyes gleaming with malevolent curiosity.


    It¡¯s quiet here, Frank observed. Too quiet.


    I nodded, my mind slipping into memories of the past. It had been years since I¡¯d crossed a rift. Back in the war, we were crazy enough to use them for transportation, despite the dangers. But we had protective suits then and artifacts to ward off the worst effects. Space worked differently here. One rift could lead to another across the world, or just a block away.


    Lost a lot of good men in the rift, I remembered, a pang of guilt twisting in my chest.


    The only reason to venture into this hellish place now was to mine or treasure hunt. I pushed forward; the landscape sapped my energy and willpower. It felt like walking through a red desert, each step draining my life force. The hunger grew, a feral beast gnawing at my insides. Exhaustion wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, pulling me down.


    You have to focus, Jack. Don¡¯t stop walking, Frank''s voice was a distant murmur. Death in the rift, when not at the hands of beasts, can come without notice or fanfare, simply sucking the remaining life from you. It¡¯s dying in ice, Jack.


    The world spun slowly, a dream I was slipping out of, and for a second, I wasn¡¯t sure if I was standing or falling. I looked down.


    Still standing. That''s good.


    Why did I come here?


    What am I doing?


    This feels like a terrible place to die. The world spun as my mind teetered on the edge of delirium.


    We are almost there, Jack. Stay with me. I can sense a deposit of Nightstone just over that ridge.


    I tried to keep my feet beneath me. But it was too much. The world swirled, and dry earth greeted me with a warm embrace.


    Get up, Jack. If you don¡¯t get up, you¡¯ll die.

 31. A Fickle Fate ?

    I heard the skittering sound of tiny feet nearby.


    I didn¡¯t care. Why did I ever care?


    I managed to turn onto my back and stared up into the swirling sky.


    This was as fine a place to die as any. Why was I so worried before?


    Jack. The voice was faint. A distant memory. A forgotten dream.


    And then, I saw her face. My beautiful daughter. I heard her laughter. Visions swirled around me. I was younger, the world vibrant. My wife, Leah, was with her sister for the day, and I had Sarah, our daughter. My wonderful Sarah.


    We were playing, and she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. She had such a beautiful, full laugh, as if her whole body couldn¡¯t contain the joy.


    I got a call. A friend, a fellow private eye. He was in a bind and needed a favor¡ªnothing dangerous, just a quick errand. A file needed picking up from the precinct, and he was stuck on the wrong side of town, trapped in rush hour. I was closer, so I agreed to swing by. It was a routine job, hardly worth mentioning. I brought Sarah along, thinking nothing of it.


    We were at the precinct, waiting for the clerk to dig up the file. But something felt off. Before I could put my finger on it, the world exploded around me. I still tasted the gas that filled the place, still heard the screams, still felt the crushing weight of concrete and metal. Shadefire burned hot¡ªa coal-like stone that crackled with dark energy. It was the backbone of every forge and hearth, the fuel that kept winter at bay. But it was also the junkie¡¯s drug of choice and the home alchemist¡¯s perfect ingredient for a bomb. A Shadefire explosion could level a building faster than you could scream.


    Sarah¡¯s face flashed in my mind, a memory that wouldn¡¯t let go. Leah was crying now, and I couldn¡¯t stop her. She left me after that¡ªjust vanished without a trace. Last I heard, she was somewhere near Angel City. I never went back to our house. It stood there, empty, like me. When the divorce papers arrived, I didn¡¯t fight. Haven¡¯t seen or heard from her since.


    Sarah¡¯s smile was vivid now, calling to me. I reached out, feeling her hands. Everything was a blur. I tried to clear the tears from my eyes so that I could see her.


    But it wasn¡¯t Sarah. It was someone else¡ªher face calm, almost serene. She pulled me from the sand, her hands steady, grounding me in the chaos. I coughed as she offered me water, letting it trickle from her cupped hands. My body felt distant, like it wasn¡¯t mine. Every movement took more effort than I had to give.


    She fed me something bitter, something that turned my stomach. I chewed with whatever strength I could muster, the taste of raw sinew and fat thick on my tongue. It was foul, but it pulled me back, anchoring me to the world. Slowly, the haze lifted. The earth grew solid beneath me, the ground no longer shifting like a dream. I heard Frank¡¯s voice, distant but insistent, calling me back.


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    Jack! Damn you! Wake up!


    ¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± I croaked.


    Gods, Jack. I thought I lost you.


    ¡°Can¡¯t get rid of me that easy, Frank.¡±


    I choked down another bite from the stranger''s hand, the taste turning my stomach. She sat beside me on the ground, her dress flowing like a flower in the desert, a beacon from another world. She looked like a photo from a different reality, cut out and placed here, glowing with her own ethereal light.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I managed.


    "Shhh," she said, "There''ll be enough time for questions once you¡¯ve eaten." She fed me more. It was bits of a dead imp. I almost vomited but managed to keep it down. I drank deep blue water from a bottle she handed me.


    Slowly, I regained my senses enough to see her more clearly.


    "You''re an Eternal," I said, more a statement than a question.


    She smiled. "Yes."


    "And you saved me."


    "Two for two, Jack Callaghan."


    "Why?"


    "Someone''s got their thumb on the scale, tipping it the wrong way. I''m just here to provide some... balance."


    "Who are you?"


    "Who is anyone? I''m me. You''re you. I''ve been called many things. Some kind, some terrible. But is a thing its name, or is it more? Once, I was just a girl. Long ago, before I took up this office."


    "Office?"


    "The Eternals, we aren''t born this way. Each of us was once mortal, like you... used to be. And one day, we¡¯ll pass on, handing the hat to another."


    "Then, what¡¯s your ''hat''?"


    "Ah, an intelligent question at last. I weave the threads of fate¡ªthe journey from past through present to future. The spinner, the measurer, and the blade that cuts the thread." With each word, her face shifted¡ªfrom a young woman to a middle-aged mother, to an elderly, wrinkled form, then back to her youthful self.


    "But why help me?"


    "Because, Jack, I have my own way of balancing the scales. And right now, you''re part of that balance."


    I could see the ages in her eyes, the burden of endless cycles of reality.


    "It¡¯s not yet your time, young Jack Callaghan. Though, some forces seem to disagree. It wasn¡¯t your time at the dock that fateful night. It¡¯s not your time now. That is my domain."


    "I thought Death decided these things," I said.


    She chuckled, a sound like chiming bells.


    ¡°Death and I work closely, but no. He shepherds souls that have shed their mortal coils. But when that form is shucked, that is by my design. Except with you. Someone circumvented me that night and, how would you say it, ¡®offed¡¯ you? Without my approval or plan. That¡¯s why I allowed Death to bring you back. There¡¯s a cosmic balance at play. An Eternal cannot interfere without granting another the automatic permission to do the same. How we use our permissions is up to us, but we usually cannot infringe upon another''s domain. Usually. I can¡¯t tell you more without surpassing my permissions. Only that you¡¯re on the right path. And you must stay true to your course. You¡¯re only at the beginning, young Jack Callaghan. There¡¯s a long way for you on this path yet. Now eat. You need to regain your strength.¡±

 32. Young Jack Callaghan ?

    I took another bite and felt the energy of the imp moving through me. As I ate more, something stirred inside me, a strange tingle through my hands and fingers. My pallid blue skin darkened ever so slightly. I felt the energy soaking into me, a warmth within.


    ¡°Why do you keep calling me young?¡± I asked. But when I looked up, she was gone. Frank and I were alone.


    Eternals, Frank said. Never come straight out and say anything. ¡®Don¡¯t trust Tom, he¡¯s stealing your fortune,¡¯ or ¡®the secret is over there under that book.¡¯ They always want you to figure it out for yourself.


    ¡°You have a history with Eternals, Frank?¡± I asked.


    Oh, another tale for another time. Let¡¯s survive this one first, shall we?


    ¡°Frank, do you feel that?¡± ¡°Frank, do you feel that?¡± I asked, feeling the imp¡¯s blood snake its way through my veins, warm and oily


    There was a long pause before Frank spoke again.


    Indeed, Jack, you feel different. Less... dead. Not quite alive. But certainly, almost definitely less dead. And yet, more... something else.


    I watched as a bit of decaying skin on my arm began to cling and knit itself back together. But it was no longer my own. The patch was now in the shade of the black fire imp, leaving the rest of me still in my pale hue.


    I finished the imp, feeling strength seep back into my limbs. Slowly, I rose, my body still aching but no longer on the brink of collapse. I looked around, hoping for another imp, but none were to be found. The Eternal likely frightened most things away.


    We pressed on, and soon enough, we stumbled upon a small deposit of Nightstone, its obsidian sheen stark against the crimson soil. The sight of it sent a jolt of relief through me. With Frank''s help, I dug into the ground; the earth giving way to reveal a sizable chunk of the precious mineral.


    Once we''d gathered all we could, we retraced our steps with care and deliberation. The journey back blurred in a haze of exhaustion. Miraculously, the rift remained open, a shimmering beacon of salvation. We stepped through, and the familiar chill of the docks enveloped us.


    The cold air hit me harder than before, especially where the imp''s flesh now melded with mine. It was strange, feeling the bite of the cold so acutely.


    "That''s odd. I can actually feel the breeze where the imp''s flesh has replaced mine. Fire imps hate the cold, don¡¯t they?" I mused, more to myself than to Frank.


    Indeed.


    A spark of hope ignited within me. This would require some experimenting, but perhaps there was a way back from undeath. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.


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    We stepped out of the rift, and there was Sarge, waiting patiently like he had been standing guard the whole time. His tail wagged as soon as he spotted us.


    ¡°Now that¡¯s a good boy,¡± I said, kneeling down to give him a few well-earned pets. His fur was warm, solid, a grounding presence after everything that had just happened. ¡°Alright, a deal¡¯s a deal.¡±


    I started walking back to the car, Sarge falling into step beside me, his nails clicking against the pavement. ¡°Really, Sarge, how¡¯d you get all the way out here? You expanding your turf?¡±


    He barked, short and sharp, almost like he was agreeing with me.


    ¡°At least one of us is doing well for himself.¡±


    You realize he¡¯s just a dog, right? Frank grumbled in my head.


    ¡°And you¡¯re just a jacket,¡± I shot back.


    I could feel Frank seething in the corner of his own little perpetual-possession state, but he stayed quiet. Probably knew I wasn¡¯t in the mood.


    We made it back to the car. I rummaged through the glove box¡ªpapers, an old handkerchief, a crumpled scorecard from Yahtzee¡ªuntil I found what I was looking for: a small, half-forgotten bag of dried jerky. No use to me anymore, but Sarge... he would appreciate it.


    His mouth was already watering by the time I tossed him a large piece. He gobbled it down in seconds, then sat there, staring at me expectantly.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Sarge. You¡¯re killing me here. I gotta save some for later, alright? Can¡¯t give it all away.¡±


    He kept staring. That wide-eyed, relentless look only a dog could pull off.


    I stared back.


    He stared back.


    ¡°Alright, fine. You win.¡± I tossed him the last chunk of jerky. He swallowed it in one bite, then trotted over and snuggled up against my arm, satisfied.


    ¡°You wanna ride with us, or you doing your own thing?¡± I asked, scratching behind his ears. He barked once, spun in place like he was chasing his tail, then suddenly lost interest and sauntered off down the street, tail wagging.


    ¡°On your own, huh? I can appreciate that.¡±


    I watched him for a second, then turned my thoughts to Frank.


    ¡°I¡¯m feeling better than I have any right to,¡± I said aloud.


    I noticed, he said.


    ¡°I need to do something.¡±


    I headed toward the water¡¯s edge, drawn by the need to shake off the filth that clung to me¡ªnot just the physical grime, but the stench of the rift, the corruption lingering in my bones. The moon cast a silvery sheen over the ocean, its rhythmic waves beckoning like a dark invitation. I could still feel the rift¡¯s presence, heavy in the air, seeping into my skin. The only thing I could think to do was drown it out.


    Fully clothed, I waded into the ocean. The cold hit me like a shock, slicing through my deadened nerves and stinging the open wounds scattered across my body. Saltwater bit at the gashes, sharp and unforgiving, but it was grounding¡ªbetter than letting the otherworld¡¯s residue sink any deeper into me.


    I stood in the surf, the waves crashing around me, and for a moment, I felt almost human again. The night was still and silent, the stars above a stark contrast to the chaos we¡¯d endured.


    It''s going to be a long night, I thought.


    Isn¡¯t it already? Frank asked.


    But now, with the Nightstone secured and a direction in mind, things looked a touch less bleak.


    ¡°We need a demonologist,¡± I said, the words carrying out over the dark, restless sea.

 33. Late-Night Visits ?

    A light rain started up again, clinging to me like a second skin as I dried off as much as I could, wringing the chill from my bones. My reflection in the cracked side mirror was ghastly¡ªa face more suited to the grave than the living. Not that I was either anymore.


    I climbed into the driver¡¯s seat of my car, the leather steering wheel slick and unwelcoming under my cold hands. I tried to find some comfort in the cramped front seat, but it was a fool¡¯s errand. The car creaked with age, whispering in the dark, and my mind was invaded by shadows and echoes, taunting me with fitful dreams.


    The city hummed with unrelenting energy as I navigated the bustling streets, eyes flicking from one neon sign to the next. My destination? A seedy motel on the outskirts, a place I could hole up and work. ¡°The Hollow Inn¡± announced itself in flickering green light, each sputter of the sign casting an uneasy glow over the cracked pavement.


    As I approached the intersection, the motel loomed ahead, its decrepit facade a testament to years of neglect. Peeling paint clung to the walls like a bad habit, and the windows, smeared with grime, offered no glimpse of what lay within. A few rusted cars squatted in the parking lot, their owners either too desperate or too indifferent to care about the place''s condition.


    The creaky glass door protested as I pushed it open, a small bell above jangling a discordant tune. The lobby was a claustrophobic space, dimly lit and suffocating with the smell of stale cigarettes and musty air. Threadbare carpet, worn down to the point of near extinction, and wallpaper peeling from the walls like old skin completed the scene.


    Behind the chipped counter stood a man¡ªif it could be called that. It''s hunched form suggested it carried a weight heavier than it could bear, and his pallid skin, like aged parchment, clung to sharp, angular features. His eyes, a piercing yellow, seemed to glow with a sickly light, a clear giveaway of his goblin heritage. Not uncommon around these parts, but still unsettling.


    He glanced up from a battered ledger, suspicion and disdain carved into his expression. "For an hour or the night?" it rasped, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.


    I nodded, sliding a few crumpled bills across the counter. "For the night. Possibly more."


    He snatched the money with clawed fingers, briefly inspecting it before stashing it in the register. With a grunt, it handed me a tarnished key, the number "13" barely visible on the worn brass tag. "You pay each morning. Room thirteen," it said, jerking his head toward the stairs. "Up the stairs, third door on the left. Don''t cause any trouble." The warning hung heavy in the air, like a storm cloud ready to break.


    Key in hand, I headed up the rotting staircase. Each step groaned underfoot, as if protesting my presence. The hallway above was narrow and dimly lit, shadows dancing erratically as the bulbs flickered. I reached the door marked 13, the metal cold against my palm, and unlocked it with a click that seemed too loud in the stillness.


    The room was as shabby as I expected. A sad, lumpy bed dominated the center, flanked by a rickety nightstand that looked like it was on its last legs. A battered dresser slumped against the wall, its drawers crooked and half-open, as if giving up on the idea of order. The carpet was a faded, threadbare thing, clinging desperately to the floor, and the air carried a persistent odor of mildew that refused to be ignored.


    With a sigh, I dropped my bag onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. I surveyed my temporary home¡ªif it could even be called that. It wasn¡¯t much, but it would have to do. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told me it was late, and my stomach growled in protest. I considered grabbing a bite, but exhaustion won out; my hunger a dull throb that I could ignore for now.


    I collapsed onto the lumpy bed, exhaustion dragging me down like an anchor. Sleep overtook me quickly, but instead of the restful oblivion I craved, I was pulled into something far more sinister.


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    The world around me twisted, distorted, and suddenly, I was no longer in the dingy motel room. The walls dissolved, replaced by a landscape that felt unsettlingly familiar yet wrong¡ªlike a memory twisted into a nightmare. The air was thick with sulfur and ash, and the ground beneath me trembled as if it were trying to throw me off.


    This wasn¡¯t real. It was a dream¡ªvivid, terrifying¡ªbut that knowledge didn¡¯t soften its edges. I was trapped, unable to wake, unable to escape.


    I was standing on a battlefield, ancient and unreal. The sky churned with blood-red clouds, flickering with jagged streaks of lightning that illuminated the chaos below. The ground was littered with broken weapons and the twisted bodies of fallen warriors. But not all were human¡ªsome were monstrous, grotesque beings with shifting forms that defied logic.


    Before I could comprehend the scene, I was thrust into the heart of the battle. Warriors in ancient armor clashed around me, wielding swords and axes with brutal efficiency. Their faces were obscured, but their eyes burned with an eerie, unyielding light. Among them were creatures from the darkest recesses of the mind, their limbs bending in unnatural ways, mouths filled with too many teeth.


    I reminded myself it was just a dream, but the intensity¡ªthe sounds, the smells, the sheer force of it¡ªmade it feel terrifyingly real. My heart raced, and the ground shook beneath my feet, the air thick with dark energy.


    A massive beast¡ªa nightmare given form¡ªfixed its glowing eyes on me. Its body was a roiling mass of smoke and fire, its maw lined with blackened, jagged teeth. It wasn¡¯t just coming for me¡ªit was hunting me. It charged, and I barely dove aside, feeling the searing heat of its breath as it roared past.


    When I scrambled to my feet, there was a sword in my hand¡ªa weapon that wasn¡¯t there a moment ago, gleaming with a strange, ethereal light. I didn¡¯t question it. There was no time. The beast turned, its eyes locked on me, ready to strike again.


    The battle was chaos, a whirl of violence and fear. I swung the sword, driven by pure survival instinct. Every strike sent a jolt of pain through my body, the screams of the dying blending with the roars of the monsters. The world around me blurred and distorted, the dream trying to pull me deeper under.


    Suddenly, a wave of dark energy slammed into me, hurling me to the ground. Pain exploded through every nerve. The sword slipped from my grasp, skittering across the blood-soaked earth. Above me, the beast loomed, its eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger. It reared back, ready to tear me apart.


    And then, everything stopped.


    The battlefield, the beast, the chaos¡ªall of it froze as if time itself had halted. I should have woken up then, the terror releasing its grip, but instead, I felt a presence¡ªsomething ancient, powerful, and inescapable. It was watching me, judging me.


    The dream shuddered, and from the darkness stepped a figure cloaked in shadow. I didn¡¯t need to see his face to know who it was.


    ¡°Not yet, Jack,¡± Death said, his voice deep and eternal, resonating through the dreamscape. ¡°You¡¯ve still got work to do.¡±


    With a wave of his hand, the dream began to unravel. The beast dissolved into mist, the battlefield faded, and I was left standing alone in the void.


    But the dream didn¡¯t shatter like it usually did. Instead, the void deepened, thickening into a dense, impenetrable blackness. I could feel something else¡ªa presence more elusive, yet impossibly vast, lurking just beyond the edge of my awareness. The darkness rippled, and a figure emerged, tall and ethereal, its form constantly shifting like mist caught in a breeze. His eyes were like twin voids, drawing in all light, all thought.


    ¡°You tread dangerous paths, Jack,¡± it said, his voice a whisper that echoed in the vastness. ¡°Even in the waking world, your steps are watched. The veil between worlds is thin... and frayed. Be mindful of where your journey takes you.¡±


    His words hung heavy in the air, the dreamscape trembling with their weight. I tried to respond, but the figure was already fading, his form dissolving into the surrounding darkness.


    Then, a sound cut through the void¡ªa distant, insistent noise that grew louder, more jarring. I recognized it, but it didn¡¯t belong here. It was out of place, invasive.


    The dream shattered suddenly; the darkness ripped away as I jolted awake. The noise was still there, harsh and grating. A car alarm, blaring just outside the motel. My heart pounded in my chest, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like a cold sweat.


    I checked the clock to find that I had managed two hours of fitful sleep. I couldn¡¯t help but wonder what someone with a car worth protecting was doing at a dive like this. Then again, I didn¡¯t have to stretch my imagination too far to figure it out.

 34. Beautiful Chaos ?

    Dawn bled into the sky, chasing away the night¡¯s phantoms, but the unease stuck¡ªa stubborn stain on the fabric of my thoughts. More sleep wasn¡¯t in the cards, and I knew it. I dragged myself out of bed, resigned to the day ahead. There were places I needed to be, people who might help me untangle the mess of blood and glass that haunted my waking hours. I needed answers, and maybe a clue about this damn key. But just my luck, it seemed the world was already up and running, and I got caught in the morning grind.


    The drive into the city was a slow death march, the morning traffic pushing me down, inch by tedious inch. Nearly two hours of red lights and exhaust fumes finally spat me out into the crumbling heart of the Downtown Business District. The buildings around here were little more than decaying corpses, their former grandeur long devoured by time. I parked next to a dilapidated flower shop, its windows as dead as the flowers it once sold, and an abandoned record store¡ªa mausoleum for forgotten tunes.


    But amid this desolation, something caught my eye¡ªa crimson door. It stood out against the faded surroundings like a bloodstain on old parchment. The sign above it read Beautiful Chaos - Demonology, Smithing, and Alchemy, the letters curling like tendrils of smoke. The door promised secrets, the kind only the desperate or the damned would seek out. Naturally, I headed in.


    A delicate chime tinkled as I stepped inside, the sound swallowed by the shadows clinging to the walls. The interior was a warren of tall, black-wood bookshelves and glass display cases, each one brimming with relics and oddities that seemed to drink in the dim light rather than reflect it. This place was a collector¡¯s cavern, every inch of it crowded with forbidden knowledge and dangerous artifacts.


    Behind the counter, a man stood, his face pale as bone with dark circles under his eyes like bruises. He was a wraith, barely human, and his gaze sent a shiver down my spine.


    In the world of demonologists, there were two kinds: the ones in lab coats, sterile and clinical, who harnessed demonic energies for progress, and those like him¡ªcreatures of the night who wove dark magic for obscure and often perilous purposes. His trade danced on the edge of legality, wrapped in a shroud of murky morality.


    Despite the shop¡¯s dilapidated appearance, hope flickered within me as I scanned the room. There was promise here, buried beneath the dust and grime. His voice grated like a rusted hinge swinging open, filling the silence with tension.


    ¡°What can I do for you?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m searching for someone. Their blood is the only lead I have.¡± The words hung in the air, and I watched as his lazy disinterest sharpened into something dangerous. His eyes narrowed like a predator sizing up prey.


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    ¡°You¡¯re not a detective, are you?¡± His eyes darted to a small, polished stone in his hand¡ªan artifact of truth, once favored by the cops, but now usually kept out of sight. The stone wasn¡¯t exactly unreliable; it was just that truth had a nasty habit of twisting itself in the eye of the beholder. What one person swore on could be another¡¯s blasphemy.


    ¡°Do I look like a detective?¡± I asked, lifting my hat to reveal the grayish hue of my face, the skin stretched too tight over the bones.


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t say. Are you?¡± he repeated.


    ¡°Not anymore,¡± I replied honestly.


    The stone remained still, confirming my truth. He relaxed slightly, the suspicion in his eyes giving way to something more calculating.


    ¡°I see. Are you here for trouble, then?¡±


    ¡°Only if it comes looking for me.¡±


    The man nodded, apparently satisfied, and reached under the counter to flick a switch. The door behind me locked with a definitive click.


    He led me through a hidden passage into a room that felt more like a sanctum than part of the shop. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and beeswax, the walls bare save for a small table cluttered with arcane instruments. Each item hummed with latent energy, secrets hidden within their intricate designs.


    The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the assorted objects, his fingers brushing against trinkets and talismans until he found what he was looking for. ¡°You have the blood?¡± he asked, his voice low and gravelly.


    From my pocket, I drew a small shard of glass, its edges raw and jagged, as if torn from something that didn¡¯t want to let it go. Dried blood, taken from the shadowed figure I¡¯d chased through McGuffey¡¯s estate, smeared across the shard¡¯s surface, catching the light and gleaming like tiny rubies embedded in glass¡ªdark, tempting, and thrumming with secrets.


    He took it from me, turning it over in his hand before gesturing to a large silver cauldron that he¡¯d unearthed from the chaos. ¡°Drop it in,¡± he ordered, his eyes never leaving the shard.


    I let the shard fall, and the blood mingled with the water in the cauldron, turning it a deep, otherworldly crimson. The air around us thickened with a pulse of dark energy as the man unfurled an ancient parchment, laying it flat on the table. He began whispering incantations, each word sending shivers down my spine. The parchment reacted, sketching out a cityscape unfamiliar to me. But as quickly as it formed, the ink began to swirl into chaos, the lines twisting into a frenzied storm of shapes and colors. The sight was mesmerizing and deeply unsettling.


    The man¡¯s eyes bulged with terror, his face twisting into a mask of horror as he stared at the convulsing display. The air around us crackled with malevolent energy, the ink in the cauldron erupting like molten lava. The cauldron itself caught fire, an inferno fueled by an unseen force. A howl filled the room, not just a sound, but a force that tore at the edges of reality, pulling at the corners of the world as if the very pages of existence were being turned by some ancient, malevolent hand.

 35. Damned Casters ?

    Amidst the chaos, the shop turned into a whirlwind of destruction. Books hurled themselves off shelves, pages torn from their bindings, while furniture crashed to the ground with the finality of a guillotine. But the old man stood firm, eerily composed amidst the turmoil, his eyes glinting with a calm resolve. He snatched a bar of copper from the clutter and thrust it into the heart of the storm, his voice bellowing incantations that were nearly swallowed by the roaring wind and fire.


    And then, as abruptly as it began, the storm ceased. The room plunged into an unsettling quiet, the echoes of the tempest lingering in our ringing ears. We stood in the near-darkness, our breaths ragged, adrenaline still coursing through our veins. The only sound was the frantic beating of my undead heart, struggling to remember what it was supposed to do in the face of such raw power.


    The old man¡¯s demeanor didn¡¯t falter, unfazed by the chaos that had just erupted around us. His voice remained steady, a stark contrast to my racing thoughts and the tremor in my hands that I couldn¡¯t quite control. Looking at him, I was reminded of Professor Clark¡¯s lectures on demonology¡ªthe stern warnings he¡¯d issue about harnessing raw aether without a proper conduit. Back then, they seemed like the ramblings of an old academic, cautionary tales to scare the students. But now, those words echoed like ominous predictions, playing out right before my eyes. The air was still charged with residual energy, an eerie buzz that sent chills down my spine.


    ¡°Who can name Benjamin¡¯s five primary catalysts?¡± Professor Clark asked, peering at us over the rim of his glasses with a mix of expectation and amusement. We sat there, fumbling for answers, until she spoke¡ªthe woman who would become my wife, who would one day give me Sarah. Her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet, but with a core of unyielding steel.


    She listed them off with ease, her confidence unwavering. ¡°Rhodium and silver are the primary conductors. Gold attracts and ensnares. Bronze buffers, and copper nullifies.¡±


    I shook off the memory, banishing her voice to the back of my mind where it belonged, trying to anchor myself in the here and now.


    "So, can you tell me who belonged to that blood?" I asked.


    He looked down at the cauldron, his fingers brushing over it almost tenderly, as if touching something sacred or deeply cursed. There was a reverence there, a kind of awe that had no place among the broken shards and ruined tools.


    ¡°That blood...¡± he said, like he was sharing a secret with the dark. His eyes flickered in the dim light, and for a moment, he looked less like a man and more like some forgotten thing dragged up from an old well.


    ¡°It¡¯s old-world,¡± he murmured, his gaze distant, as though staring at something I couldn¡¯t see. He wasn¡¯t talking to me anymore; he was talking to the blood itself, to whatever memory it held.


    He leaned in, and the shadows shifted, deepened, painting long fingers across his face, distorting the edges of his features until they blurred into something ghostly. There was something intimate about the way he whispered to the room, his voice dropping until it barely brushed against my ears.


    ¡°It¡¯s twisted, powerful. It doesn¡¯t belong in any of our books, in any of our spells. It¡¯s the kind of blood that chooses to stay hidden, that refuses to be known. This isn¡¯t just blood. It¡¯s alive¡ªmore alive than it has any right to be. And it knows we¡¯re here.¡± He reached up, his hand moving slowly, deliberately, until his fingers traced a thin line in the air. I could almost see it then, the shimmer of something that wasn¡¯t quite there, a ripple across the surface of reality itself.


    He paused, his eyes flickering to the mess of broken equipment on the floor, the shattered glass that glinted in the weak light, and then back to me. The shadows moved across his face again, the lines of worry etched there deepening, turning into something like warning.


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    ¡°Whatever left this behind...¡± His voice was barely more than a breath now, his lips curling into something that could¡¯ve been a smile, but wasn¡¯t. ¡°It walks outside life and death. It¡¯s old... older than this city, older than the stone it¡¯s built on, maybe older than anything we have words for.¡±


    His eyes were locked on mine, and there was a chill there, a hint of something primal, something like pity. ¡°If you¡¯re smart,¡± he said, the ghost of a smile still tugging at his lips, ¡°you¡¯ll stay away. Because whatever it touches...¡± His eyes flickered to the blood once more, and I could feel the words settle into the room like a curse. ¡°Whatever it touches, it claims. Permanently.¡±


    There was a long pause.


    ¡°Right,¡± I said slowly. ¡°Anything more helpful than eternal doom? An address, maybe?¡±


    He looked at me like I¡¯d spat in his drink. I sighed, nodding as if I¡¯d gotten the answer I expected. ¡°So, great evil, total darkness, end of the world. But nothing I can actually use. Got it.¡±


    His hand shot out, cold fingers wrapping around my arm. He leaned in, eyes boring into mine with a twisted curiosity. ¡°Can I keep it?¡±


    I shrugged him off, glancing around the room. The place was a wreck, rubble and ruin everywhere. No way in all the rings of hell I¡¯d be footing the bill for this mess, so might as well give him what he wanted. Not like it mattered to me anymore.


    ¡°Sure, why not.¡±


    Something shifted in his gaze, a shadow flaring to life as he bowed, then began clearing the debris with a strange reverence.


    My hand trembled, just a little, as I pulled the key from my pocket. Small, intricate, its patterns seemed to shift and twist in the low light, never quite the same twice. ¡°There¡¯s one more thing,¡± I said, keeping my tone even. ¡°Know anything about this?¡±


    The shopkeeper¡¯s eyes darted to the key, and for a split second, something flickered¡ªa spark of recognition, maybe, or greed¡ªbefore he masked it with a shrug. ¡°Oh, that?¡± His tone was too casual, like he didn¡¯t already have his sights on it. ¡°Just another trinket. Probably nothing special. But if you¡¯re looking to part with it, I¡¯d give you... fifty bucks.¡± He tried to keep his voice steady, but the twitch in his fingers gave him away.


    I lifted an eyebrow, pulling the key back a fraction. ¡°Fifty bucks? You can do better than that. How about telling me what you actually know?¡±


    His mask cracked, a flicker of frustration before he composed himself, leaning in as his voice dropped to a hushed, conspiratorial tone. ¡°Alright, alright. A hundred, then. It can¡¯t be worth much more.¡±


    I shook my head, a hint of a smirk tugging at my mouth. ¡°Not for sale. Just give me something useful.¡±


    The pretense slipped completely. He eyed me with something like resentment, but nodded, letting out a begrudging sigh. ¡°Well... I would, but you fried my diviner.¡± He cast a pointed look at the smoldering remnants of his machine. ¡°Could take days to fix¡­ but if you leave the key with me, perhaps just for a few days, I might be able to dig up something useful for you.¡±


    I didn¡¯t even blink, slipping the key back into my pocket. ¡°I think I¡¯ll keep it. But thanks.¡±


    His eyes narrowed, frustration and something darker smoldering there, but he slumped with a sigh, turning back to the scorched remains on his workbench, muttering curses as he sifted through the wreckage.


    I left him behind in the smoky gloom, stepping out into streets that lay quiet and abandoned, the only sound the distant rumble of thunder. A storm building somewhere on the horizon. The stench of old magic and broken promises clung to me like grime on these streets, memories stirring in its wake, dark and uninvited.


    There was only one group with the kind of power to twist McGuffey¡¯s death into a neat little suicide and scramble a diviner beyond recognition: the Midnight Council. Shadows lurking in every deal, every lie, every dirty corner of this city. And when they decide to tighten their grip? You feel it.


    It was either them or something I¡¯d never tangled with before. But I''d put my money on the power-hungry over end-of-the-world evils any day. Then again, it¡¯d be just my luck if this crackpot actually had it right.


    You could never trust a demonologist.


    Damned casters.

 36. Going Back ?

    After parting ways with the demonologist, I drifted to a nearby phone booth, hesitating at the door. The stench of cigarettes and stale sweat lingered like ghosts, curling through the air, sharp and sour. It hit me like the taste of regret¡ªfamiliar, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. I stepped inside. The walls were covered in graffiti, deep grooves and scratches etched into the metal like scars. I dug into my pocket, feeling for spare change as I approached the ancient payphone. The clink of rusted coins dropping into the slot echoed through the small space as I dialed a number burned into my memory.


    On the other end, the phone barely finished its second ring before a gravelly voice picked up.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Bart, it¡¯s Jack,¡± I said, though the words tasted rusty.


    There was a beat of silence, then a low, crackling reply. ¡°Jack? Hell¡¯s Horny Harlots! Thought you¡¯d gone under.¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± I cut in. ¡°Well actually, long story. Listen, Bart, I need a favor.¡± My voice dropped, almost swallowed by the booth¡¯s stale air.


    ¡°What kind of trouble this time?¡± Bart¡¯s suspicion seeped through. I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply. I laid out the situation in brief, half-truths, keeping details sparse. The only specific I dropped was a name¡ªMcGuffey¡ªand asked him to dig up anything he could find on it.


    ¡°And meet me at the diner on 5th. Dinner tonight, eight o¡¯clock. Can you do that?¡±


    A long, grudging silence filled the line before a resigned sigh slipped through.


    ¡°Fine,¡± Bart grumbled. ¡°But listen, Jack... you don¡¯t need an excuse to call, you know. It¡¯s been¡­¡±


    ¡°Too long,¡± I finished, my voice softer than I meant.


    There was another pause. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Bart. I¡¯ll see you tonight.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he muttered, and then the line clicked, leaving me with nothing but the low, empty hum of the payphone.


    The phone clanged loudly as I hung up, the sound reverberating in the cramped booth. My fingers hovered over the buttons before I pressed them again, dialing another number. My grip tightened around the receiver as I steadied myself.


    ¡°Murphy¡¯s,¡± came a weary voice on the other end.


    ¡°Murph, it¡¯s Jack,¡± I said, pushing past the guilt and anxiety churning in my stomach.


    There was a moment of silence, then an explosion of anger. ¡°Jack! Do you have any idea what you¡¯ve done to my place? It¡¯s a goddamn war zone here!¡±


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    ¡°I know, Murph. I¡¯ll make it right,¡± I replied, my heart sinking at the thought of the damage I¡¯d caused. ¡°I need Aylin¡¯s number. She left it with you.¡±


    Murphy let out a string of curses, but finally relented. ¡°Hold on.¡± A moment later, he read out the number, grudgingly.


    ¡°Thanks, Murph,¡± I said before ending the call with a heavy sigh.


    With that done, I dialed Aylin¡¯s number and waited anxiously as it rang. When she finally answered, her voice was soft, hesitant.


    ¡°Aylin, it¡¯s Jack,¡± I said, forcing myself to remain calm despite the weight of my words. The line was silent for a moment before her voice flooded through the phone, brimming with gratitude and hope. ¡°I¡¯ll take the case,¡± I declared, steeling myself for the challenges ahead.


    ¡°Thank you, Jack,¡± Aylin responded, her tone filled with relief and trust.


    I took a deep breath and continued, ¡°Give the next installment directly to Murphy. Tell him this should help cover the costs.¡± I could almost hear her nodding on the other end as I hung up, knowing I¡¯d just taken on a responsibility that would require every ounce of my strength and bravery.


    ¡°I will,¡± she promised, her voice soft and sincere. There was a sense of urgency lingering in her tone, something that only added to the heavy knot of worry in my chest. I nodded to myself, the weight of it all settling deeper as I hung up the phone and stepped out into the cool night air. The city pulsed around me, bright lights blazing, a chaotic symphony that echoed off the concrete and steel.


    As I walked away from the phone booth, I couldn¡¯t shake off the feeling of being caught in a tangled web of uncertainty. What was the next step in this complicated mess?


    As my chaotic life spiraled out of control, I knew I needed grounding¡ªsomething familiar to latch onto, a touchstone in this turbulent sea. I decided to head to the only place I knew I could get it.


    Mildred.


    Mildred was the kind of person you went to when you were out of options, when the ordinary solutions didn¡¯t cut it, and you needed something a bit more¡­ arcane. She¡¯d been around longer than most cared to remember, and there wasn¡¯t a soul who knew the rifts'' mysteries better than her. If I was going to tackle this thing head-on, I¡¯d need her expertise. And no one knew how to work with Nightstone better than her.


    I didn¡¯t relish the idea of asking for her help. Last time we spoke, she made it clear that I owed her, and favors with Mildred didn¡¯t come cheap. But desperate times, and all that.


    I stayed there a moment, letting the static fade, knowing I was about to wade back into a world I¡¯d tried hard to bury.


    As I made my way through the city streets, heading toward her old haunt, I couldn¡¯t help but feel a tightening in my gut. The city grew darker as I left its bustling center behind; the buildings leaning closer together, the shadows lengthening. By the time I reached Mildred¡¯s place, a rundown relic of an old brownstone that seemed to teeter on the edge of the rift itself, the streets were nearly deserted. I paused for a moment, staring up at the cracked windows and peeling paint. The air here was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something older and far more dangerous.


    Steeling myself, I stepped up to the door and gave it a firm knock. The sound echoed down the empty street, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.


    No one answered.


    ¡°Mildred,¡± I murmured to the shadows, ¡°I need your help.¡±


    The door creaked open with a low, aching groan, revealing a dimly lit interior thick with shadows, like a place that hadn¡¯t seen daylight in years. Stepping inside felt like slipping into another world, one where the walls seemed to breathe and watch.

 37. Mildred Marshal ?

    Mildred¡¯s house was a sentient beast, a living, breathing thing composed of secrets from decades past. Magic coursing through its veins, memories clinging like a soul stitched into its stone limbs. It called to me with that old, familiar comfort, yet a strange tension hung between us. Something had shifted, a scar in its soul, ineffable and indelible. Whatever had changed between us was beyond words, woven into the bones of the house itself.


    Or was it me? Had I become something different, something unrecognizable to these walls? Maybe it was nothing. I shook off the thought, craving the bitter edge of coffee and something to quiet the gnawing hunger slowly twisting in my gut.


    The fa?ade was a battleground of life and decay, where lush green ivy fought against the encroaching monochromatic Rift Soot. The vines, vibrant and pulsating with life, were a defiant contrast to the world¡¯s creeping dullness.


    A young woman awaited me in the foyer, her garb as eclectic as the house itself. ¡°Hello, Jack. Mildred is waiting.¡±


    She exuded an ethereal, otherworldly charm, reminiscent of a forest nymph. Her honey-blonde hair flowed in soft waves, adorned with small flowers and feathers woven into the strands. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of turquoise, sparkled with an almost mystical curiosity, as if she could see beyond the ordinary.


    Dressed in a flowing, bohemian-style dress of deep purples and blues, she moved with a dreamy, almost floating grace. Around her neck hung an assortment of eclectic charms and crystals, each one glinting softly in the light. Bangles of various metals jingled lightly on her wrists, their gentle music accompanying her every motion.


    Her demeanor was serene and welcoming, with a hint of whimsical unpredictability. As she spoke, there was a lilt to her voice, and her words seemed to carry deeper meanings, inviting those around her to see the world through a lens of wonder and possibility.


    She led me through the grand entrance, our footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. The hallways were a labyrinth of elegant arches and intricate carvings, each turn more enchanting than the last.


    Mildred Marshal, the blind seer and guardian of this sanctuary, greeted me with a smile that reached into my soul. Her pure white eyes, veiled by delicate lace, seemed to pierce through my very essence. ¡°Thank you, Molly,¡± she said.


    The young woman bowed slightly and vanished into another corridor.


    ¡°Hello, Jack.¡± Her voice carried a mix of warmth and quiet authority, like a velvet glove hiding iron. ¡°My door is always open for you, you know that.¡± She paused, then let a little of the iron slip through. ¡°The rules remain the same.¡±


    I gave a somber nod. ¡°Understood.¡±


    Mildred¡¯s home was a haven for all: Normies, Hexborn, and the Devil Kissed alike. It welcomed members of the Midnight Council, the Guild, and outsiders, offering refuge in a world that had succumbed to darkness. Inside this charming relic of a bygone era, vibrant plants thrived, their natural defenses warding off the pervasive Rift Soot that plagued the outside world. Stepping inside felt like entering an enchanted oasis compared to the desolate surroundings beyond its walls, like stepping into an acrylic painting.


    The grand foyer opened into a spacious living area, where the walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures and shelves overflowed with books and trinkets from around the world. The air was sweet and inviting, carrying the subtle scent of blooming flowers and herbal concoctions that seemed to infuse the space with an atmosphere of serene enchantment.


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    ¡°It¡¯s so good to see you,¡± Mildred said, her voice exuding genuine warmth as she greeted me with a hug. ¡°I¡¯ve been seeing quite a lot of you lately, so I was wondering when you¡¯d finally stop by.¡±


    I managed a tired smile. ¡°I need your help.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± she replied, her tone steady, almost parental. ¡°You¡¯ve wandered deep into shadows and need a lighthouse to guide you out. But remember, there are things lurking in the dark¡ªmore than you can imagine. Be careful of the questions you ask. The wrong ones lead to answers you don¡¯t want... but the right ones.¡± She paused, a wry smile flickering. ¡°Well...¡±


    I daresay, you¡¯re even more batty than I remembered, Frank muttered, his voice slipping through my thoughts with a dry edge.


    Mildred chuckled knowingly. ¡°Hello, Frank.¡± She inclined her head toward an antique mirror on the wall, where faint but brilliant amber eyes watched us both with a curious indifference. ¡°Jack, be a dear and step a little closer to the Looking Glass, would you? My eyes grow wearier with each passing year.¡±


    I obliged, moving closer, my eyes tracing the intricate gold filigree around the mirror¡ªa network of twisting vines and leaves, almost too delicate, as if they might crumble under a breath. Mirrors were sly things, weren¡¯t they? They whispered back whatever you wanted, but the truth always hovered somewhere else, just beyond the frame. They held onto shadows too greedily, drank light too eagerly.


    The world distorted there. Not quite lies, but truths mangled, contorted to fit neatly in a gilded frame. Linger just a moment too long, though, and you might see it shift, a subtle wrongness settling into the eyes that shouldn¡¯t be yours. Because what stares back isn¡¯t always you¡ªsometimes something is waiting, watching, aching for the one foolish enough to look too close.


    The reflection rippled, bending as though the glass were liquid rather than solid, and there Frank was¡ªwoven into the shadows of my leather jacket, his presence clinging like smoke. His face ghosted beneath the collar, eyes hollow and gleaming, peering out from the creases and folds like something restless and deeply unwell. He seemed to hover there, not quite inside the mirror, not fully outside it either, drifting in the periphery like a dark aura that might vanish if I dared to blink¡ªbut I didn¡¯t dare.


    I stared at the demon with its angular cheekbones, rough ruddy skin, and piercing eyes that flickered with a subtle glow. His hair was slicked back, lending him a debonair yet dangerous look. His fingers, tipped with faintly clawed nails, drummed against the jacket, as though he were plotting something just out of reach.


    Ah, that¡¯s better, he purred, his thoughts brushing through my mind like the stroke of cold steel.


    From somewhere deep in my mind, Frank grumbled a greeting. His voice carried its usual air of confidence and indifference, but there was an unmistakable flicker of respect threaded through it. He nodded. Mildred.


    As Frank spoke into my mind, his mouth moved in the mirror, a strange synchrony that sent shivers through me.


    It felt surreal for the demon to address someone other than myself. I was accustomed to being the mediator. Mildred and Frank shared something rare, a tether curled between this world and the next. For Mildred, the veil had always been thin, the boundaries porous, as though her soul had been poured only halfway into her body, caught between breaths, and the spirits seemed to sense it. They clung to her presence like moths to flame, drawn to that peculiar imbalance.


    With Frank, her connection ran even deeper, a resonance that hummed along invisible threads. Their bond wasn¡¯t one of words or gestures; it was a quiet understanding between two souls neither here nor there, a pact of silence in the spaces between, where ghosts and shadows lingered.


    The air around them crackled with the energy of otherworldly forces. Mildred¡¯s sightless milky white eyes seemed to soften as Frank spoke. The gruff exterior of the demon, usually as hard as iron, melted, just a bit. I watched the exchange between them through the mirror.


    Still playing hostess to wayward souls, I see, Frank said.


    Mildred¡¯s smile widened, her eyes sparkling. ¡°And you, Frank, still haunting poor Jack. You haven¡¯t driven him completely mad yet, have you?¡±


    Not for lack of trying. Jack¡¯s stubborn as a mule.


    ¡°Takes one to know one, I suppose.¡±


    Touch¨¦, Frank replied, his voice curling with a wry smirk.

 38. Demonic Delicacies & Dangerous Delectables ?

    Mildred led me through her house, and I was hit with a sense of awe in every room. It was like walking through a dream where nature and knowledge blended into one. The living room felt alive, with deep armchairs huddled around a crackling fireplace, inviting anyone to sink in and stay awhile. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, painting everything in a golden glow. Potted plants spilled over every surface, their leaves and blooms a living tapestry that wrapped the room in a sweet, heady scent. It was comforting, almost too perfect.


    As we moved from one hallway to the next, it became clear that this house didn¡¯t play by normal rules. There were more rooms than should fit inside. It was as if the place was bigger on the inside, a labyrinth of hidden spaces.


    The conservatory was the most magical. Glass walls stretched out into the garden, merging the indoors with the lush greenery beyond. Mildred tended to her prized plants here, each one with its own mysterious properties. The air was thick with the scent of blossoms, and the gentle trickle of water from a small fountain added to the serenity. Bees and butterflies fluttered around, adding to the sense of calm that almost made me forget why I was here. Almost.


    ¡°You¡¯re smelling a little worse for wear, Jack,¡± Mildred¡¯s voice sliced through the tranquility, snapping me back to reality. ¡°Is that undead with... let me see, a bit of imp in the mix?¡±


    How did she always know? I wondered, trying not to let it show.


    ¡°We¡¯ve had a bit of bad luck,¡± I admitted, keeping it vague.


    ¡°Is that so?¡± Her foggy white eyes gave me a once-over, like she was sizing up more than just my appearance.


    We walked until we reached the kitchen, a place that felt as warm and lived-in as the rest of the house. Wooden beams stretched overhead, copper pots dangled from hooks, and the shelves were lined with jars of dried herbs and spices, all adding bursts of color and fragrance. The centerpiece was a large wooden table cluttered with fresh produce and flowers. An old-fashioned stove radiated heat, the kettle always ready for tea.


    ¡°What are we doing here?¡± I asked, more curious than concerned.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to ask me to help distill that Nightstone in your pocket?¡±


    I stiffened. It felt like she was looking right through my clothes.


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    ¡°Milly, I know I owe you already, more than I can pay right now. What¡¯s this gonna cost me?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Jack, you know I¡¯d do anything for an old friend. But I can¡¯t give away my services for free, or my other customers would riot. Considering your situation, and including the second favor you¡¯ve yet to ask...¡± She glanced at the pocket where the silver key sat, hidden but not forgotten. ¡°I¡¯ll be taking a favor in return. I¡¯ll need you to make an introduction for me sometime in the future.¡±


    ¡°To who?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my concern, not yours. But you can¡¯t refuse when the time comes, no matter the consequences. Do you understand?¡±


    I mulled it over. Who could she want an introduction to that she couldn¡¯t handle herself? The thought of who it might be crept into my mind, and I quickly pushed it aside.


    ¡°That¡¯s the deal, Jack. Take it or leave it.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± I said, extending my hand. She took it, and before I could react, she slashed a knife across my palm. Dark, grayish blood oozed out, mixing with a cut on her hand. There was a flash of light, and a searing pain as the wound sealed, leaving a scar that I knew wouldn¡¯t fade until the debt was paid.


    ¡°Good. Let¡¯s get to work.¡±


    Mildred pulled out a pot and took the Nightstone from my pocket, mixing it with a concoction of strange ingredients. She narrated the process, explaining how it needed to be adjusted for me. ¡°Raw, this could kill you, but I see you¡¯re not your average undead. You¡¯ve metabolized the imp, and your system is using it to sustain you. Interesting. I wonder where your limits lie.¡±


    She finished brewing and handed me ten vials of the potion. ¡°Half a vial a day. No more, no less. These will last you until the end of the month. Come back for more then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather hold onto all of them,¡± I countered.


    ¡°Not a good idea.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°I know a lot of things you don¡¯t, Jack. Trust me on this.¡±


    I heard Frank¡¯s voice in my head, agreeing with her. Reluctantly, I agreed. ¡°Fine. But no more cost for holding them, right?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re yours. I won¡¯t charge you. Just bring more Nightstone when you need it.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°But, Jack,¡± she added, ¡°this won¡¯t be enough to keep you going. Think of it like water¡ªessential, but without food, you¡¯ll still starve.¡±


    ¡°And by food, you mean...?¡±


    ¡°Living flesh. But not what you¡¯re thinking.¡±


    She handed me a vial, and I drank half, feeling the bitter warmth spread through my body. Then she pulled out a jar filled with writhing green things that looked like snakes without eyes or mouths, just tendrils that belonged in a horror story.


    She concentrated, and the writhing slowed. She pulled one out, sluggish and docile, and handed it to me. As soon as it touched my skin, it sprang to life, biting and digging in with tiny thorns.


    ¡°Ouch, Satan¡¯s ass, what are you trying to do to me?¡±


    "Eat up, Jack. I want to see if my suspicions are correct."


    I stared, jaw clenched, watching it gnaw its way up my hand, each bite a test of how long I could keep from flinching.


    Frank chimed in, You heard the woman, it''s kill or be killed. Establish yourself on the food chain, Jack. Eat it.


    Frank was getting far too much pleasure out of this.

 39. Mostly Harmless Prophecies ?

    I hesitated, the thing writhing in my grip, and then, with a resigned shrug, I bit into it. The taste hit hard, foul and rancid, like moldy socks left to stew in gutter water. But as I swallowed, something changed. The bitterness melted into a strange, heady warmth, spreading through me, igniting every nerve. Colors sharpened to a razor edge, the air buzzed electric. My senses crackled awake, alert, hungry.


    ¡°Extraordinary,¡± Mildred said, as I caught my reflection in a silver pot. My bluish skin had a green tinge, with patches forming new, thin skin-like material. I could smell the room better now, picking out the different spices and herbs.


    She poured a coarse powder onto my hand, and it burned like acid. I tried to pull away, but she held firm, watching the sizzle against my skin. I dared not strike her or fight back.


    Finally, she let go.


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± I demanded, watching as my skin returned to its normal state, the burn fading.


    ¡°Table salt,¡± she said, showing me the package.


    "I know it was table salt. What was the deal with that little experiment? I''m going to need more than that."


    ¡°Oh, Jack. You¡¯re not just undead; you¡¯re a Devourer. At least, in part.¡±


    "A what-now?" I asked.


    A Devourer¡­ Frank¡¯s voice echoed with recognition. I felt something familiar about you, Jack. This makes sense.


    ¡°Care to elaborate?¡±


    Before she could answer, Molly entered with a book, setting it on the table in front of Mildred before vanishing like a ghost.


    That¡¯s just creepy, I thought.


    You are one to talk. A voice¡ªnot Frank¡¯s, but younger and female¡ªchimed in my mind. Molly?


    I¡¯ve really got to watch what I think around here. I hate this place.


    The book had a charcoal sketch of a hideous beast, a mashup of body parts from different creatures. Terrifying.


    It¡¯s a beast from my world, Frank said. Rare as an honest man in a poker game. They hunted them down to the edge of extinction¡­ for their uses. Their blood holds a dark, twisted magic, potent enough to let species breed that would otherwise be impossible matches, binding life where nature would draw a line. The first Hexborn, as you call them, wouldn¡¯t even exist if it weren¡¯t for a splash of Devourer blood in their ancestry.


    "Whoever gifted you this half-life didn¡¯t do it on a whim," Mildred said, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on me, sharp as broken riftglass. "They used pieces from all manner of creatures¡ªone of them being the Devourer. If I had to guess, I''d wager that¡¯s what¡¯s ticking in place of your cold, dead heart. A Devourer Shard¡ªthe beating soul of the beast."


    As you chow down on demons, you¡¯re picking up bits and pieces of them¡ªtheir traits, their weaknesses, Frank added. That last snack? It¡¯s got a salt allergy. So, when she hit you with the salt, you felt like you were sizzling on a griddle. But the effects look temporary, at least I think. The salt burned through whatever you absorb, stripping you back down to your base zombie model. Adds a whole new meaning to ¡®you are what you eat''.


    I rolled my eyes. ¡°It felt colder on that patch of skin.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating¡ªit granted you both its senses and weaknesses. As it leaves your system, so will the changes... unless you consume more.¡±


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    That explained the imp blood and the cold sensitivity. ¡°Why¡¯s the imp blood still in me?¡±


    ¡°Well, how much did you eat?¡±


    A lot, I recalled.


    She stared off into the distance, like she was listening to a phone call from far away. ¡°We don¡¯t have much time, Jack. We must move on to your next request.¡±


    She led me through more rooms, the space warping and shifting with each step. The house didn¡¯t follow any logical rules.


    We ended up in a cozy sitting area. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting a soft glow over plush armchairs and potted plants. Candles flickered, their light dancing over the pages of open books scattered around.


    ¡°Now, you want me to identify something for you,¡± she said, a statement, not a question, as she gestured toward the wooden side table between us.


    I fumbled with the key in my hand, its cold metal pressing into my palm before I set it down on the small, unassuming wooden table. Mildred¡¯s hands didn¡¯t reach for it, though. Instead, she watched with an intensity that made the room feel smaller, as if the walls were creeping closer. Molly appeared, her movements silent, carrying a delicate porcelain cup on a platter, and I couldn¡¯t help but wonder if she had always been there, lurking in the corners of my perception.


    The cup was offered to me with a bow of her head, and then, like a shadow, she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of lavender in her wake. I held the cup, feeling the warmth radiate through the thin china, and glanced at the dark liquid swirling inside. Mildred¡¯s voice cut through the silence, sharp and unquestionable.


    ¡°Drink,¡± she said, the word a command cloaked in the illusion of suggestion.


    The aroma was foreign, earthy, and tinged with something almost metallic. My thoughts flickered to the familiar bitterness of coffee, the way it anchored me to reality, but this... this was different. Mildred¡¯s gaze pinned me down, and reluctantly, I lifted the cup to my lips. The liquid slid over my tongue, bitter and strange, with a warmth that unfurled through my chest and curled around my spine. I swallowed, and the sensation spread, a deceptive comfort settling into my bones.


    ¡°What is this?¡± The question slipped out before I could stop it, the unease bubbling up despite the drink¡¯s warmth.


    ¡°Protection,¡± she replied, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, as if that single word explained everything. ¡°It tells my Muse you¡¯re no threat. She¡¯s... possessive, you understand. Best not to tempt her wrath. Now, drink every drop. You¡¯ll need it.¡±


    The urgency in her voice propelled me to obey, and I drained the cup quickly, the last traces of the strange tea burning slightly as it went down.


    Mildred finally lifted the key from the table, her fingers curling around it with an almost reverent care. Her eyes closed, and the room changed with her, the air thickening as if charged with unseen energy. The lights flickered, then dimmed, casting long, wavering shadows that danced on the walls. The atmosphere grew heavy, oppressive, as though the very fabric of reality was bending under some ancient will.


    Mildred was no longer the frail woman sitting across from me. She became something more, something vast and unknowable, as if the darkness itself had been drawn to her, swirling around her like a living thing, alive with secrets and power.


    A voice not her own reverberated through the room, deep and resonant, and all that was became smaller.


    ¡°The key must never meet its twin, Long sealed, an ancient shadow sleeps within. Bound by lock and fate, the prison''s chains, A union¡¯s touch, and darkness reigns.¡±


    ¡°Oh great, a riddle,¡± I said, shaking my head.


    ¡°Silence!¡±


    Mildred crawled toward me, her face inches from mine. But the face no longer belonged to her; it had become something stranger, more wicked. Her eyes carried the weight of death, love, and an incomprehensible loss. She caught the scent of the tea on my breath and stepped back slightly before continuing, her breath carrying a stench as foul as death.


    ¡°All things change, the spirit sighs,


    Echoing with ancient, unending cries.


    The world tilts toward the void¡¯s embrace,


    Fissures in space, rifts in place.


    Time drips slowly, darkness draws near,


    A matter of moments before it¡¯s here.


    The abyss reaches back, a shadow wakes,


    As light falters, and last hope breaks.¡±

 40. A Little Grumpy ?

    <hr>


    The spirit¡¯s grip on Mildred loosened, and she slumped slightly before straightening up. The weight of the encounter seemed to settle heavily on her shoulders as she turned to face me, her expression solemn. My heart pounded against my chest, the frantic thump reverberating through my body, before dwindling back to its usual silence.


    ¡°Fat lot of good that was,¡± I muttered.


    A little pitchy, and it barely rhymed. Prophecies aren¡¯t what they used to be.


    Mildred gave me a flat stare before speaking again.


    ¡°Think you can do better, either of you? Feel like giving it a shot? I¡¯m sure the Muse would love...¡± She reached out toward me, fingers twitching theatrically.


    ¡°I concede.¡± I pulled back, hands up in surrender.


    Her eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary before she rolled them dramatically and shook her head with exaggerated disappointment.


    ¡°It seems, Jack, you¡¯re dealing with something the Muse cannot speak of plainly.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s that important, wouldn¡¯t it make more sense to come right out and say it?¡±


    ¡°Even the spirits are watched. Think of a riddle as a code, a way they can tell you what they aren¡¯t supposed to, reserved for matters too significant, too powerful, to be stated outright, lest they be censured.¡±


    ¡°Any idea what it means, aside from doom, doom, and more doom?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s between you and the Muse,¡± she said with finality.


    It seems she¡¯s implying an ancient demon is trying to breach this realm, Frank said.


    ¡°But full demons can¡¯t enter this realm,¡± I argued. ¡°Not ones with higher intelligence. They go mad and die.¡±


    ¡®All things change,¡¯ Jack.


    ¡°You need to be careful,¡± Mildred warned. ¡°The stakes are higher than you realize.¡± Her words lingered like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding.


    There was a long beat before anyone spoke again.


    ¡°You can stay here as long as you need,¡± she offered, her tone soft yet firm. ¡°But I have a feeling you¡¯ll want to leave soon. Perhaps not before enjoying a cup of coffee in the garden.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately, I can¡¯t really taste the stuff since¡­¡±


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    She waved off my protest with a dismissive glance toward the door. ¡°Yes, I think a cup of coffee will do you just fine. There¡¯s a good boy.¡± Her voice brooked no debate. ¡°I¡¯ve business to attend to, Molly will see to you. Off you go.¡±


    Right on cue, Molly slipped out from a shadowed door, guiding me through a labyrinth of corridors that seemed to twist under their own weight, until we reached a glass door that opened onto a garden path. The path wound and weaved like a serpent, each turn revealing a new corner of the estate¡¯s secretive splendor. It was as if Escher himself had a hand in designing this arboretum, a place where beauty and disorientation walked hand in hand.


    At last, we came to a secluded nook, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and an almost overpowering sense of life. Molly reappeared, as silently as before, a steaming cup in her hand. She placed it before me with a nod that said more than words could, and then she was gone¡ªvanishing into the verdant tangle, leaving me alone in a garden that pulsed with more life than most cities. More life than I had in me, that was certain.


    The garden hummed with aether, a soft, insistent pulse that wrapped everything in a gentle glow, just enough to wipe away the grime left by the rifts. The plants here were resilient, shrugging off the soot like a stray dog shaking off rain. They stood tall and proud in a riot of color so vibrant it nearly stung the eyes¡ªso much color in a world that had grown accustomed to shades of gray. The aether weaved through the leaves, an invisible melody that made the whole garden shimmer as if it were caught in the web of a half-remembered dream.


    But aether wasn¡¯t from the Otherworld¡ªno, it was something older, something that slipped through the cracks from a place we were better off not knowing. The whispers on the street corners told of Surges clawing their way up from the deep, and of aether drifting down from on high. Demons and angels, they murmured, relics of some ancient war that left its scars on the world. But I didn¡¯t buy it.


    Magic theories were for the deluded, and the damned demonologists and casters who thought they could actually handle whatever lurked out there in the dark. Play with that kind of fire, and you were likely to end up burned¡ªor worse, twisted into something unrecognizable or snuffed out like a candle in a storm front.


    Let the casters hoard their secrets, mess with their spells, and tinker with aether. Let them indulge in their reckless games of fire-starting, minotaur-tipping, spirit-summoning nonsense while the rest of us cleaned up their messes. If they weren¡¯t so damned keen on meddling with forces they couldn¡¯t control, we wouldn¡¯t be stuck with half the crap we were dealing with now.


    Me? I was just a zombie, with a bad headache and a week that wouldn¡¯t quit.


    Feeling a bit cranky, Jackipoo? Frank asked.


    Shut it, Frank.


    Molly reappeared a moment later, pressing a chipped mug of black coffee into my hands before I could protest. ¡°I really don¡¯t think I need a¡ª¡° I started, but Molly was already gone, lost to the tiny tropical jungle of a garden. I considered dumping it out, cutting my losses and heading on my way. But in Mildred¡¯s house, you learned fast: when she gave a direct order, no matter how illogical, you didn¡¯t argue.


    I eyed the cup begrudgingly, imagining the rich aroma I could no longer truly smell. Mildred was acting strange, but I knew better than to wonder aloud. Whatever strange cogs turned in her brilliant, chaotic mind was a mystery that even the gods would pay dearly to unravel.


    Lifting the cup to my lips, I tried to summon the taste of coffee¡ªthe faint bitterness, the dark edge. Even that small pleasure had all but vanished, leaving only an empty pantomime¡ªmuch like so many things in my life these days. I took a sip, hoping for a spark of flavor to ground me. Maybe I was getting moody, after all. But could you blame me?


    I took another sip, then let out a deep breath. There was something here, something grounding in the ritual, the simple act of lifting a cup and tasting its familiar warmth. For a fleeting moment, it made everything seem a touch more normal, as if the chaos around me had pulled back, giving me just one breath of calm.


    And then, peace shattered as a sharp crack split the quiet, my hand jerking as the cup exploded, sending porcelain and scalding liquid in a violent spray.

 41. Old Friends ?

    A figure stepped elegantly into the doorway, immaculate as if pulled straight from the glossy pages of a fashion magazine. The only flaw in his polished appearance was a slight limp, which he attempted to balance with a sleek black cane, its silver raven handle gleaming under the muted light. His sharp, chiseled features were framed by a pair of dark, watchful eyes that glinted with a dangerous mix of amusement and menace. Despite the limp, he exuded a suave charisma that commanded the space.


    He smirked. ¡°Miss me?¡±


    ¡°Kane,¡± I greeted him, straightening up, doing my best to bury the irritation gnawing at me. ¡°What brings you here?¡±


    Once something formidable, now a bureaucratic pawn for the Council. The menace hadn¡¯t entirely left him, though. He strode forward slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, but there was still a predator lurking behind those sharp eyes. A wolfish grin spread across his face, never quite reaching his gaze.


    ¡°Just business, Jack. And maybe to offer an old friend some advice.¡± He moved deeper into the garden, the limp in his step only adding to the unsettling edge of his presence. He took one good look at me and whistled. ¡°Devil¡¯s tits, Jack. You look worse than Sarge¡¯s soggy breakfast.¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°Still prettier than you. How¡¯s the bum knee?¡±


    He smirked. ¡°Gets me where I need to go. But honestly, what the hell happened? You look like you got in a bar fight with a blender.¡±


    I nodded and waved him on. ¡°Go ahead, get it out of your system.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen fresher stiffs in the morgue. Looks like Death dragged you halfway back and decided you weren¡¯t worth the trouble.¡±


    I nodded. ¡°That one¡¯s not too far off.¡±


    He squinted. ¡°You gonna spill or what?¡±


    ¡°Not if I can help it. Maybe another time.¡±


    He huffed, shaking his head. ¡°Sure, Jack.¡±


    There was a beat, a silent exchange, and for the briefest moment, I was reminded of what it used to be like¡­ before everything went to hell.


    His bravado slipped, and I caught a flicker of something raw¡ªwas it sorrow buried deep in those haunted eyes?


    ¡°Listen, Jack. I know I¡¯ve said it before, and I know it¡¯ll never be enough, but I¡¯m sorry. If I¡¯d had any idea¡ª¡°


    ¡°Cut it, Kane. That chapter¡¯s closed. No need to go opening old wounds.¡±


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    A sharp pang hit my chest¡ªa reminder that pain was still a privilege I hadn¡¯t lost.


    Kane and I met in the War. What we saw out there¡­ men have gone mad for less. War changes a man. Puts stone in your bones, ice in your blood and if you¡¯re not careful, it can leave you hollow, ready to die at a moment¡¯s notice. I was no exception. Plenty of good men came home already cracked under the pressure.


    But Kane got it¡ªwe shared the same scars and made it out with what humanity we had left. Afterward, we¡¯d opened shop together: Kane and Callaghan, Private Eyes. Back then, he was more than a friend. Probably the closest thing I had to a brother.


    It was one of his cases I¡¯d been running errands for, just a quick stop at the precinct¡­ when I lost everything. Everything. I wasn¡¯t even supposed to be working that day. That was before I¡¯d packed up my caster days, locked Frank away, and walked out on that life for good¡ªor so I¡¯d thought.


    We didn¡¯t speak for a long time after the incident. When we finally did, I learned he¡¯d joined the damned Midnight Council. The caster community¡¯s answer to control freaks¡ªunelected, power-hungry, with their fingers in every pie. They claimed they were here to protect Normies from Relic-ranked Artifacts, the kind that could level buildings, cause possessions, or worse. But now, they were involved in anything that so much as brushed against aether. They were the invisible hand behind every enchanted lock, every forbidden spell whispered in the dark.


    And I was certain they had their slimy fingers wrapped tight around McGuffey¡¯s corpse.


    Now, Kane¡¯s just a reminder of what I left behind¡ªand why. He stood before me then, a faded ghost of the hard-nosed bastard I once knew. Ol¡¯ Killer Kane.


    My sword and gun, both artifacts in their own right, lacked Council Permits, but Kane pretended not to notice. I¡¯d say he missed it, but he never missed a trick. They felt heavier on my hips.


    He nodded, and the veneer returned, the sadness in his eyes fading like a mirage, as fleeting and forgotten as a week-old dream.


    ¡°I¡¯ll skip the pleasantries, Jack. I know you hate them. Listen, you¡¯ve got yourself in deep, tangled up with the wrong people.¡±


    I chuckled, low and cold. ¡°Is that all? Here I thought you had something important to say.¡±


    Kane¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°You need to walk away from this case, Jack.¡±


    I brushed shards of the cup from my shirt, bits of broken porcelain catching in the fabric. My brow furrowed, a familiar weight settling in my gut.


    ¡°And why would I do that?¡±


    The charm drained from his face, replaced by a cold, unyielding glare. ¡°Because the Council¡¯s involved. That box you¡¯re chasing¡ªit¡¯s not just some trinket. It¡¯s royal magic, Jack. High-tier Relic rank. The kind of power that could tip the scales of the city.¡±


    ¡°All the more reason they shouldn¡¯t have their hands on it,¡± I said, keeping my voice low, steady.


    Kane exhaled, a slow, drawn-out sound that reminded me of the last drag off a cigarette. ¡°They don¡¯t know I¡¯m here, Jack. Consider this a courtesy. Once I walk out that door, the gloves come off.¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯m scared of you or your Council?¡±


    ¡°You should be. Only an idiot wouldn¡¯t be scared. And Jack, you¡¯re a stubborn bastard, but you¡¯re no idiot.¡±


    ¡°Sweet talk won¡¯t get you anywhere with me, Kane.¡±


    Kane grimaced, a flicker of anger tightening his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose. A heavy beat of silence hung between us before I shook my head, letting out a slow sigh as I pressed on.

 42. The Cost of Truth ?

    Night slid in slow, sneaking shadows through the garden, until all at once, the chill settled in¡ªa sudden, biting cold that clung to the bones.


    ¡°I can¡¯t back down,¡± I said. ¡°You know that. I¡¯m in too deep, seen too much to just walk away. I didn¡¯t go looking for this case, but it¡¯s mine now. Maybe it¡¯s a death sentence, but if I don¡¯t solve it, if I walk right now, do you really think that¡¯ll satisfy whoever¡¯s trying to bury the truth¡ªand me along with it?¡± I shook my head, resolve hardening. ¡°Tell the Council I still have the right, as a former cardholder.¡±


    ¡°You gave up that right a long time ago, Jack. Unless you¡¯re itching for the Recognition Trials again, don¡¯t kid yourself. I can set it up. The Council would love another chance to watch you squirm.¡±


    I shook my head, knowing he was calling my bluff. The trials would be a death sentence, and if I somehow crawled out alive, I¡¯d be right back under their boot. I¡¯d rather keep my cards close to the chest¡ªeven if I was holding the losing hand.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so. Besides, remind me¡ªwho exactly gave the Council the right to decide who gets to wield and who doesn¡¯t? I don¡¯t recall voting them in. Do you?¡±


    Kane¡¯s sigh was heavy with frustration, tinged with a flicker of reluctant admiration. ¡°Stubborn as ever. But get this¡ªthey¡¯re not playing around on this one. They¡¯ll erase you if you get in their way.¡±


    Anger surged through me, and before I knew it, I was grabbing his collar, yanking him close. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? The past few days have been hell. For all I know, it¡¯s them who put the hit out on me. Maybe it¡¯s time I sent them a message.¡±


    His eyes ignited, a molten gold as mana pulsed through him¡ªa caster gearing up for a brawl. He bared his teeth and his clothes rippled in a non-existent wind.


    ¡°You¡¯re a fool, Jack. A damn fool. But if it¡¯s a fight you want...¡±


    I braced for the storm, letting the feral edge creep in. My mouth twisted into a hungry snarl.


    The air thickened with tension, a palpable shift that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And then, something slithered across my skin, and I froze, sensing the danger before I saw it. Kane did the same.


    The lush greenery around us rustled, the once-peaceful garden now a coiled snake ready to strike. Mildred¡¯s home, usually a sanctuary, felt like a trap.


    I glanced down, catching sight of vines curling around our legs, tightening like nooses. Bright flowers, once innocent, now bristled with menace, their petals glistening with drops of green and black poison. A slender vine, tipped with a spike, hovered near my arm, poised to strike. Kane wasn¡¯t faring any better.


    Mildred stepped into the doorway to the garden, her presence like a calming breeze. The garden responded to her, the plants easing back slightly. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± she said, ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if you didn¡¯t test the patience of my home. It has a rather...unique way of handling conflicts.¡±


    Kane and I exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between us. In this place, under Mildred¡¯s watchful eye, any violence would be met with swift, lethal retribution from the very walls around us. The shattered cup was tolerated only because it wasn¡¯t intended to harm.


    His smile returned. He glanced around the garden as if searching for something unseen. ¡°Of course, Mildred. Just a friendly chat.¡±


    We both took a careful step back, the vines retracting, their poisonous quills withdrawing like disappointed serpents. Kane straightened his suit, brushing it off. My temper still simmered beneath the surface.


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    ¡°Listen, Jack.¡± Kane¡¯s voice softened, almost pleading. ¡°If you won¡¯t drop this case, at least be ready. If you get there before they do, they¡¯ll come after you. The Council doesn¡¯t play fair, and they don¡¯t like competition.¡±


    I nodded, his words settling in my gut like a stone. This wasn¡¯t just another job¡ªthis was war, and it had only just begun.


    ¡°I know that better than most.¡±


    I hated asking him for anything, but to hell with pride.


    ¡°Kane, one thing,¡± I said, my voice dropping. ¡°Did the Council cover up McGuffey? Demon attack? Rogue spell? What was it?¡±


    He just smiled, a thin, dangerous curve. ¡°Jack, you never did know when to shut up and let sleeping dogs lie. If I told you, I¡¯d have to kill you.¡±


    ¡°Promises, promises,¡± I replied, a half-smile tugging at my lips.


    He started to leave, then paused, his tone shifting abruptly. ¡°Oh, Jack, how¡¯s Cat? You two still on good terms?¡±


    The sudden shift threw me off balance. I hadn¡¯t spoken to ¡°Fat Cat¡± Catigan in ages, though his name had been cropping up more often than I¡¯d like. His criminal network was likely still thriving, still running the biggest underground casino in the city.


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I have,¡± I replied.


    Kane tipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned and limped out. My eyes followed him, my thoughts swirling like a brewing storm, caught between what was said and what was left unsaid.


    As Kane¡¯s footsteps faded into the mist, Mildred approached, her steps more careful but certain. Though her eyes were clouded, they found me with unsettling precision, a hint of a smirk pulling at her lined mouth.


    ¡°How was your coffee?¡±


    ¡°Bitter.¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°Risking more than your life on this, Jack,¡± she whispered, voice like smoke over embers. ¡°Tell me¡­ do you even know if you¡¯re holding a winning hand?¡±


    My jaw tightened as I met her white gaze, a grim smile tugging at my lips. ¡°Guess we¡¯ll see when the cards are turned up.¡±


    Mildred reached out and rested her hand gently on my arm, her touch both comforting and cautionary. ¡°You aren¡¯t in this game alone. You know that, right?¡± She plucked a cigarette from a pack, flicked the lighter with a practiced ease, and took a long, deliberate drag, the ember glowing like a devil¡¯s eye in the dim light.


    My eyes scanned the area, absorbing the vibrant colors and the soothing warmth radiating from the many plants. The contrast to the harsh world outside was striking, offering a brief respite. I allowed myself a moment to bask in that thought before nodding subtly to Mildred and turning toward the door.


    The soft click of the door closing behind me was the only sound as I stepped back into the shadows, leaving the sanctuary¡¯s embrace behind.


    ¡°Can I ask for one last favor?¡±


    ¡°Favors aren¡¯t my business, Jack,¡± she snapped, not even bothering to glance up from her cigarette.


    ¡°Then bill me,¡± I pressed, leaning in just enough to let her know I wasn¡¯t backing down.


    She gave me a long, hard look, like she was sizing up a carcass, then sighed, the kind that meant I was pushing my luck. But she nodded.


    ¡°You got a scry I could borrow?¡± I asked, keeping it light, like I was asking for a light.


    Her eyebrow quirked up. ¡°I thought you swore off Rift junk and the hocus-pocus.¡±


    ¡°Life¡¯s full of exceptions lately.¡±


    She studied me, eyes narrowing like she was reading the fine print on a bad deal. ¡°How far you looking to see?¡±


    ¡°Just the city,¡± I said, working to keep the edge out of my voice.


    Her gaze sharpened, and for a moment, it felt like she was peeling back my skin, layer by layer. ¡°You got a true name?¡±


    ¡°Partial,¡± I admitted, knowing it was enough to raise more questions, but she just gave a curt nod, dropping it like a stone in water.


    Minutes later, Molly was at the door, silent as a shadow, holding a flat wooden box. No chit-chat, no games¡ªjust business.


    I took the box, feeling its weight, and stepped out into the night, the air thick with the kind of tension that clings to your skin. I knew what was coming, and I didn¡¯t like it.

 43. Falling Angels ?

    That night, despite bone-deep exhaustion, the motel room felt like a cage. Rest wasn¡¯t going to happen, not with my mind uneasy and my skin itching for movement. I stepped out into the night, deciding that if I was going to be wide awake, I might as well get a head start. The scry board could wait. Bart was expecting me at a greasy little diner down the street¡ªa place that served caffeine by the bucket and let the shadows gather in the corners undisturbed. I¡¯d be there early, but better that than sitting alone, staring at a cracked ceiling.


    Bart was a paper-pusher at the precinct, an old contact of mine¡ªthe kind who¡¯d take a bribe of strong, black coffee over cash any day. He was a relic, one of the few good men left in a world fraying at the seams.


    The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, the city engulfed me in its cacophony. Streetlamps cast long, wavering shadows on the pavement, creating a patchwork of light and dark that shifted with every passing car and pedestrian. The sounds of traffic, distant construction, and snippets of conversation from passersby blended into a symphony of urban life¡ªvoices ranging from hushed whispers to raucous laughter.


    The night stretched endlessly, the kind that hung heavy with cigarette smoke, half-finished thoughts, and barely buried regrets. My boots scraped the pavement, the rhythm familiar, comforting even, until I rounded the corner and slammed face-first into chaos. Cameras, boom mics, and blinding lights filled the street, making it look like a vaudeville show and Hell had gotten drunk and birthed an ugly bastard child. Between me and the diner¡¯s flickering neon sign stood the real monstrosity¡ªmodern culture¡¯s worst offender: a film set sprawled across half the street, all forced glamour and clumsy spectacle.


    I sighed, pushing through the gawkers. Somewhere between the sweaty shoulder of a guy in a rugged, worn jacket¡ªthe kind magic-chasers wore when they craved just a taste of the unknown¡ªand the sticky cloud of perfume from some high-society dame, dressed to the nines for a peek at the magic she¡¯d never dare touch, I spotted him: the ¡°hunter.¡±


    His gear caught the lights, gleaming with a plastic shine that screamed for attention. He moved in these slow, deliberate arcs¡ªevery motion practiced, every smirk and grin dialed in for effect. It was too polished, too perfect. The kind of bright that never lasts, like a brand-new Cadillac that hadn¡¯t yet met a real city street.


    I stayed at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, amusement flickering somewhere beneath my irritation. The actor pranced and posed like a peacock, each movement a flare of theatrical nonsense. His clothes were pristine¡ªno blood stains, no stitched-up battle-worn armor¡ªand that hair, perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place. I almost felt bad for him. He had no idea what real demon hunting was like; the ugly, relentless survival it demanded. It wasn¡¯t just the fight, it was the aftermath¡ªthe exhaustion, the shrieking echo of the dead, the endless nights sitting alone in the dark with nothing but a bottle for company.


    Annoyance bubbled up, settling into something deeper. Demon hunting wasn¡¯t about grandeur or fame¡ªhell, it wasn¡¯t even about winning most days. It was about keeping people alive. It was about putting your ass between some helpless soul and a snarling, ancient terror. But to these kids, with their shiny gimmicks and Hollywoodland sparkle, it was all about fame, all about getting that one perfect shot for the highlight reel.


    I¡¯d hoped, maybe even prayed, that all this pomp and plastic would¡¯ve stayed caged in the City of Fallen Angels, way out west where it belonged. But like a stubborn rot, it crept in anyway, oozing through my city with a sick inevitability. It stained everything it touched, wrapping it all in the garish, glittering veneer of modern entertainment, like a desperate streetwalker trying to look like gold.


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    I thought back to the night I first died, how Jac and Jean had begged me to show them the truth¡ªhow real it could be. The kind of truth that didn¡¯t look good on a movie poster. The kind that tore you apart and left you crawling in the mud, praying for an end.


    The lights of the set flickered. It was like watching porn and calling it sex¡ªor staged wrestling and calling it a fight. A sick caricature of the real, dirty, painful thing. The truth was, if these people knew what it felt like to face a demon¡ªthe smell of sulfur, the cries that didn¡¯t stop when you woke up, the feeling of your own blood sticky on your hands¡ªthey wouldn¡¯t be standing here, wide-eyed and eager. They¡¯d be running, or hiding, or praying. And they¡¯d understand that the monsters didn¡¯t always come with horns and claws. Sometimes, the monsters were the memories that wouldn¡¯t let go.


    A contraption sprayed a fine mist of water over the set, a sad imitation of rain. If they¡¯d just waited another half hour, they could have had the real thing¡ªI was sure of it.


    ¡°Action!¡± a voice called, and the actors snapped back into their roles, like marionettes jerked upright by some invisible string. A young girl, maybe thirteen, clutching a tattered pulp magazine to her chest, stared at the scene with eyes full of wonder. The cover depicted a demon hunter in a torn trench coat, backlit by a stormy sky, with eyes burning bright against the darkness. He wielded a silver-edged blade, poised mid-strike against a monstrous, shadowy figure with curling horns and a wicked grin. The crimson letters of the magazine¡¯s title seemed almost to drip with blood. Her gaze softened the edges of my mood, just a little¡ªthat wide-eyed innocence that didn¡¯t yet know any better. She probably still believed in heroes, in knights who could sweep in and save the day, that a good guy with a shiny blade was all it took to keep the monsters in check. I almost envied her. Almost.


    I watched as the ¡°hunter¡± turned to his supposed prey, a shadowy figure who had stepped forward, menacing and hulking in the fake, eerie light. The ¡°victim¡± pleaded, voice cracking, a pathetic squeal that didn¡¯t carry the real edge of terror¡ªthe kind that made grown men forget how to breathe. The hunter sneered, drawing his prop blade with a flare, his muscles flexing under his neatly tailored costume.


    But it wasn¡¯t the fake victim I saw. It was a man I remembered from the War¡ªthe look in his eyes when he realized that we weren¡¯t going to make it. His voice, pleading, not for his life, but for me to remember him. To carry him forward, somehow, even when the darkness swallowed us whole. I blinked, the image fading back to the actor¡¯s dramatics. The real thing wasn¡¯t so clean. It wasn¡¯t so pretty. It wasn¡¯t something you could wrap up in a neat little package with a soundtrack and a happy ending.


    ¡°Cut!¡± The director¡¯s voice sliced through the tension, and just like that, the illusion shattered. The actors broke character, stretching, laughing, slapping each other¡¯s backs. The victim rubbed his neck, the hunter shook out his shoulders, and the cameras rolled back into place, the lights shifting to catch a close-up. It was all a game¡ªsomething to distract people from the truth of what was really out there.


    The crowd clapped politely, a few cheers breaking out as the actors reset. I looked at them, really looked. People with jobs to get back to, kids to pick up from school, bills they could barely pay. People who believed that someone else was out there, fighting the monsters, keeping the darkness at bay so they didn¡¯t have to. I used to believe that too, once. Believed that what I did mattered. Maybe it still did, but it was hard to tell, with all the noise, all the glamor that twisted the truth until it was unrecognizable.


    I pushed through, stepping out of the crowd, the diner¡¯s neon finally visible again, promising hot coffee and five minutes of peace. Behind me, the false hunter posed again, jaw clenched, eyes distant, trying to conjure up some sense of grit for the cameras. I almost laughed.

 44. Whats Left Behind ?

    The diner¡¯s neon sign sputtered and buzzed like an old drunk trying to remember the words to a familiar tune. ¡°Mabel¡¯s.¡± The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside, the noise too cheery for the grimy surroundings. The air was thick with burnt coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and enough grease to lube a tank¡ªa sharp, almost nostalgic smell that cut through the dullness that had taken over my senses since the change. Maybe the Nightstone had something to do with that. I wasn¡¯t about to start hoping.


    I scanned the room, my eyes catching the reflection of flickering neon in a streaked window. No sign of Bart yet. I moved further inside, the vinyl of the red booths creaking with the weight of ghosts as weary patrons shifted and settled. A couple in the corner murmured over a shared milkshake. A trucker at the counter hunched over his plate, the dull metal of his fork clinking against the ceramic like he was digging his way out of something. A waitress¡ªDana, according to her faded name tag¡ªgave me a polite smile that barely hid the exhaustion in her eyes.


    ¡°Anywhere you like, hon,¡± she said, and her voice was warm in that way that said she¡¯d seen it all¡ªmaybe more than she¡¯d wanted¡ªand didn¡¯t care enough to judge. I nodded and picked a booth in the corner, back to the wall. Old habits.


    Places like this had a kind of honesty that the rest of the world lacked. Here, you knew what you were getting. No pretense, no polished bullshit¡ªjust folks, raw and worn down, pretending that another cup of black sludge could hold the darkness at bay. I couldn¡¯t taste it anymore, but that didn¡¯t matter. The ritual did. I wrapped my hands around the chipped mug Dana brought, the heat trying its best to thaw fingers that were more memory than flesh.


    I closed my eyes, letting the clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation, the hiss and splutter of the coffee machine wash over me. Outside, the city was busy pretending¡ªheroes, villains, martyrs, monsters¡ªbut in here, it was just people. People keeping their heads down and trying to make it through another night. Maybe that was enough. Tonight, maybe that was all the heroics anyone could hope for.


    The door swung open with a lazy jangle, and Bart stepped in. I could spot him even without looking¡ªhe had that energy that seemed to fill a room a second before he entered it. He hadn¡¯t changed much. Maybe a little rounder around the edges, the kind of weight that comes when life slows down enough to let you catch your breath. His shirt was wrinkled, the tie more of an accessory than a commitment, hanging limp and defeated like it had spent all day losing a fight with gravity.


    Bart¡¯s eyes found mine, and for a second¡ªjust a second¡ªthere was something like hesitation. Then it was gone, replaced with the grin I remembered, weary but real. He walked over, his heavy footsteps muffled by the worn linoleum, and slid into the booth across from me with a groan.


    ¡°Jack,¡± he said, and the name felt heavier than it should, like he was testing it out, making sure it still fit.


    ¡°Bart,¡± I nodded back, trying not to smile, failing a little. He tossed a thin manila folder onto the table, the paper rustling against the sticky surface.


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    ¡°You¡¯re a lifesaver,¡± I said, my fingers brushing the folder¡ªbut not taking it just yet. It felt wrong to rush. Like there were dues to be paid before we could get to the business part.


    Bart snorted, his eyes already drifting towards the counter. ¡°Yeah, yeah. You and your damn cases.¡± He lifted a hand, signaling to Dana. ¡°How about a slice of that apple pie? Actually, make it two. And a coffee¡ªdecaf.¡± He glanced back at me, catching the raised eyebrow I shot him.


    ¡°Decaf? Really? Isn¡¯t the world fake enough as it is?¡±


    He shrugged, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. ¡°Old lady¡¯s got it in her head it¡¯s better for my heart.¡±


    ¡°Since when do you listen to anyone else?¡±


    ¡°Since I learned the value of having something solid to come back to,¡± he said, a flicker of something serious passing through his eyes before he brushed it off with a half-smile. He leaned back, stretching, and sighed. ¡°Besides, it ain¡¯t the caffeine I need tonight. Just the warmth. I¡¯m not burning the midnight oil as much these days. Some of us have to grow up, eventually.¡±


    I nodded, understanding. We sat in silence for a beat, the folder still between us like a barrier neither of us wanted to acknowledge. It was funny, in a way¡ªhow much unsaid crap could stack up in a decade, piling into mountains no one wanted to be the first to start climbing.


    ¡°Jack,¡± Bart said, softer this time, eyes flicking between the folder and me. ¡°You¡¯re not¡­ seriously getting back in, are you? It¡¯s a bad time to test those waters. Something¡¯s been stirring at the bottom lately¡ªsomething mean.¡±


    I tried a smile, but it fell flat before reaching my eyes. ¡°¡¯fraid so.¡±


    Bart¡¯s face hardened. ¡°Any way you can pull out before it sees you? You know how it goes. Once something in that darkness locks on, you¡¯re hooked.¡±


    I dragged the folder closer, feeling the chill settle into my bones. ¡°Too late for that, Bart. Way too late.¡±


    I tore open the envelope, taking a deep breath before flipping through the contents. Bart¡¯s voice came low from across the table.


    ¡°Mind telling me what I¡¯m sticking my neck out for, Jack?¡±


    The file was thin. Too thin. A record, some sparse notes, a few grainy photos of the house¡¯s exterior. An interview with the deceased¡¯s family. That was it. But what stood out wasn¡¯t what was there¡ªit was what wasn¡¯t. No photos of the crime scene itself. No details on the nature of the deaths. Just a hollow shell of information.


    ¡°Anyone from the Council been snooping around the files?¡± I asked, my voice careful.


    Bart leveled me with a hard stare. ¡°Jack, the Council¡¯s always around. One of their guys even has an official spot on the force now¡ªartifact oversight.¡±


    My gut twisted. Worse than I thought. The Council always had their fingers in things, but it had been a whispered conspiracy, shadows behind the curtain. Now they were stepping out into the light, making it official. That meant they were confident, that they had leverage they weren¡¯t afraid to flex.


    ¡°Anything else?¡± I pushed.


    Bart¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back. ¡°You first, Jack.¡± His expression was tight, guarded. He wasn¡¯t giving me everything, not yet. He wanted to know what kind of trouble he was diving into. Fair enough. I owed him at least that much.

 45. But Not Forgotten ?

    I exhaled, feeling the weight of the years behind me. ¡°You probably noticed, I¡¯m not quite myself these days.¡±


    Bart snorted, his lips curling into a grimace. ¡°No shit, Jack. For Satan¡¯s hairy back, you look like a damn corpse. I don¡¯t hear from you for over ten years, just¡ªpoof. Gone. Word was you were dead, or taking odd gigs as a low-level hunter. Same difference.¡± He shook his head, disgust mixing with the hurt. ¡°Then out of nowhere, I get a call, a favor, and here you are. You look and smell like the inside of my aunt¡¯s purse. You want answers? Start talking.¡±


    I raised my hands, placating. ¡°I get it.¡±


    ¡°No, Jack, I don¡¯t think you do.¡± His voice was tight, trembling with frustration. ¡°You always were thick-headed, but apparently not thick enough to stick around when things got tough. When left, you turned your back on everything¡ªon me, your friends, your family.¡±


    I tried to find the words, but nothing came. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I managed.


    He shook his head, his eyes dark and full of a pain that had been simmering for years. ¡°No, Jack, you don¡¯t get to be sorry. You get to be honest.¡± He was yelling by then, and the chatter in the diner fell silent, a few heads turning our way.


    He closed his eyes, taking a breath. When he looked at me again, his gaze had softened. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine what you were feeling, losing a daughter¡­ I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d have done any different. But, hell, Jack, you weren¡¯t alone. You didn¡¯t have to be alone.¡±


    A swell of pain rose in my chest, choking me. I looked away, jaw clenched tight, fighting the tears. Not that they¡¯d come¡ªmy undead state had long since dried up whatever was left in my tear ducts.


    I swallowed it all down¡ªthe hurt, the anger, the guilt. Bart was an asshole, but he was always a little bit right.


    I took a deep breath, let it out slow. ¡°Okay,¡± I said, quieter now. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± And then I began. I told him everything¡ªnot just the last few days, but the last few years. The whole damn story. Bart listened without interruption, just a nod here and there, his face softening as the tale wound on.


    How after Sarah died, I lost it. How I tore my life apart trying to find the bastard who¡¯d killed her, only to find him dead, bobbing in a lake, half-eaten by fish. There was no closure, no justice. Just emptiness. So I kept running, but there was nothing left to run toward. So I ran from everything¡ªmy life, my memories, my friends. From the man I used to be.


    The story spilled out, uneven and broken, looping back on itself, details tangling. But Bart never cut in, never tried to straighten it out. He just listened, and I realized I hadn¡¯t known how badly I needed that.


    When I finished, Bart nodded once. ¡°Okay,¡± he said.


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    That was all. Just one word. But somehow, it was enough. Something shifted in my chest, like a weight that was still there but no longer quite as crushing. I hated myself for that¡ªfor feeling even a sliver of relief. It felt like letting Sarah go, even just a little bit. And part of me would never forgive that.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t kill her.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I blinked, the shock twisting my gut. Bart¡¯s voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the noise of the diner like a knife.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t kill her, Jack. You know that, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Of course I fucking know that.¡± The disgust rose in my throat, mixing with anger. My hands clenched into fists. ¡°Who the hell do you think you are?¡±


    Bart leaned closer, his eyes never leaving mine, his words slower now, heavy with something deeper. ¡°Jack, listen to me. You didn¡¯t kill her.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± I snapped, the heat rising to my face. ¡°Shut the hell up about it.¡± My hand shot out, grabbing his collar, pulling him across the table. The diner blurred at the edges, all the noise fading into a low, dull hum.


    Bart didn¡¯t flinch. His hands shot up, gripping my arms, holding me steady. ¡°No, Jack. Really listen to me,¡± he said, his voice trembling, cracking. ¡°You didn¡¯t kill her. It wasn¡¯t your choice. It was evil, and it was wrong. Maybe you shouldn¡¯t have been working that day... maybe you wish it had been different... but, Jack, you didn¡¯t kill her.¡±


    I felt the tightness in my chest spread, my throat closing in around the words I wanted to spit at him. My whole body tensed, and I tried to look away, but Bart held me in place. His eyes were locked on mine, burning, his voice full of something that made my stomach lurch.


    ¡°Jack, look at me,¡± he insisted, his tone unwavering, pulling me from the dark recesses of my thoughts. ¡°You. Didn¡¯t. Kill her.¡±


    Something snapped. The dam I¡¯d built, that fortress of denial and guilt and hatred, cracked, then crumbled. Years of grief, every self-reproach, every sleepless night replaying those cursed moments, they all came crashing through. My vision blurred; my throat tightened until the first sob broke free. Tears, real tears this time¡ªnot the hollow kind that sat behind my eyes¡ªspilled over, ran down my cheeks, hot and relentless. And Bart pulled me across the table, into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around me, his embrace the only thing keeping me upright as my legs weakened, threatening to give.


    He whispered into my ear, his voice thick with the pain of an old friend who¡¯d carried too much for too long, ¡°It¡¯s not your burden to carry alone, Jack. It never was.¡±


    I let it all out¡ªthe tears, the agony, the years of guilt I had swallowed. I let them fall, burning, searing down my face, but feeling lighter, as if something inside me had finally loosened its grip. It wasn¡¯t my choice. It never had been. And for the first time, I let myself believe it¡ªeven if it was just a fraction of belief, it was something.


    Silence fell. The diner¡¯s low hum returned, but the world had narrowed to just us¡ªtwo men sitting in a booth, one crying, the other holding him up. I¡¯ll never forget what Bart did for me that night. It wasn¡¯t the words¡ªnot the insistence, not the logic¡ªit was his presence. It was the way he asked and then listened, with no judgment, just understanding. It was the fact that he gave me the space to finally say it aloud.


    I couldn¡¯t say how long I sat there, how long it took for the world to feel normal again¡ªhours, years, lifetimes? But eventually, it did. And when I returned from that strange place, he was there: the same old Bradley Linderman, waiting patiently with that gentle smile.


    I smiled back.


    We eased into small talk, not shallow, just a way to shift the mood, like easing into a warm, familiar rhythm.

 46. Paying the Bill ?

    ¡°So, Deadman, what¡¯s the play?¡±


    ¡°Figure out who¡¯s gunning for me, what foul play led to McGuffey¡¯s death, and who¡¯s pulling the strings. And hopefully, without dying¡ªagain.¡±


    He nodded, like he¡¯d made up his mind. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded photograph and tossed it my way. ¡°One photo got developed before the Council hushed it all up, ordered everything destroyed. But you know me.¡±


    ¡°Perks of working in the filing room,¡± I said, unfolding it.


    ¡°Thought it might come in handy. Was I right?¡±


    If I¡¯d eaten, I¡¯d have lost my lunch. The scene looked dredged up from the blackest corner of a nightmare¡ªa body split wide, flesh shredded from the inside out, like something monstrous had clawed its way free. Blood painted the walls, a dark stain that felt as permanent as the horror it left behind. Bits of skin, splinters of bone, and what might once have been organs were strewn across the ground, a grotesque kind of confetti.


    It was far too much body for one man. No, this was a dozen lives, at least. And if it made the news? They¡¯d be nameless, or maybe the kind with no one left to care. That narrowed down the options. Whatever had been trapped inside him hadn¡¯t just escaped; it had torn itself free with the fury of something starved and mad, ripping through every poor soul in its path.


    I felt the key in my pocket. You and your other half did this?


    Mabel returned with Bart¡¯s pie and cup of blasphemy.


    I turned back to Bart. ¡°Clear suicide, huh?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the official report. Got any idea why this warranted a Council hush-up?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m piecing it together, but there¡¯s too much guesswork. They¡¯re after something. Something he had, something that¡­ did that to him.¡± I felt the weight of the key in my pocket, heavier than it had any right to be.


    Bart nodded somberly and, with a calm I could barely fathom, took a bite of his pie. I stared at him, incredulous.


    ¡°What?¡± he mumbled through a mouthful.


    I shook my head. ¡°So, what else can you tell me about McGuffey?¡±


    ¡°Not much. Just what¡¯s in the file.¡±


    I read it over again, feeling that gnawing sense that I was overlooking something¡ªsomething obvious, staring me right in the face. I flipped to the interviews. ¡°We did the usual, talked to all his closest living relatives. Didn¡¯t take long; not many of them left.¡±


    Bart¡¯s eyes held a hint of sympathy, but I could see his wheels turning too. He took another bite of pie, speaking as he chewed. ¡°The man¡¯s wife was estranged. Left him a few months before he... well, you know. Makes sense, right? Man loses his wife, decides dive into dark magic, maybe try and get her back.¡±


    ¡°Did they interview her?¡±


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    ¡°Yeah, but nothing interesting. She left him over his gambling. Her address is in the file.¡±


    I nodded, leaning in. ¡°Anything else? Any incidents? Criminal connections?¡±


    Bart shrugged. ¡°He was a collector, but nothing unusual¡ªnothing more illegal than any other rich guy with more money than sense.¡±


    I sighed, glancing at the files again. ¡°I appreciate this, Bart.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mention it, Jack. Just make sure whatever you¡¯re digging up doesn¡¯t come back to haunt me.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± I replied with a smirk.


    Bart took another slow bite of his pie, chewing thoughtfully.


    I shook my head, flipping through the photos again.


    ¡°You know what bothers me?¡± Bart¡¯s tone shifted, catching me off guard. I blinked, trying to keep up with the sudden depth in his voice.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°What do you think it¡¯s like to be the poor schmuck who has to clean up after something like this?¡± he asked, voice low, eyes distant, like he was envisioning mop buckets and industrial-grade bleach.


    I frowned. ¡°What the hell are you talking about, Bart?¡±


    ¡°I mean, think about it. It''s a thankless job. Imagine it was some elaborate demon-rigged suicide, just for argument''s sake. Guy sets it up, kaboom. Someone''s gotta come in and deal with¡­ well, whatever¡¯s left.¡± He shook his head, mock horror on his face. ¡°I¡¯d at least leave a tip for the cleanup crew.¡±


    As Mabel passed by with a fresh pot of coffee, she shot Bart a raised eyebrow, clearly deciding we weren¡¯t worth interrupting just yet.


    ¡°Look, even if you¡¯re pissed off enough to go out with a bang, you still tip the waitress, right?¡± Bart continued.


    I snorted. ¡°Yeah, but how would they know if the service was any good?¡±


    ¡°Fair point,¡± Bart said, nodding thoughtfully. ¡°Fair point. But, it''s just rude you know. I suppose the family could always leave a tip."


    Then it hit me, like a punch I should¡¯ve seen coming. It wasn¡¯t in the file, nothing buried in the interviews, no missed detail hiding between the lines. No, it was the absence¡ªsomething, rather someone missing, a shadow-shaped gap in the story. For hell''s sake. How I hadn''t spotted it before was beyond me. A rookie mistake, one that left me feeling colder than the fresh rain drizzling down in icy sheets outside.


    But I couldn''t act on it yet, I needed to firm up the theory, because if I was wrong¡­


    The diner hummed with the low murmur of quiet conversations, the soft clink of cutlery, and the sizzle of grease on the grill. I leaned back, letting the sounds wash over me as I ran the idea through my mind, over and over, replaying the past few days like a tape with a bad rewind.


    ¡°I know that look,¡± Bart said, eyeing me over his pointless coffee. ¡°You¡¯ve got something.¡±


    ¡°Not just yet,¡± I murmured, tapping my fingers against the table. ¡°But maybe.¡±


    Before I could chew on it any further, my thoughts shattered.


    The diner¡¯s front door exploded open with a bone-rattling crash, cutting through the low hum of conversation. Two armed men stormed in, their eyes scanning the room, and the air thickened with a tense, electric silence as every patron froze, breaths held.


    The first figure, a gremlin-touched Hexborn, bore a sickly pallor, his skin gleaming with an unsettling, oily sheen that caught the dim diner lights in all the wrong ways. His fingers were unnaturally long, tapered like talons, with blackened nails that looked charred, as though burned down to some twisted point. Beside him, his partner¡ªa wiry man whose twitchy movements radiated nervous energy¡ªshifted and jittered, his gaunt frame wracked by paranoid tics.


    His eyes darted around the room, never settling on one spot for more than a heartbeat, a man looking for threats in every shadow. He was clearly amped up on Surge-Spice or whatever else the junkies were riding these days. Truth was, I didn¡¯t even know what the addicts were hooked on anymore. The street cocktail changed faster than I could keep track¡ªnew poisons hitting the veins every week, each one nastier than the last.

 47. Desperation ?

    The Hexborn brandished a gun, its muzzle sweeping across the room in threatening arcs. ¡°Everybody down! Now!¡± he shrieked, his voice unnervingly high-pitched, sending a wave of fear through the diner¡¯s patrons.


    Suddenly, the human convulsed, his form blurring into something inhuman and terrifying¡ªhadn''t seen Spice do that before. Its eyes glowed with a sickly light as it lunged forward, fangs dripping venom. Devil Kissed, no doubt¡ªmade some desperate deal and now paying the price in blood and shadow. You almost had to pity these guys, selling their souls for a hit of power they¡¯d never fully control. My heart pounded as I watched them lunge at the couple that were sharing a shake earlier in the night. In an instant, the diner¡¯s calm shattered, peace spiraling into chaos as tables overturned and screams filled the air.


    The gremlin¡¯s eyes flickered with uncertainty. ¡°Alright, everybody¡ªwallets out! Put them on the table. Rings, jewelry, everything. My friend here will be collecting.¡±


    The Devil Kissed goon lurched over to the cute couple who¡¯d shared a milkshake earlier. They shrieked, fumbling out their wallets, but he wasn¡¯t satisfied. He pointed at the woman¡¯s engagement ring, fingers twitching with impatience.


    ¡°P-please, it was my mother¡¯s,¡± she pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to sound confident despite the faint stutter.


    ¡°P-p-pleeease,¡± he mocked. ¡°Hand it over!¡±


    Inside me, I felt the familiar surge of heat as Frank stirred, his voice whispering in my mind, dark and eager. Shall we?


    ¡°Let¡¯s try not to kill them unless we have to,¡± I muttered under my breath.


    Boring, Frank shot back.


    The gremlin-touched thug¡¯s sneer deepened as he swung his gun my way. ¡°Got something to say, old man?¡±


    Bart didn¡¯t even flinch, just shook his head and took another unbothered bite of pie.


    I stood up slowly, stepping toward the gremlin, my gaze hard as stone. ¡°Stay back! I¡¯ll shoot!¡± His voice cracked, hands shaking, but I had his attention now. The Devil Kissed was focused on me too, both of them running on bravado and adrenaline.


    I took another deliberate step forward, my voice low, lethal. ¡°You don¡¯t want to do that. Pick a different night. It¡¯s been a long few days.¡±


    Desperation twisted into rage in the gremlin¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you, you f-f-freak!¡±


    Please, Frank murmured, his eagerness simmering.


    Fine.


    Finally, Frank scoffed. Thought I¡¯d have to listen to you two jabber all night.


    Adrenaline surged, my heart racing as Frank¡¯s dark excitement thrummed in my mind. I saw the Hexborn¡¯s finger twitch on the trigger and moved, sidestepping as a shot tore through the air, splintering the wooden table near Bart, who didn¡¯t so much as blink, busy with his second slice of pie.


    In a blur of motion, I closed the distance, twisting the gun from the gremlin¡¯s grip with a practiced ease. I turned it on the Devil Kissed, who whipped out a knife, eyes wide with shock. The shot echoed, the bullet ripping through his hand and sending the blade clattering to the floor.


    He howled, clutching his mangled hand. I glanced at the gun, then back at the gremlin, a smirk tugging at my lips. ¡°Think I¡¯ll keep this.¡±


    Unfazed, Bart took another bite of his pie. ¡°That was entertaining.¡±


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    The diner fell into a hushed silence, the air thick with the aftermath of violence and the scent of fear. I stood in the midst of it all, my body tense, eyes sharp, surveying the scene. Broken tables and chairs littered the floor, evidence of the intense struggle that had just taken place.


    The demon lay subdued on the ground, its twisted form now reduced to a pathetic, weakened state. The gremlin was pinned and disarmed, sweat glistening on his face as he struggled against his restraints. The patrons slowly began to breathe again, their terror fading but still lingering in the air.


    As the immediate danger passed and the room settled into silence, I took a deep breath to steady myself. I glanced at the subdued demon, feeling a mix of triumph and pity for its diminished state.


    ¡°Well,¡± Bart grumbled, pushing himself up from the creaky diner seat. ¡°Guess it¡¯s time to haul these idiots back to the station. You mind giving me a hand with this one?¡± With a practiced flick, he snapped cuffs around the troublemakers, linking them together like some twisted chain gang. We steered them out to Bart¡¯s battered patrol car, its dark frame glinting under the neon glow of the city lights.


    ¡°Thanks for the pie, Jack. Always a pleasure,¡± Bart said, sliding into the driver¡¯s seat with that gruff nod of his.


    We shared a moment, unspoken words hanging in the air like smoke. Then he nodded again.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be a stranger, eh?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do my best,¡± I replied, giving him a wry smile before tapping a hand on his card. The engine roared to life, and the car peeled away, leaving a cloud of dust and the faint scent of cherry pie lingering in the air.


    As I turned back, the neon signs cast jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. Standing there was a woman with piercing emerald eyes, fixed on me with a mix of curiosity and¡­ something else¡ªadmiration, maybe. She had that bookish, stern air of someone who¡¯d stepped out of a library and found herself lost in the gritty night. I remembered catching sight of her earlier, scribbling in a tiny black notebook in the corner of the diner.


    She stepped forward, her short, fiery red hair catching the neon glow, and extended a hand with a small card that glinted in the dim light. Her blazer was fitted, stylishly paired with a vintage band tee and dark jeans tucked into heeled ankle boots. She looked polished but just edgy enough to pull off midnight encounters in alleys.


    ¡°That was incredible,¡± she said, voice brimming with enthusiasm. ¡°Absolutely marvelous!¡±


    I took the card, barely getting a word in before she launched into her pitch. ¡°I work in Hollywoodland. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard of Demon Hunters, the Real Deal?¡±


    I tried not to grimace. ¡°The pulps?¡±


    ¡°One and the same! But it¡¯s so much more than pulps now¡ªwe¡¯re up to eighteen episodes.¡±


    I stared, and she must¡¯ve figured I was too out of touch to know about the latest gadgets, because she added, ¡°You know, on SpectraVision¡ªenchanted little box everyone¡¯s raving about. It''s like going to the cinema, but at home.¡±


    She looked at me expectantly.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware of it,¡± I said.


    She carried on, unfazed. ¡°Anyway, there¡¯s a whole line of toys and clothing on the way too. You must have seen Demon Hunters by now. An episode? One of the films? You¡¯d have to be living under a rock to miss it!¡± She paused, evidently waiting for a response.


    ¡°Would have to be,¡± I replied flatly.


    I didn¡¯t have a Spectra at home, but I knew of the series. Unfortunately.


    Her smile practically glowed with confidence and charm, the kind of look that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted. She leaned in, her eyes bright and undeterred. ¡°Listen, what just happened back there¡ªthat was the real deal. Ever thought about selling your stories? You could make a tidy fortune with the right buyer.¡± The edges of her card shimmered faintly: Felicity Night, Talent Scout.


    ¡°I¡¯d have to be pretty desperate,¡± I replied.


    She didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Of course, of course. But think it over. Call me sometime.¡± She tapped the card with a long painted fingernail, that smile never faltering. She gave me a quick once over, and a question flickered behind her eyes¡ªa question that she too polite to ask.


    ¡°Do call,¡± she repeated, her voice honeyed with charm. And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the night, the sharp click of her heels echoing down the sidewalk.


    I looked at the card and chuckled softly. What kind of sellout did she take me for? Me, hawking my life¡¯s work to the greediest vampires in Fallen Angels just for a quick buck? Besides, who¡¯d watch something about me? What would they even call it¡ªWashed-Up Wonders? Halfway to Hell? Who wants to read about a dead guy¡­ well, mostly dead, anyway.


    I¡¯d need to be desperate. And I mean really desperate. I shook my head, pocketing the card before heading back to the motel.

 48. Whats in a Name ?

    I stared at the clock beside my motel bed¡ªa twisted contraption of tarnished brass and iron, gears whirring behind a glass face etched with arcane symbols that pulsed faintly with a dark, hungry glow. In the center, thick red sand drifted downward, pooling at the base until it caught in a low, blue flame that flickered, dancing against the metal casing. As the sand burned away into wisps of smoke, it spiraled up through narrow brass tubes, cooling and reforming grain by grain at the top before beginning its descent again. Each cycle marked an hour, ticking off time in a slow, relentless rhythm, like the beating of some infernal heart.


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    They stopped selling these cheap artifacts years ago¡ªsomething about the fumes leaking out and making people sick. But I wasn¡¯t too worried. Perks of being dead, I figured. Not that I was eager to test just how immune I was to disease, but it¡¯s not like anyone hands you a manual when you claw your way back from the other side.


    When the clock ticked down to fifteen minutes before midnight, I got up. The witching hour was close¡ªthe perfect time to meddle with things better left untouched. Sleep hadn¡¯t been calling much lately, anyway; something about the night felt more inviting than any dream ever could.


    I slid the scry board out of its box, laying it carefully on the creaking bed. The board was carved from dark, polished wood that had long since dulled, edges worn smooth from years of use. Faint etchings spiraled across its surface¡ªsigils, cryptic runes, and strange geometric patterns that caught the dim light just so, almost as if they moved. At each corner, tarnished brass inlays anchored the board, forming small, clawed feet that lifted it slightly above the bedspread. The center held a single, smoky quartz orb embedded in the wood, a cloudy eye that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light, flickering like something alive. The whole thing carried a faint scent of old parchment and burnt incense, with an edge of something metallic, like blood or rust.


    Names are funny things¡ªboth anchors and traps. A true name could bind someone to you, unravel them if you knew how to use it right. I had a piece of Catigan¡¯s, enough to track him. Not enough to control him¡ªthough that was never my goal. It was just enough to find him, to get close. And that was all I needed.


    Back when we were knee-deep in a turf war, some out-of-town thug tried muscling in on the West Side. Cat and I took care of him, but it got messy. Blood and betrayal always made things messy. Cat ended up bleeding out in an alley, and I wasn¡¯t about to let him die¡ªnot without getting what I needed first. In desperation, he gave me part of his name. Only half, but enough to pull him back from the edge. In return, I gave him half of mine. That¡¯s how it worked¡ªyou either trusted the other person or were ready to kill them.


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    He¡¯d have been able to track me too if it weren¡¯t for Frank cloaking our aetheric trail. Another of Frank''s many benefits¡ªdamn good friend to have when you needed to disappear.


    I focused on that half-name then, letting it roll around in my mind. It wasn¡¯t a sound or a word¡ªit was a feeling, like cold metal scraping across my nerves. I let it settle, feeling the weight of it as I set the crystal swinging over the wooden map. It trembled, quivering on its string, before finally hovering over a spot in the warehouse district. Figures.


    Frank¡¯s voice drifted into my thoughts, a cold tickle at the base of my skull. Scrying, Jack? Really? What¡¯s next, a s¨¦ance? Maybe summon a few demons to spice up the evening. What would your parents think?


    ¡°Shut it, Frank,¡± I muttered, though I couldn¡¯t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. Frank¡¯s sarcasm was as reliable as the sun rising, and sometimes just as irritating.


    I strapped on my gear¡ªsword, gun, extra rounds. The weight of it settled across my body like a second skin, familiar, grounding. The city was quiet, unsettlingly so, as I stepped out into the night. The air clung to me with the promise of rain. Shadows stretched longer than they should, thick with secrets. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like something was watching, just out of sight. Something waiting.


    I moved toward the warehouse district, my steps light and almost soundless. Frank¡¯s presence kept my movements sharp, a subtle push that guided me through the darker alleys and narrow streets. Catigan was a rat, but he¡¯d always been a predictable one. Or so I thought. The way his men were moving that night, skittish like something bigger was lurking just out of sight, it was clear even Catigan had lost control.


    The warehouse loomed ahead, an industrial relic on the edge of town, skeletal against the fog-heavy sky. Its corrugated metal walls were rusted and crumbling, as if the building itself had forgotten it still stood. The air tasted of metal and old rain, clinging to the back of my throat. I approached cautiously, my footsteps silent on the gravel path, eyes scanning for signs of movement.


    I was good at this¡ªstaying unseen, blending into the forgotten corners of the world. The warehouse stretched wide, big enough to hide whatever shady dealings were about to go down. The perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. No lights on the outside, just a few cracks in the windows where faint streaks of moonlight spilled through. The hum of the city was distant, muffled. The pulse of danger grew in my gut, a slow, steady drumbeat that echoed louder with every step.

 49. Scaredy-Cat ?

    I reached the side of the building and started climbing, fingers clawing into the weathered brick, the jagged metal bars jutting out like the ribs of some long-forgotten beast. Each pull scraped against old scars, my body moving with a rhythm worn into muscle and bone. The wind sliced past, sharp and cold. The climb felt almost¡­ manageable. My gut and knees still groaned like warped floorboards, but the wall seemed just a shade kinder than it had at McGuffey¡¯s estate. Maybe the Nightstone was working¡ªor maybe it was just a trick of the mind, pushing me to the top.


    It would¡¯ve been easier if Frank were inclined to lend a hand¡ªnot that I¡¯d ask, even if he was. Having him twist through my skin as well as my mind was something I preferred to avoid, when possible. I didn''t mind as much in short bursts, heightening a sense here or there, but it always left something off¡ªa creeping wrongness that lingered too long, unsettling in ways I couldn''t fully describe.


    Every time I let him in, it felt like I was sliding into the backseat, a sliver of me folded back, nudged aside to make room. Frank was a friend¡ªsomeone I could count on in a scrap, but not the kind of friend you¡¯d trust with total control. There was a coldness in his presence, a quiet hunger that pressed in like winter air, sharp and unyielding. Which is why I tried to ask him for only the bare minimum¡ªa sharpened sense, a hint of instinct, just enough to edge through the cracks and get out clean.


    But a quiet dread coiled beneath it all, a sense that one day he might decide not to give the wheel back, leaving me clawing for a grip in my own skin while he settled comfortably into the driver¡¯s seat¡ªfor good. I knew my fears were unfounded. Frank was loyal in his own way, tethered by threads of trust we¡¯d woven over years of hard choices and close calls. It felt wrong to distrust him after all we''d been through. But still... every time he took control, there was that half-second pause, a flicker of hesitation before he handed it back¡ªa reminder that maybe, just maybe, he¡¯d grow too comfortable with the view to let go.


    When I reached the window, my fingers aching from the climb, I paused, taking in the scene below. The dim light inside made the warehouse look more like a tomb than a storage space. A few jagged metal beams pierced through the shattered roof, but it wasn¡¯t the fractured light slicing through the gloom that caught my attention¡ªit was the car. Black as sin, it sat idling in the center of the warehouse, its engine purring low, driver waiting inside.


    And beside it, a figure that swallowed the darkness around him¡ªCatigan. A wall of muscle and malice. Cat''s face bristled with whiskers, the kind that belonged to a ghost of the Old West¡ªa mustache thick and coiled, like barbed wire lying in wait. He stood there like stone, broad and unyielding, his bulk less a threat than an inevitability. Power rippled off him, thick and tangible, but it wasn¡¯t his size that made your stomach knot¡ªit was the stillness. The kind of quiet that only a predator with no need to snarl could muster, every breath measured, patient.


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    That mustache might¡¯ve lent him an absurd softness, almost laughable, if not for his eyes¡ªglacial and pitiless, the kind that weighed your worth and found you lacking. Eyes that already knew the dimensions of your casket.


    There were no guards in sight. Something about that twisted my gut. Guys like Catigan didn¡¯t run solo. Not here, not in this town.


    He was talking to the driver, who sat motionless inside, the window barely cracked¡ªjust enough to keep their conversation private; or so they thought. With a thought, I asked Frank for an audio boost, and I felt his tendrils creep into my eardrums, a subtle pressure that tightened before my hearing sharpened, the distant murmurs below pulling into focus. I could catch Cat''s side of the conversation, but the driver''s voice was too muffled to decipher.


    ¡°...tightening around my neck,¡± Catigan muttered, voice like gravel caught in a garbage disposal. ¡°They promised big, but all we''re getting is a noose.¡±


    A low, chilling laugh slithered out of him, the kind that felt like it had been honed to a blade''s edge. ¡°I¡¯m no fool,¡± he said, the menace behind his words slicing through the night. The driver murmured something back, too soft to catch, but it made Catigan smile¡ªa twisted, dark thing that didn''t bother reaching his eyes.


    ¡°You think I¡¯d just let those bastards drag me into their freak show without a safety net? Please.¡± He paused, eyes flickering with a cold spark, something dangerous. ¡°I always know when I¡¯m being played. Makes me wonder if our friend does.¡±


    He laughed again, deeper this time, with a jagged edge that left something hanging in the air. The driver said something, and Catigan¡¯s expression shifted¡ªeyes narrowing, jaw setting, the smile gone like it had never been there. ¡°Exactly, old friend. Their type never sees it coming.¡±


    He straightened, shrugging off whatever tension had been creeping up his spine. ¡°Did he really think we¡¯d just hand it over?¡± He scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off a weight. ¡°Think we wouldn¡¯t do our own digging before bringing back something like that?¡± His tone turned sharp, and he spat the words like a bitter taste he couldn¡¯t swallow. ¡°I¡¯ve done things for them. Things that stick to me, you know? But I¡¯m sick of living under someone¡¯s thumb.¡±


    Catigan leaned in closer to the driver, his voice dropping, eyes distant like he was already a few moves ahead on the board. ¡°Cost us a lot of men. Too many dead just trying to wrench that damn box out of some poor fool''s hands. Idiot didn¡¯t even know what he had, or how to use it. Now, we have the Council sniffing around our backside like a dog in heat.¡±


    He paused, a dark gleam flickering in his gaze. He glanced around, eyes sweeping the darkened corners, making sure no shadows had grown ears before he continued¡ªbut he missed me. I stayed tucked away in the gloom, a breath in the dark, watching as his confidence smothered his caution. ¡°All we need now is that damned key. Jack¡¯s slippery, sure¡ªbut he¡¯s predictable. He¡¯ll come.¡±


    Catigan¡¯s voice lowered, savoring each word like it was the finest drink in the world, something worth rolling around on his tongue. ¡°Once we get that box open¡­¡± His grin twisted, a wicker smile that spoke of things better left hidden. ¡°Even our little taskmasters will be begging at my boot.¡±

 50. Mr. Silhouette ?

    I crouched low as headlights swept across the warehouse, pressing myself flat against the wall, my breath held tight. A limo glided in, its engine still growling, echoing through the hollow space¡ªlike it was choking on something dark and unnatural.


    I squeezed through the window, landing silently on a large metal support beam high above the floor. It was just large enough to block me from view. From there, the whole warehouse was laid out like a stage. Catigan stood straight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like a caged bear.


    Something¡¯s off, Frank murmured in my mind, his voice a low thrum.


    The air shifted, a low, unsettling hum filling the warehouse as another car glided in. Sleek, obsidian, and silent, the limo slid up beside Catigan¡¯s car, its glossy surface reflecting the warehouse¡¯s grim lighting like a smear of oil across glass. The door clicked open, and a figure emerged, their silhouette looming tall and unearthly, barely visible in the dim haze of the warehouse lights.


    I didn¡¯t even need Frank to know something was wrong. The very air seemed to warp around them, like reality itself was trying to push them away, to reject their presence. The sensation hit me deep, a chill spreading under my skin that made every hair stand on end.


    Feel that? I asked Frank, my voice tentative in my mind, though I already knew the answer.


    I don¡¯t like it, Jack. There¡¯s¡­ something wrong with that one, Frank replied, his voice weaker than usual, distant.


    The figure moved with a grace that was too smooth, almost like they were gliding, their steps making no sound as they approached Catigan. I couldn¡¯t see their face clearly, but I could feel their presence¡ªsharp, electric, and heavy, like the charged air before a lightning strike. Catigan, for all his bravado, shrunk in their shadow, his usual swagger muted.


    They started talking, voices low, nearly swallowed by the distance. The figure¡¯s tone was ice-cold, surgical, while Catigan¡¯s held the edge of frustration, his body language rigid. I stayed perfectly still, balanced precariously on the overhead beam, straining to hear them. Their words were almost beyond my reach, slipping between the echoes of the cavernous warehouse.


    Could use a boost, Frank, I thought, opening up our connection a little wider, letting him in further.


    There was a hesitation, a pause that felt longer than usual, and then Frank complied. I felt his energy seep into my veins, and the familiar boost sharpened my senses, my vision brightening, the shadows darkening, everything snapping into sharp focus. The murmur of voices below became clearer, the rustle of Catigan¡¯s coat, the soft purr of the limo¡¯s engine¡ªit all rose up to me, like someone had turned the dial up on reality.


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    But then it hit me.


    A wave of nausea, a sickening twist in my gut, rolled over me so hard it nearly knocked me off the beam. My vision blurred, the warehouse distorting as if I were looking at it through a warped lens. I bent and held onto the beam but it felt like it was swaying, the metal turning treacherous and unreliable. I gripped it harder, my fingers digging into the cold steel.


    Frank¡ªThe thought barely formed before I felt him waver, his presence in my mind flickering like a failing lightbulb.


    I¡­ I don¡¯t know what this is, Frank¡¯s voice was sluggish, his usual sharp edge gone, like he was drowning. I.¡­ I¡­ I¡­


    My vision tilted, the entire warehouse spinning, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. My grip on the beam slipped, and I scrambled, fingers scrabbling at the rough metal, my legs flailing to hook onto something. For a terrifying second, I was weightless, the air rushing around me, my stomach lurching as I fell. My hand shot out on instinct, fingers barely grazing the edge of the beam before catching hold. The impact was jarring, pain lancing up my arm as my other hand flailed wildly, searching for something solid.


    The ground beneath me seemed to pull, a heavy gravity that dragged at my limbs, a yawning abyss waiting below.


    Frank! I pushed mentally, trying to pull him back, to steady myself, but it was like he was slipping through my fingers. I could feel his fear echoing in me, an amplification of my own growing panic.


    I hung there, my breath caught in my throat, my body swaying. I glanced down, the warehouse floor stretching out below, cold and unforgiving. No one seemed to notice. The hum of the limo¡¯s engine, the distant murmur of conversation¡ªthey masked the frantic rasp of my breathing, the struggle of my body against the beam.


    My legs flailed, my body hanging like dead weight, and a quiet grunt tore from my throat, teeth gritted against the strain. Every muscle screamed in protest as I swung my free hand up, fingers clawing for purchase, until they finally caught the beam. The metal was slick with sweat, my grip shaky, but I managed to latch on with both hands. My breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, my chest heaving as I fought against the weight of gravity and the raw, biting pain that rippled through me.


    Below, Catigan and the figure were still talking, oblivious to my near fall. Silhouette remained composed, Catigan a mix of annoyance and unease. I tried to listen, but the connection with Frank had frayed, the boost gone, my senses dulled. I could still hear, but not with the same sharpness. My edge was gone.


    Frank, help.


    His reply was a distant , distorted groan. I¡¯m trying, Jack¡­ I...


    Suddenly, flashes erupted in my mind¡ªhorrific, disjointed images. Bodies, twisted and mangled, faces frozen in agony. A nightmare unfolding under a swirling, kaleidoscopic sky that bled colors I had no name for, shapes warping and shifting like reality itself was fracturing.


    I forced the panic down, swallowing it like bile. Whatever was happening, whatever was affecting Frank, was unlike anything we¡¯d faced before. I could feel it in my bones¡ªan unnatural pressure, a dark, pulling force radiating from the figure below. It was as if the very air had turned hostile, thick and suffocating, each breath a struggle against something unseen.

 51. Sharp Edges ?

    Slowly, with every ounce of willpower, I hauled myself onto the beam, managing to hook one leg over, then the other. My body shook with the effort, but inch by inch, I pulled myself up until I was straddling the metal. I flattened myself against it, pressing my chest to the cold steel, my nerves buzzing, every muscle coiled tight, waiting for the next shift, the next tremor that might send me plunging down.


    It was a small miracle that no one looked up or heard me. I could hardly believe it myself. But when I glanced over the edge, they were still deep in conversation, oblivious to my near fall. For once, I was grateful for the steady hum of their engines masking my struggle.


    The shadows clung to me, the beam barely wide enough to hide my frame. The dizziness lingered, my vision still hazy around the edges, but at least I wasn¡¯t dangling over empty space anymore. I shifted slightly, forcing myself to stay steady, taking slow, shallow breaths as I strained to catch the tail end of their conversation.


    I couldn¡¯t afford to lose focus. Not here, not now. The figure below was dangerous¡ªdangerous in a way that defied sense, like a shadow that could cut you when you weren¡¯t looking. Whatever was messing with Frank, whatever power he had at his disposal, it had almost taken me out without so much as a glance. That kind of power didn¡¯t just worry me¡ªit terrified me.


    My gaze narrowed, forcing my attention back to the scene below as their voices started to filter in again. The silhouette spoke, his tone as smooth as glass, too polished, like something rehearsed for effect. Catigan, on the other hand, sounded rattled¡ªhis words clipped, the frustration leaking through despite his efforts to keep it in check.


    I kept perfectly still, every muscle taut, my senses stretched to their limits. Whatever was coming, I had to be ready. Because this figure¡ªwhoever, whatever they were¡ªwasn¡¯t just another player in the game. And if I had any hope of walking away from this, I needed to know exactly what game they were playing.


    ¡°I told you I¡¯d get them for you, and I will. We know who has the key, and we¡¯re closing in on the box. Just give me a few days,¡± Catigan said, his voice tight, desperate.


    A low growl rumbled out in response, almost too deep to be human. ¡°We have places for people like you. Places for those who fail me.¡±


    I strained to hear more, but their voices dipped into whispers, lost beneath the hum of the limo¡¯s engine and the creaks of the old warehouse. Then, abruptly, the conversation ended. Catigan turned away, heading back to his car, shoulders hunched like he¡¯d aged a decade in those few minutes. The silhouette lingered for a heartbeat longer, the door of his limo opening from within.


    And then¡ªhe turned, suddenly, sharply, his head tilting up towards me. Not at me, no. Into me. His eyes found the darkness where I hid, piercing through the shadows like they weren¡¯t even there. He smiled¡ªa slow, knowing curl of his lips¡ªand then, just as abruptly, turned and slipped into the limo without a word.


    The door closed with a muffled thud, the engine humming louder as the car glided away, leaving only the echoes of its presence and the feeling of something dark, something wrong, still lingering in the air. I stayed frozen, the dizziness fading but leaving me hollow, shaken, trying to steady the pounding in my chest.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    A few minutes later, the warehouse was empty. Silence settled over everything, thick and oppressive. Slowly, the world began to creep back to normal, the shadows feeling less like they were about to swallow me whole.


    I let out a breath I hadn¡¯t realized I¡¯d been holding, the tension slowly uncoiling from my muscles. But that smile¡ªthat smile stayed with me, carved into my mind like a warning, a reminder that I¡¯d been seen. And whatever game they were playing, I was already a part of it, whether I wanted to be or not.


    <div>


    ¡°What the hell was all that?¡± I muttered, barely above a whisper as I stepped outside the warehouse. A lone streetlamp flickered in the distance, casting a weak glow that only seemed to deepen the shadows around me.


    I¡­ don¡¯t know, Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my mind, distant, hesitant. I need to think this over. Something about it felt¡­ familiar. From my old life. I need a moment, Jack.


    I nodded, more to myself than anything else. I understood. I felt it too¡ªan unease that went beyond words, something primal. Frank¡¯s energy shifted, withdrawing somewhere deep, like he needed to sift through memories too tangled to unravel just yet. I let him be, let him have that silence. He deserved it.


    I didn¡¯t head straight for the car¡ªit was parked a half-mile away, tucked behind an old building where curious eyes wouldn¡¯t easily spot it. Instead, I drifted, winding through a labyrinth of alleys and empty streets. The shadows here leaned heavy against brick walls, and the city air hung thick, a mix of stale grit and old exhaust that filled my lungs.


    I walked, each footstep a dull echo against the cracked pavement, letting my thoughts spool out, trying to pick through the mess unraveling in my mind. Too much was happening, too many loose threads all unraveling at once. They had to connect, somehow¡ªeach piece, each lie, it had to weave together, it had to form some kind of picture. I just needed to find the right perspective, the right angle to make sense of it.


    The conversation replayed in my head, every word twisting the knot tighter. Catigan had the box. He¡¯d had it all along, and he¡¯d been lying to Silhouette. The thought gnawed at me. Why lie? And worse, why take orders now? This was Catigan we were talking about¡ªthe same man who¡¯d laughed staring down the barrel of a gun, who slit throats on a whim, just to see if he could catch the blood before it hit the ground. Catigan didn¡¯t take orders. Not from anyone.


    So who the hell had enough sway to put a leash on him?


    The thought alone made my skin crawl. The idea that there was someone out there capable of turning Catigan into an errand boy was chilling. It left a dark weight deep in my gut, a sense of impending doom that I couldn¡¯t shake off. Whoever this silhouette was, whoever they represented, they were dangerous¡ªmore dangerous than anything I¡¯d bargained for.


    The questions came in a relentless stream, bubbling up from some dark corner of my mind, and none of the answers I tried to piece together made me feel any better. Catigan scared? Catigan leashed? Someone had that kind of pull, that kind of power?


    I clenched my jaw, forcing each breath to come slow and steady, even as the cold settled deeper in my bones, refusing to let go.


    One thing was clear now: I¡¯d only gotten half the truth¡ªjust fractured shards of a puzzle made of glass and bone, sharp enough to slice but impossible to piece together without bleeding for it. If I didn¡¯t find the rest of the pieces soon, I had the sinking feeling that a lot of people were going to die.

 52. Frankly, Alone ?

    <hr>


    The city was quiet, the late hour wrapping the streets in a stubborn calm. I kept my head down as I made my way back to the car. My feet moved through the empty sidewalks, the occasional flicker of neon signs reflecting off the wet asphalt. Everything about the night felt heavy¡ªthe air, the shadows, the grim unease that something was very, very wrong.


    That feeling hit me hard, an instinctual kink in my gut that had saved me more times than I cared to count. I paused, glanced to the side, and caught a reflection in the cracked glass of an old pawn shop window. Just a glimpse¡ªa shade moving where no one should have been.


    Someone was following me.


    I took a breath, forced myself to walk slower, even as my heartbeat sped up. I ducked into an alley, turning sharply at the corner, hoping to lose them. But when I listened, I could still hear it: the quiet rhythm of footsteps behind me, almost masked by the muffled hum of the city. I cursed under my breath, the realization dawning. Cat''s men. Silhouette must have tipped them off. Damn it. How could I have been so stupid? I should''ve gotten far away from this place the moment I saw that smile.


    I picked up my pace, my eyes scanning for anything¡ªan exit, a shadow deep enough to vanish into. My car was just ahead, parked at the edge of an abandoned lot. I spotted it crouched below a broken streetlight, and ducked my head, my fingers already fishing for the keys in my pocket.


    That¡¯s when the explosion hit.


    It was a roar, the sound of metal tearing and fire erupting, a burst of heat that seared my face. The shockwave knocked me off my feet, sending me sprawling to the ground. My ears rang, the world a blur of fire and smoke and the acrid stench of burning Nightstone. My car¡ªmy damn car¡ªwas nothing more than twisted, flaming wreckage.


    Instinct kicked in, and I rolled to the side, pushing myself up against a crumbling wall, eyes darting around wildly. Figures emerged from the smoke, shadowy shapes moving through the haze. Guns drawn, tactical movements. I cursed again, my mind racing.


    My car¡­ Cali is going to kill me!


    I pushed off from the wall, darting to the nearest alley, my body aching from the impact. Bullets whipped past me, cracking into brick and metal, each one close enough to hear the air split. I ducked behind a dumpster, catching my breath for a split second before peeking out.


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    There were at least three of them, maybe more¡ªmoving like they knew exactly where I¡¯d be. I caught a glimpse of one, his face half-covered by a scarf, eyes cold and professional. Cat¡¯s men, alright. The thought made my blood boil. I clenched my jaw, focused.


    Frank, could use a hand here, I thought, reaching out mentally. But nothing came back¡ªjust emptiness where his snark should¡¯ve been.


    A shadow rounded the corner, and instinct took over. The man lunged for me, and I ducked low, bringing my gun up. He moved fast, too fast, and we collided, grappling for control. His hand twisted toward my gun, but I managed to wrench my arm free. It was a brutal dance of fists, elbows, and the metallic clash of firearms, the alley echoing with grunts and the scuffle of boots. My gun came up between us, and I pulled the trigger, feeling the recoil kick through my arm as he slumped, falling backward with a dull thud. It was heavy in my hands, and I didn¡¯t have time to think. More footsteps, shouts echoing through the alley. I fired blindly around the corner, not aiming, just trying to buy myself a moment.


    I heard a shout, a curse, and then more gunfire erupted, the flashes lighting up the darkness. I ducked down, feeling concrete chips sting my face as bullets tore into the walls above me. I couldn¡¯t stay here. I needed to move.


    I spotted an old fire escape, the metal ladder rusted but still intact, bolted to the side of the building across the alley. My legs burned as I pushed myself up, sprinting for it. Bullets followed, one grazing my shoulder, the pain sharp and searing.


    The fresh pain and the trickle of blood worried me less than Frank¡¯s silence. No quips, no biting commentary, nothing. Wherever he¡¯d retreated to in that demon mind of his, he wasn¡¯t coming out to help me this time. I was on my own, and that was a hell of a lot more unsettling than the wound itself.


    I bit back a yell, my hand grabbing the bottom rung of the ladder. I pulled myself up, each movement a battle against the pain that spread from my shoulder.


    Halfway up, I heard the sharp bark of a gun below. There was no time to react. The impact was like a sledgehammer hitting my side, a white-hot pain exploding through my ribs. The breath rushed out of me, my vision narrowing to pinpricks as I clung desperately to the ladder.


    I gasped, choking on the pain, my hand slipping for a moment before I managed to regain my grip. My legs felt like lead, every inch a fight as I climbed, the sound of shouting men below growing louder. I could feel the blood soaking through my shirt, hot and wet, each breath an agony that clawed at my insides.


    I hauled myself onto the platform, collapsing against the rusted metal, the world spinning. I needed a plan, but the pain was all-consuming, my thoughts fractured and fleeting. I forced myself to look down, seeing the men below, their shadows growing as they neared the base of the fire escape.


    They were coming for me. I could hear their voices, cold and relentless, echoing through the night. I had to keep moving. I had to get away.

 53. Between a Bullet and a Hard Place ?

    I pushed myself up, every muscle screaming in protest, staggering toward the narrow walkway that led to another rooftop. My vision blurred, the edges darkening as I stumbled forward, the pain pulling me under like a riptide. I could hear the metal groaning beneath my weight, the rusted bolts barely holding as I crossed.


    Another shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off the railing beside me, the sharp ping of metal-on-metal ringing in my ears. I reached the edge, glancing at the gap between the buildings. It wasn¡¯t far, but in my condition, it might as well have been a mile.


    I backed up, ignoring the blood that trickled down my side, the burning ache in my shoulder, and ran. I pushed off, my body hurtling through the air, the void between the buildings yawning below me. For a moment, time seemed to stop, the wind rushing past, the world narrowing to just that moment¡ªa desperate leap between half-life and death.


    I hit the rooftop hard, my legs buckling beneath me, and I rolled, the impact rattling through my bones. I lay there for a heartbeat, gasping for air, the pain blurring everything, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.


    And then came the hunger. It curled up inside me like a serpent, coiling tight, eating away at me. Not now, I begged, but the need clawed at me, fierce and relentless. My body wanted to replace what I¡¯d lost¡­ with theirs. I started to shake, the urge slithering through my veins, whispering dark promises. I knew the cost¡ªeat humans, lose humanity.


    My hand fumbled to my jacket pocket, fingers cutting against shards of broken glass. Two of the three vials I kept were shattered, leaking out their precious contents, but the third¡­ my last¡­ was intact, cold and smooth in my blood-slick fingers. I forced a steady breath, holding on. A few more were tucked away back in my car. My car.


    I quickly downed it, feeling the relief spread through me like a cooling balm. I took a deep breath, steadying myself as the hunger ebbed, just enough to think clearly again.


    Voices rose behind me, closer now. They¡¯d seen me jump. They wouldn¡¯t stop. I forced myself to my knees, then to my feet, each movement a battle. My hand pressed against the wound in my side, the warmth of my own blood seeping through my fingers. I stumbled forward, every step a challenge, every breath a knife in my lungs.


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    I reached a door, an old maintenance entrance, the wood splintered and worn. I threw myself against it, the door creaking before it gave way, spilling me into a dark stairwell. I slammed it shut behind me and leaned against it, panting, my vision tunneling as dark spots swam in front of my eyes.


    I could hear them on the rooftop now, their footsteps thudding, their voices cold and focused. They were searching for me, and it wouldn¡¯t be long before they found the door. I pushed myself away, stumbling down the stairs, each step jarring the bullet wound, the pain like fire burning through my side.


    I didn¡¯t know where I was going, just that I had to keep moving. Had to stay ahead of them. The stairwell twisted down into darkness, and I followed, my hand skimming the wall to keep myself upright, my legs weak beneath me.


    Somewhere above, I heard the door crash open, their voices filling the stairwell. They were close. Too close.


    I reached the bottom, a narrow hallway stretching out before me, dimly lit by an old Infernum bulb. I ran, or tried to, my body barely responding, my steps uneven, the world tilting around me. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, the end nowhere in sight, and behind me, I could hear them¡ªgetting closer, relentless.


    My hand found the handle of a maintenance closet door, and I muttered a silent prayer as I turned it¡­ unlocked. I slipped inside and let the door click shut behind me, collapsing against the wall as my legs gave way. The room was small, cluttered with forgotten junk¡ªboxes, old tools, dust-covered shelves. I pressed my back against the wall, breathing hard, my vision blurring as I tried to stay conscious.


    I could hear them outside, their footsteps, their voices. They were close now, right outside the door. I held my breath, every muscle tense, my heart pounding in my ears.


    I tightened my grip on the gun, the cold metal slick with sweat. I hadn¡¯t planned on needing it tonight¡ªI''d left my sword back at the motel, thinking I wouldn''t need it for spywork. But at least I had my gun. I had one last chance to make a stand. The doorknob rattled, and I leveled the barrel at the door, finger resting against the trigger. Only a few bullets left.


    They were coming.


    The door began to creak open, and I held my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. This was it.

 54. Between Her and the Truth ?

    The door swung open, and it was Aylin. It took every ounce of control not to fire where I¡¯d been aiming¡ªright at her chest.


    She stood there, blue eyes blazing with an urgency that hit like a live wire. Her dark hair framed her face in wild waves, and her dress hugged every curve, but this wasn¡¯t some dainty number. It moved with her, almost like it had its own mind, clinging and shifting with each step, a shadow draped over her that looked just as dangerous as she did. In her hand was a long-barreled revolver, gleaming under the dim light, all cold metal and bad intentions. She held it like she knew how to use it¡ªand like she wouldn¡¯t hesitate if anyone got in her way.


    Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of me slumped against the wall, half-conscious. For a split second, a hint of those doe eyes softened her gaze, a crack in her armor.


    ¡°Jack,¡± she whispered urgently, and rushed over, slipping her arm around my waist to help me to my feet.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I rasped, wincing.


    ¡°Never mind that,¡± she muttered, her tone sharp. ¡°We have to get out of here.¡±


    Using her as a crutch, we stumbled down the hallway, each step a struggle as my legs fought to keep up. We made it to the end, pushing through an exit door just as I heard the heavy footsteps and shouts of Cat¡¯s men echoing behind us. The rain picked up again.


    Aylin spun on her heel, firing her revolver down the hallway at an unseen foe, each shot ringing out in the confined space. With a final push, we burst into the night air. Outside, an old, beat-up Pontiac waited, engine sputtering. One headlight was out, and the other flickered like it was clinging to life, though it wasn¡¯t doing much to cut through the dark.


    Gunshots rang out, followed by shouts. ¡°He¡¯s here!¡±


    I fired in the direction of the voices. She shoved me into the passenger seat, slamming the door and diving into the driver¡¯s side, yanking the wheel as she floored it, her door still ajar. With a thunderous roar, the car lunged forward, belching sulfuric smoke from the exhaust, rattling like it might fall apart at any second as it tore down the street.


    The tires screamed in protest as we tore down the rain-slicked streets, the night swallowing us whole. The old car rattled and groaned, held together by little more than sheer will and a prayer, every bump and jolt a reminder of just how close we were to falling apart.


    Adrenaline surged through me, my voice unsteady as I shouted over the roar of the engine. ¡°What the hell have you dragged me into, Aylin?¡±


    Aylin, chest heaving, shot me a look of pure steel. ¡°Thanks, Aylin. I owe you, Aylin. You saved my ass back there, Aylin,¡± she snapped, voice dripping with sarcasm as she mimicked me.


    This wasn''t the woman I''d met just a few days ago. This wasn''t the helpless dame I''d found drenched outside of Murphy''s. This woman would have chewed up and spit out all of those men.


    I studied her, watching for any crack in that fierce facade. I¡¯d seen enough to recognize the flash of fear behind her eyes, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. She was hiding something, something lethal. If I didn¡¯t figure it out soon, it was going to get us both killed.


    ¡°Thanks for the assist, Aylin,¡± I said, suspicion tightening my voice. ¡°But what¡¯s the deal? Who the hell are you, really? Because something tells me ¡®Aylin McGuffey¡¯ isn¡¯t even close.¡±


    For a brief second, her mask slipped. There was a flicker¡ªguilt, maybe¡ªcrossing her face. ¡°What gave it away?¡± she muttered, eyes fixed on the blurred lights and shadows speeding past the window.


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    ¡°Just a hunch,¡± I said, piecing it together aloud. ¡°The McGuffey estate¡ªyou claimed you were close. But no photos of you anywhere, no mention of you in any family interviews or the police report. Just a name and a lie.¡±


    The air between us felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap. Streetlights cast fleeting shadows across her face, and her eyes¡ªlaced with regret¡ªrevealed more than she¡¯d ever said.


    The car belched an explosive backfire from the exhaust, coughing a cloud of black smoke.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you dig up this beauty?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Forgive me,¡± she shot back, swerving around a stalled truck and barreling through a red light. ¡°Next time I steal a car to save your ass, I¡¯ll pick something that meets your high standards. How about a Bentley?¡± Her attempt at a smile was brittle, gone as fast as it came.


    ¡°So, you gonna spill or do I need to start pulling teeth? Who are you?¡± I demanded, my voice edged with something dangerous.


    "I don¡¯t think you¡¯re in any position to be making threats," she said, nodding toward my side, where my hand clutched the wound.


    I tapped my gun gently against the seat, a half-hearted threat. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. I shrugged¡ªshe¡¯d called my bluff, and we both knew it. I wasn¡¯t going to fire on her, and she knew it as well as I did.


    She sighed, the weight of it heavy. ¡°You really want me to answer that? There¡¯s still a chance you walk from this, you know. Might not feel like it, but the shot¡¯s there. If I tell you, that door closes. Permanently.¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± I said, my voice steady, though my grip on the gun tightened.


    But before she could answer, we were jolted forward¡ªa sickening thump as another car slammed into our rear bumper. Wump! Again, the black sedan rammed us, relentless, its headlights glaring like a predator¡¯s eyes locked on its prey.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Aylin spat, slamming her foot on the gas. The decrepit car screeched forward, weaving through traffic, lurching and bouncing over potholes and puddles. The sedan stuck to us like a bloodhound on the hunt, headlights glaring in the rearview.


    My pulse pounded in my ears. They weren¡¯t stopping until we were dead. Aylin¡¯s knuckles whitened on the wheel, her face a mask of grim concentration as she careened down alleys and sidewalks, tearing through the city and breaking every rule on the books. But the sedan stayed with us, relentless as death itself.


    I reached into the glove compartment and grabbed her gun, a solid piece of steel. Leaning out the window, I fired three shots. Bang! Bang! Bang! One of the sedan¡¯s tires exploded, sending it skidding off the road and into a ditch.


    Jack, Frank¡¯s voice muttered in the back of my mind, low and rasping.


    A shot of relief surged through me. Hells, Frank, you can¡¯t just disappear like that.


    What have you done with my skin? I¡¯m full of holes.


    Makes two of us, I shot back, feeling the ache in my ribs and shoulder. I felt Frank¡¯s energy course through me, like a dark, electric current. The torn leather of my jacket began to stitch itself back together, seams knitting slowly, and the sharp edges of my pain dulled, the ache numbing to a intense but bearable throb.


    Jack, there¡¯s something I need you to see, he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious.


    What is it?


    Jack¡­ it changes everything.


    We swerved onto an empty street, finally shaking off the last of our pursuers. The headlights behind us faded, swallowed up by the night. I let out a breath I hadn¡¯t realized I¡¯d been holding, sinking into the cracked leather seat as a fleeting wave of relief washed over me.


    Just as I let myself believe we¡¯d shaken them, we barreled into an intersection¡ªand then, out of nowhere, a pair of headlights tore into my periphery, blinding and relentless, cutting through the darkness like the cold edge of a scythe swung by a vengeful god.


    ¡°Watch out!¡± I barely got the words out before the other car slammed into us with brutal force.


    The impact was devastating. Metal twisted and shrieked as we lurched sideways, the world tilting, tumbling in a violent blur. Time slowed, each second stretching painfully. The roar of the engine became a distant hum, swallowed by the night, as darkness crept into the edges of my vision.

 55. Long Kiss Goodnight ?

    <hr>


    For a moment, I could¡¯ve sworn I saw him¡ªDeath¡ªlounging against his black-and-yellow checkered cab, one eyebrow arched in faint, amused curiosity.


    As the car spun, the world around me blurred into a violent whirl¡ªlights streaking into abstract lines, the screech of metal twisting into something distant. Time stretched, each heartbeat an eternity, and in the chaos, an eerie calm settled over everything, like the silence before a storm breaks. A memory surfaced, unbidden: her face was warm and full of life. My little Sarah. Her laugh rang out, pure and bright, cutting through the darkness, anchoring me with a kindness I hadn¡¯t felt in years.


    She stood there, so close I could almost reach out and touch her, her gaze full of that same peaceful certainty she¡¯d always had, like she held a secret no one else knew. She looked at me, her expression calm, and whispered three simple words.


    ¡°Not yet, dad.¡±


    A warmth spread through me, filling every inch of the void that had been tearing me down. Her voice faded, but the certainty lingered, pulling me back. Pain surged through my chest, sharp and insistent, my lungs dragging in air as if for the first time. The roar of the world came rushing back, cold and relentless, and I found myself gasping, gripping the edge of reality with everything I had. The fleeting cold of death¡ªthat long kiss goodnight¡ªdissolved, replaced by the sharp, unforgiving crush of reality.


    I wasn¡¯t gone. Not yet.


    Footsteps echoed behind me, slow and deliberate. Darkness chewed at the edges of my vision, gnawing tendrils clawing into my thoughts. Hands yanked me out of the wreckage, my mind flickering like a faulty light¡ªand then there was the hard, bone-rattling crack at the base of my skull. Oblivion fell like a hammer.


    I didn¡¯t dream. Just sank into the darkness, heavy and absolute, wrapping around me like the depths of a deep, cold river. There was a strange comfort in that¡ªan unfeeling black where pain couldn¡¯t reach, where nothing lingered to claw at the edges of my mind. Just the kind of quiet numb you don¡¯t appreciate until it¡¯s the only mercy left.


    I came to with the bitter tang of iron in my mouth, the damp stink of dust choking my senses. My wrists were bound behind my back, the rope biting into raw skin, each twist digging deeper. The place was a warehouse-turned-storage¡ªcrates and containers piled up like secrets nobody wanted to keep. Because, naturally, it had to be a warehouse. After the War, the city was crawling with these abandoned military relics, perfect for shady dealings, desperate schemes, and the kind of bad decisions that always seemed to follow me around. The place was a crypt¡ªdim and cavernous, lit by a handful of bulbs strung from above, swaying gently, casting shadows that moved like specters. Frank lay slumped on a crate across the way, maybe fifty paces out. Even from here, he looked like he¡¯d been through a personal hell. Worse than me, if that was possible.


    A groan beside me pulled my attention. Aylin. She was coming around, eyes fluttering as she fought her way back from whatever darkness had taken her. Her feet were bound in rope, her hands locked behind her in cold steel cuffs.


    ¡°Jack,¡± she croaked, voice barely more than a rasp, like she was scared even the air might hear her, ¡°you still with me?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, kid,¡± I muttered, shifting just enough to feel the agony bloom fresh in my ribs. A sharp stab reminded me the bleeding had stopped, but the damage was done. A few ribs cracked, head ringing like a busted church bell. Could¡¯ve been worse. Could¡¯ve been dead.


    Aylin shifted closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her breaths shallow and shaky. The flickering light caught her face, and I saw the split lip, the bruise blooming across her cheek. We were a pair¡ªbloodied, bruised, and on the wrong side of someone¡¯s bad day. But we were breathing. That was something. I forced a grin, felt the dried blood crack on my lip.


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    The pointed echo of deliberate taps broke through the oppressive quiet of the warehouse. A slow rhythm: step, step, and the unmistakable click of a cane. Ol¡¯ Killer Kane emerged from the shadows, the dim lights barely catching the sly grin twisting his lips. He was laying it on thick now. An arrogance that didn¡¯t just border on delusion¡ªit strolled right across, bought the souvenir mug and sent back a postcard that said, "Wish you weren''t here." He made his entrance like he owned not just the place, but every miserable soul inside it.


    ¡°Jack,¡± Kane drawled, his eyes glittering like shards of broken glass¡ªcold amusement, the kind a predator savors right before the kill. He always got like this when he was working, like every moment had to be a performance. It made me wonder, not for the first time, how we¡¯d ever managed to get along. He was just so damn dramatic.


    I gave the ropes another tug, feeling the fibers cut deeper into the rawness of my wrists.


    ¡°Kane,¡± I grunted, keeping my face as blank as I could. No need to give him the satisfaction of seeing the struggle.


    He smirked, drawing closer, each tap of his cane a clockwork countdown.


    ¡°You never change,¡± he said, leaning in close, his breath cold against my ear, ¡°always trying to act like you¡¯re not afraid.¡± He reached down, plucking the key from my pant pocket. He turned it in his fingers, admiring the glint. ¡°Not even hidden somewhere safe?¡±


    ¡°The safest place is with the one person I trust,¡± I said.


    ¡°Losing your edge, old friend. Or maybe you just didn¡¯t want me to dig the location out of you, inch by inch?¡±


    "That key," I growled, forcing the words through clenched teeth. But he cut me off with a sharp crack¡ªa line of fire blooming across my cheek from the slap of his cane. His eyes glinted, dark and mocking, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.


    "Oh, I know what this key is, and what it opens," he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "And I know Cat¡¯s got the other half." He leaned in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "What I don''t know is how you ended up tangled with this viper."


    His gaze drifted lazily to Aylin, his grin widening like a man savoring a particularly bloody cut of steak. "Tell me, darling, does he even know what''s really on the line, or did you just leave out the messy parts?"


    Aylin¡¯s eyes flickered towards me, then dropped. ¡°I was going to tell you,¡± she muttered, but it was like throwing chum to a shark. Kane chuckled, circling us, his cane tapping out a staccato that reverberated in the cavernous space.


    ¡°Of course, of course,¡± he crooned, like a man comforting a child.


    "Kane, you''re an idiot if you think¡ª" I started, but the words were cut short by a flash of movement. Aylin, slipping a pin from her braid, the metal catching a faint gleam in the dark. There was the smallest click¡ªbarely audible. I almost missed it. Kane didn¡¯t.


    "Now that''s just rude," Kane said, tapping his cane against her shoulder with a cluck of disapproval, stopping her little escape trick mid-act. He stepped back, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Go on, sweetheart. Finish undoing your cuffs. I could use the entertainment."


    Aylin hesitated for a heartbeat, then shrugged. She didn''t need much convincing. With a flick of her wrist, the cuffs clattered to the ground, and the rope at her feet went slack. She gave Kane a sideways look as she stood and dusted off, lips curving into a smirk. "I was out of those ages ago. Just trying to fix my hair, you know."


    "So, what''s next? Gonna beat up an old cripple like me?" Kane taunted, a lazy grin curling his lips.


    "He''s a caster, Aylin. Be careful," I warned, my voice tight.


    She let out a small huff, almost amused. "I don''t usually like hurting people," she said, her gaze fixed on Kane, her eyes narrowing, "but I think I''m about to make an exception."


    Kane¡¯s grin widened, but before she could respond, a blast of light erupted. A roaring flame took shape in his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent it spiraling straight at her.


    Aylin moved fast¡ªfaster than I expected¡ªsidestepping the fire, her smirk never faltering.

 56. A Dance of Fire and Ice ?

    The fire roared past her, blistering the night where she¡¯d been standing just a heartbeat ago.


    In the shadow-soaked warehouse, Kane¡¯s walking stick looked deceptively plain, its glossy black sheen catching stray glints of streetlight that filtered through splintered window panes high above. But as Kane¡¯s grip tightened, the air around it rippled, bending the light like a heat haze.


    A flicker, then another¡ªthe glamour buckled. Paint peeled away from its surface as if burned off, curls of darkness crumbling to reveal polished mahogany, rich and deep red, laced with snaking veins of silver and gold inlay. It wasn¡¯t just a staff; it was a weapon, a promise.


    Flames leapt from the staff¡¯s head, licking hungrily along its length as it transformed, no longer the humble cane it pretended to be but a living inferno forged for battle. Kane¡¯s fingers flexed, and the staff blazed to life, carving arcs of light through the smoky air, each swing a ruthless slash of light. He spun into the thick of it, fast and feral, the heat bending to his will¡ªa dancer cloaked in fire, grinning like death itself.


    Kane wasn¡¯t merely a Caster; he was a Fire Dancer. Before his injury, he could have been one of the best. Even now, each movement was art, woven from flame and fury.


    But Aylin? If he was fire, she was the quiet storm¡ªfluid, elusive, and cold as ice. She flowed around his strikes like water slipping through a clenched fist, a hair¡¯s breadth from his body but untouchable. Kane¡¯s strikes were a spectacle¡ªa carnival of fire and flash, meant to burn, meant to dazzle. Aylin ducked and twisted, her eyes locked on his every motion, catching every cocky flick of his wrist, every flourish that hinted at his arrogance.


    They spun together, a blur of fire and shadow. The Infernal Staff carved arcs of flame through the air, while Aylin was a blur of open hands, strikes that came fast and left nothing but afterimages. The space buzzed with raw, live-wire tension¡ªa charge building with every breath, every movement. She could see the thrill in his eyes, the way he drank in the chaos. But Aylin¡¯s focus never wavered; she was playing the long game, watching, waiting for the right moment.


    ¡°So,¡± she taunted, slipping in with a feint that he dodged effortlessly. ¡°You¡¯ve got the key. Now what?¡±


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    He parried her next strike, their movements a deadly dance, each testing the other. ¡°Now? We get the box, and we put this thing to bed. No one should hold the Blood Gems. No one.¡±


    She scoffed, launching a quick jab that he sidestepped. ¡°So that¡¯s it? Just bury that kind of power, seal it away like some fairy tale?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the plan,¡± he replied, blocking her follow-up and twisting to avoid her next strike. ¡°Do you even know what kind of fire you¡¯re playing with, darling?¡±


    She smirked, swinging up her fist, then following through with a stinging backhand that snapped across his face, more insult than injury. ¡°Do you?¡±


    He recovered, rubbing his jaw with a smirk of his own, his eyes gleaming with a hint of respect. They circled each other, breaths sharp, their fight picking up intensity¡ªsparks from his staff lighting the edges of the room as her movements became faster, sharper, the air thick with tension and flickers of flame.


    Kane swung again, the staff twisting, symbols flaring up in a sickly, unnatural glow. A wave of force shot towards Aylin, but she was faster. She rolled beneath the onslaught, a blur of motion, and closed the distance, her fists striking with precision¡ªa series of blows aimed to end things quick. Kane struggled, each of her hits cracking into him like thunder on brittle wood. Kane, in a desperate move, unleashed a blinding blast of light, while simultaneously propelling himself backward several feet in a dazzling flash.


    He slouched, hands braced on his knees, sucking in deep breaths. Spatial magic took its toll¡ªespecially when it was outside his usual wheelhouse. The aether drain hit him hard, leaving his limbs heavy and his vision swimming.


    She took advantage of the lull, wiping the haze from her eyes, a quick blink restoring clarity. They locked eyes, both knowing this was just a momentary truce. And then, they closed the gap, moving in once more¡ªready to finish what they¡¯d started.


    ¡°Cute tricks,¡± she sneered, her voice like a blade, sharp with venom. She slipped to the side as his staff swung down, missing her by inches, the air crackling with residual heat. ¡°Not bad for a ¡®cripple.¡¯¡±


    Kane chuckled, unbothered, his grin infuriatingly calm as he twisted the staff back up, flames licking dangerously close to her face. ¡°Funny, I was just thinking the same. You¡¯re not half bad yourself¡ªfor a ¡®dame.¡¯¡± He feinted left, then threw a jab with his free hand. ¡°Tell me, where¡¯d you pick up Thousand Hands?¡± He advanced, forcing her back. ¡°Thought old Master Ki hung up his hat years ago.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯d tell you,¡± she shot back, deflecting his strike with a flick of her wrist, a wicked smile curling on her lips, ¡°but then, I¡¯d have to kill you.¡± With a swift spin and a teasing flourish, she ducked under a fiery burst, landing on her hands and driving a brutal mule kick into Kane¡¯s gut, sending him staggering back.

 57. For a Dame ?

    Kane gritted his teeth, stumbling, but deflecting nonetheless. With every step, he lost ground. He swung wildly, desperate, the dark energy sputtering in fits. Aylin moved, as elegant as ever, her body twisting mid-air, her heel slamming down. Kane jerked aside, barely avoiding the blow.


    They moved like shadows in a storm, weaving between crates that shattered under the force of Kane¡¯s attacks, splinters and shards exploding around them with each fiery strike. Flames flared, licking hungrily at the wooden floor, but with a flick of his wrist, Kane pulled the fire back, a master dancer controlling his own chaos, reining in the inferno before it could devour the whole warehouse.


    I glanced over to the far side of the warehouse, where Frank lay quietly, just beyond the chaos. Fortunately, the fire hadn¡¯t reached him¡ªnot that flames would take him out; Frank was resilient, stubbornly so. But even from here, he looked worse for wear, his form ragged and frayed around the edges.


    Aylin darted to the side, but her foot caught on a splintered crate, and for an instant, she seemed pinned, her eyes flashing wide, helpless. Kane¡¯s lips twisted into a grin, slick with triumph, as he bore down, his staff blazing in his hands like a spear of molten light. He lunged, savoring the sweet inevitability of the kill, already tasting victory, hearing the phantom applause pounding in his head.


    In a flash, her expression shifted¡ªthe helplessness melting into something cold and sharp. She twisted, ducking beneath his strike with deadly precision. Kane¡¯s staff hissed through empty air as her leg whipped around, a roundhouse kick connecting hard against his jaw. The force jolted him, his control wavering as the fire roared out in a wild arc.


    Flames licked dangerously close to me, and I threw myself to the side, pain searing through my ribs as the fiery tendrils whipped past, scorching my already shredded shirt.


    ¡°Oh, come on, really?!¡± I shouted, struggling against the ropes that held me fast on the filthy floor. ¡°Watch where you point that thing!¡±


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    Kane¡¯s eyes went wide¡ªsurprise splintered across his features, but Aylin was already on him. Her elbow crashed into his jaw, the impact snapping his head sideways. Before he could even think to recover, she twisted her hips, her leg hooking behind his, a swift kick sweeping his feet out from under him.


    He hit the pavement with a thud that filled the room, a dull sound swallowed by the dark. Kane¡¯s eyes fluttered, his dazed gaze struggling to focus. Aylin was relentless¡ªalready over him, her knee digging into his chest.


    He grunted, lashing out with his staff. Aylin¡¯s foot connected with his ribs, and he buckled¡ªthe last scrap of arrogance draining from his face as he hit the floor, his staff flying across the cold concrete, extinguishing with a sputter of dying embers.


    ¡°Can¡¯t fight without your toys?¡± Aylin asked, her expression cold, her voice vibrating with something deeper, an undercurrent of emotion just barely restrained.


    Her legs wrapped around his neck, preparing to twist, a lethal calmness in her eyes. Kane was a dead man on borrowed time¡ªhe knew it, she knew it. He flailed, struggling wildly to break free, but the crushing power of her legs squeezed the air from his lungs. Panic gave way to an eerie calm as the inevitability of death settled over him, a cold certainty wrapping around his mind like a final embrace. He cast me one last look, a silent farewell¡ªlike the final nod shared between old friends at the end of the road.


    And then, her gaze flickered to me as well. I don¡¯t know what she saw in my eyes, but whatever it was gave her pause. She took a deep breath, the cold fury in her eyes shifting, softening for just a heartbeat.


    Instead of breaking his neck between her legs, she reached into the air. A glint of metal appeared between her fingers. Before Kane could react, she drove the pin into his side. His body seized, his eyes bulging as the poison flowed, the shock unmistakable. She released him from her grip and stood, dusting herself off.


    ¡°Night, night,¡± she breathed, her voice almost a whisper, the smirk on her lips cutting deeper than any blade.


    ¡°You¡­¡± Kane gasped, voice trembling with pain and disbelief. ¡°You little¡­¡± The words dissolved, his body going slack, eyes rolling back as darkness claimed him. Kane went limp. I watched closely¡ªhe was still breathing, only unconscious.

 58. After the Smoke Clears ?

    She knelt, slipping her fingers into his pocket to retrieve the key. ¡°You won¡¯t be needing this anymore.¡± Her face was expressionless, but in her eyes lingered something darker¡ªsomething that looked like regret. She turned to me, a faint, crooked smile pulling at her lips as she moved closer.


    ¡°Good job,¡± I muttered, managing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. ¡°Now cut me out of this thing.¡±


    She shot me a look, eyebrow arched, her eyes dancing between amusement and something sharper, almost regretful. ¡°Yeah, about that...¡±


    She knelt beside me, her fingers brushing the skin of my arm. There was something soft in her touch, an apology wrapped in the moment. ¡°Sorry, Jack,¡± she whispered, her voice cracking, the pin in her hand catching the dim light.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I gasped, the word slipping out more like a plea than I¡¯d have liked.


    She paused, her eyes meeting mine, and I could see the hesitation there¡ªthe conflict. Something human left in her, at least. ¡°You gonna at least tell me what the hell is going on?¡± I rasped. ¡°You owe me that much, don¡¯t you?¡±


    She studied me, her gaze lingering, as if she was weighing a choice far heavier than the pin poised in her hand. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders slumping.


    ¡°I guess you deserve that much,¡± she said. ¡°Sorry about getting you tangled up in all this. But don¡¯t worry, Jackie. It¡¯s almost over. My boss doesn¡¯t care about you, not really. Just the Box. Or more specifically, what¡¯s inside it. We knew someone wasn¡¯t keeping up their end of the bargain, but he needed proof. And you¡­ well, you were useful bait to flush them out.¡±


    ¡°Bait?¡± I hissed, the word like acid on my tongue. ¡°You took one hell of a gamble getting me involved. What if I¡¯d run off with the key?¡±


    She smiled, and for a second, I could almost see the person she might¡¯ve been. ¡°I read your file, Jack. You¡¯re not the type. And besides, I¡¯ve been watching. Since the beginning.¡±


    I blinked, a cold realization dawning. ¡°Watching? You mean¡­ you¡¯ve been my shadow this whole time?¡±


    She gave me a faint nod, her smile both apologetic and sly. ¡°You nearly caught me a few times, too. I have to say, I underestimated you.¡±


    ¡°McGuffey Estate¡­ that was you?¡± I muttered, the memory slotting into place; a small piece of the puzzle.


    ¡°Guilty,¡± she said with a lazy shrug, her tone casual, like they were discussing the weather. ¡°Look, I took a calculated risk. Cat was keeping his cards way too close¡ªcouldn¡¯t tell if he was hiding it himself or if the Council already had their claws on it. So, I had to shake things up, turn up the heat, flush everyone out, and see where the pieces landed.¡± She smirked, leaning in. ¡°Tonight, Cat got sloppy¡ªpractically spilled the beans. And your pal Kane here? Well, he just confirmed it all. We can¡¯t go to war blind, sweetheart. Alliances are about trust, or at least knowing who¡¯s waiting to stab you in the back.¡±


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    ¡°And now?¡±


    ¡°Now we know exactly who not to trust.¡±


    ¡°And who are you doing all of this for?¡± I asked.


    She hesitated, her gaze flitting away, a shadow passing over her expression. ¡°That¡¯s as far as I can take you, Jack. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Silhouette,¡± I said, the name like a ghost slipping from my lips, the pieces clicking together at last.


    Her eyes widened, curiosity flickering across her face, mixed with something like surprise¡ªand exhaustion. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The guy Cat¡¯s working for,¡± I continued, my voice quieter now. ¡°At the meeting tonight.¡±


    She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. ¡°Never heard him called that before. You¡¯re too clever for your own damn good, you know that?¡± She paused, her lips parting, then closing, as if there was more she wanted to say but couldn¡¯t.


    The silence between us stretched, heavy with all the things we couldn¡¯t¡ªor wouldn¡¯t¡ªsay. The weight of the night, the chaos, the betrayals¡ªit settled in that silence, a wall between us neither of us had the strength to climb.


    ¡°I really am sorry, Jack,¡± she murmured, her voice so soft it sounded like she was speaking to herself. ¡°Dragging you into this mess¡­ none of it was fair. I shouldn¡¯t have¡ªyou didn¡¯t ask for any of this.¡± Her gaze drifted somewhere distant. ¡°I was a big fan, you know? Back then. I used to read about you in the papers. That part wasn¡¯t a lie. I¡¯d always wanted to meet you.¡± She paused, almost wistful. ¡°I thought¡­ maybe if things had been different, if we¡¯d met under different stars¡­¡± Her voice faltered, and for a fleeting moment, the mask slipped, leaving something raw and unguarded. Or was that, too, just another mask beneath the last? Who was the real Aylin? What lay hidden behind those intense, unreadable eyes?


    ¡°In another life, perhaps,¡± she whispered, nodding faintly as though convincing herself it might have been true. A sad smile ghosted across her lips before her face hardened, the walls snapping back up. Her fingers tightened around the pin.


    I shifted uncomfortably on the floor. ¡°One last thing¡ªthink you could toss me my jacket? It¡¯s rather cold.¡± I nodded toward the far side of the warehouse, where it lay draped over a crate, Frank¡¯s presence faintly pulsing from within. The connection was thin, a barely perceptible thrum¡ªno words, just the subtle awareness that he was there, watching, holding on.


    Aylin caught my glance, her lips curling into a knowing smile as she rolled her eyes. ¡°Nice try,¡± she said softly, her voice edged with a teasing finality. ¡°Goodnight, Jack.¡±


    A sharp sting bit into my arm, numbness spreading fast, catching words on my tongue before I could speak. Her face blurred, but the mix of defiance and sorrow in her eyes burned through, unshakable. She leaned down, her lips pressing to mine in a fierce, almost desperate kiss that tasted of goodbye.


    My mind spun, caught between the fading warmth of her lips and the rising fog, emotions tangled in knots I didn¡¯t know how to unravel. Whether she meant any of it, I couldn¡¯t say¡ªbut some part of me wished she did.

 59. New Tricks ?

    The world returned in shattered fragments, each one a little more agonizing than the last. My head pounded with a slow, relentless pulse, like I''d spent the night swallowing nails and fiberglass. My ribs felt splintered, my skin scraped raw, each bruise throbbing in a steady, cruel rhythm that matched my heartbeat. It was still dark.


    I lay there, blinking against the dimness, the air stale and thick, trying to piece together where I was and how I''d ended up helpless on the cold, unforgiving floor. The room was empty¡ªtoo empty. Kane must have woken before me and left me here, bound to a metal beam bolted to the floor behind me. A practical touch of cruelty, perfectly in line with his style.


    I twisted my wrists, the ropes biting deep, the fibers grinding against my skin, numbing my hands until they felt like dead weights. Each pull drained what little energy I had left. Pathetic. At least he left Frank. The jacket lay far out of reach, sprawled on a crate like a discarded hope, mocking me with the memory of freedom. He was worse for wear, torn and ragged, having taken the brunt of the force. Without him, I¡¯d be dead tonight. But just as he could heal me, he needed me to heal him.


    The silence broke¡ªnot with a crash, but a whisper, soft steps too light for human feet. I froze, tension coiling up my spine, twisting tighter with each shallow breath. Something was moving, slow and cautious, somewhere just out of sight. My breath hitched, panic flooding in as I strained my neck, forcing my head up despite the throbbing ache. If it was a demon, even a Lesser, I was done for.


    The steps crept closer, almost hesitant, padding lightly over the floor. I held my breath, fighting the urge to close my eyes and wait for whatever horror was coming. And then, through the haze of dread, I saw him¡ªSarge. Scruffy and beautiful. His fur was tangled, one ear flopped over in its usual, ridiculous way, his eyes wide with a kind of wild concern. Relief hit me like a punch to the chest.


    ¡°Sarge!¡± My voice was raw. ¡°You beautiful little mutt¡­ what are you doing here?¡±


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    He tilted his head, his big, soulful eyes locking onto mine, his tongue lolling out slightly, panting as if to say, You did it again, didn¡¯t you? You got yourself in a mess.


    A bad idea surfaced. No, not just bad¡ªstupid. Dangerous. Frank was going to hate it.


    ¡°Go get Frank,¡± I said, nodding at the jacket. Sarge blinked at me, head tilting to the other side as if to say, What? I jerked my head toward the jacket again, feeling desperation spike my voice. ¡°Come on, boy. Go get Frank.¡±


    Sarge whined, stepping closer, nudging my shoulder with his cold nose like he thought he could lift me himself. His breath was warm against my cheek, his eyes filled with a worry that twisted my insides. ¡°I¡¯d love to get up, buddy, really, but I can¡¯t,¡± I said, voice softer. ¡°I need Frank. Remember him? The cranky one... well, crankier.¡±


    He looked at me, and I swear I saw it¡ªa flicker of understanding in those eyes, a flash of recognition. Sarge was always more than just a dog. He was family, and right then, he seemed to know exactly how deep I was in. My throat tightened. ¡°I don¡¯t look too good, do I, boy? But I¡¯m going to be okay.¡± My voice was a rasp, barely holding steady. ¡°I just need you to help me. Can you do that? Can you fetch my jacket? Fetch Frank?¡± I gestured with my head and eyes.


    He let out a low whine, his ears drooping for a moment before finally turning toward the jacket. Step by step, he padded over, pausing halfway to glance back at me, his eyes filled with that familiar loyalty. ¡°That¡¯s it¡­ that''s a good boy,¡± I said. ¡°Now¡­ get Frank. Go on¡ªyou can do it.¡±


    He moved closer, nose brushing against the fabric, his body tense. I held my breath, watching as he sniffed, hesitating, then leaning in deeper, his nose pressing into the jacket.


    The air changed. It was subtle, but it shifted¡ªlike the moment before lightning hits, the air charged with something dangerous. Sarge froze, head tilted, his body trembling like he was trying to hear something from far away. I felt hope, tiny and fragile, blossom inside me.


    I sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening.

 60. Mutt Meets Magic ?

    Slowly, Frank began to move¡ªreluctant, rippling like a resentful shadow, wrapping around Sarge like a spectral cloak. Sarge shivered under the weight of the darkness, his confidence seeming to melt away beneath the magic that engulfed him.


    ¡°Frank?¡± I whispered, barely a breath.


    Sarge let out a low, uncertain bark. His posture changed¡ªawkward, almost human, each step shaky as he tried to adjust under Frank¡¯s embrace. He made his way over to me, each movement a strange, disjointed dance, like a puppet on tangled strings.


    He got close enough for me to lift my shoulder to him, and Frank slid off of Sarge¡ªa liquid shadow, oozing away from him, and wrapping around me instead, sliding down over my arms to the ropes. His essence seeped between my skin and the bindings, the power surging through me raw and electric. But beneath it all, I felt Frank''s pain¡ªeach tendril of his form screaming exhaustion and strain. He was in rough shape. I knew that, without him, I¡¯d be nothing but a lifeless corpse on this cold floor¡ªinstead of a living one. He¡¯d carried me through hell, and now, he needed me just as much as I needed him.


    The ropes didn¡¯t just loosen¡ªthey snapped, shredded by Frank¡¯s fading strength, and I fell forward, catching myself before I hit the ground, gasping as Sarge nosed against me, his loyalty a comfort in a chaotic world. ¡°Good boy, Sarge. Such a good boy.¡± My voice broke as I petted him, my gratitude spilling over, beyond words, into a quiet bond that couldn¡¯t be spoken.


    And then, as if on cue, Frank¡¯s voice echoed in my mind, seethed with all the disdain he could muster. Do you have any idea how demeaning that was? A dog, Jack. Really?


    I almost laughed, the sound catching in my bruised ribs. ¡°Frank!¡± I said aloud, half-giddy with relief. ¡°It¡¯s good to hear you again.¡±


    Oh, is it? You¡¯re welcome, sure. But listen, Jack¡ªnever again. To be inside the mind of this... creature. Do you have any idea what dogs think about? No? Well, I do now. And it is astoundingly impolite.


    Sarge barked, almost in protest, his floppy ear twitching.


    ¡°Come on, Frank. He¡¯s a good boy,¡± I said, my hand resting on Sarge¡¯s scruffy head. I felt Frank¡¯s lifeforce twine with mine, pulsing with that familiar hum. Even beat to hell as I was, I managed to send a little healing his way. Somehow, when we combined, it did more than just patch up the damage¡ªit made us both sharper, stronger. We were like two broken pieces fitting together, each of us better than the sum of our busted parts.


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    You know you secretly love him, Frank. Sarge is a good boy, I thought.


    Sarge barked, his tail wagging in a blur of pure happiness.


    That''s odd, I mused. It¡¯s almost as if he heard me.


    Sarge barked again, more insistent this time.


    That¡¯s because he can, or rather, I can. And for some reason, we¡¯re still connected.


    Frank said dryly, irritation dripping from every word.


    I¡¯d been worried something might go odd with this. Frank had never been connected to an animal before, and I knew there was no telling what might happen because of it.


    When we¡­ merged¡­ I could hear his thoughts, and he could hear mine¡ªlike usual, Frank grumbled, the disdain clear. Ugh, I don¡¯t know how, or why, but¡­ it didn¡¯t shut off afterward. I¡¯m still connected, Jack. I can still hear him. And let me tell you, I don¡¯t like it. Not one damn bit.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± I said, my grin crooked as I looked at Sarge. ¡°Is he saying anything to you now?¡±


    There was a moment of silence.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    He says¡­ that he thinks he deserves a biscuit, Frank said, each word bristled with reluctance. Ugh, Jack. No. I refuse. I will not be your messenger. This is too much. Worse than that time you tried to have me dry-cleaned.


    ¡°You were getting very ripe, Frank.¡±


    He used fabric softener, Frank snapped, his tone practically bleeding with indignation. Jack, we¡¯ve been through war, together. But this¡­ this is where I draw the line.


    Sarge barked again and wagged his tail, as he nuzzled Frank''s sleeve.


    I sighed, a smile creeping onto my face despite myself. ¡°I think you deserve a whole bag of treats. Come on, let¡¯s go find you some.¡± Sarge''s tail wagged like crazy as I reached over and ruffled his fur.


    Frank made a noise that might¡¯ve been a groan if shadows could groan.


    ¡°Alright, let''s get out of here,¡± I said, my voice dropping to a more serious note as I looked at the exit. We left the place together, stepping over the broken fragments of what Kane and Aylin had left behind, Sarge at my side, Frank draped around me like a cloak of living darkness. The air outside tasted like freedom¡ªsharp, cold, and exactly what I needed.


    The night was old, beat to hell, hanging on by a thread. I needed a shower, maybe a whole damn fire hose, and about a week¡¯s worth of sleep.