#kill feed

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Normalcy.

A long breath before flicking through folders to one unnamed, holding a few distant shots of a short elven woman in a bright red dress taken earlier in the day. What a looker.

Whether it was the shimmering near-gold of her wavy hair or the way the light seemed to dance in the brilliant greens of her eyes in their brief interaction on the subway, or maybe the wispy mixture of bourbon, cigarettes, and fake citrus-scent that no-one else but hounds could have tracked her by, Charlie knew she was the one.

“Oop, think I need to get that, Nata.”

Knock knock knock.

“Hold your horses, pal, I’m coming! Honestly, who comes knockin’ this late, anyway...”

Charlie cracks the door, held somewhat closed still by a sturdy chain, to reveal two officers of the local police force. With raised eyebrows and a softspoken “oh”, Charlie closes the door, unhooks the chain, and reopens it completely. One man looks to be a half-orc, the other a human.

“Evening officers, you wanna step in? Cold out there, just made some cocoa.”

“No, ma’am, but thank you. We won’t take too much of your time, we just have a few questions regarding a recent disappearance.”

“No shit? Go ahead, sure.”

“First of all, can I get your name, ma’am?”

“Charlize Janssen. Call me Charlie, though, please - everybody does.”

“Mmkay. Charlie, are you familiar with a mister Bradley Fenwick?”

Charlie’s head snaps up from the timer on their phone, a plume of breath rising into the night, as four men pour, laughing and potentially drunk, from a house at the end of the street. Like clockwork, that Bradley. Not a drinker, though, Charlie knew. Of course they did - no one paid attention to him like Charlie did. They make a final check of the syringe and weapon - a long bowie knife, wickedly sharp and faintly glinting in the pale moonlight - before disappearing from the street corner like the shadow of a ghost.

Double- and triple-checking the notes and recipes cobbled together during Charlie’s visit to Ceburn, they spend the evening and into the night experimenting with a concoction of boiled wolfsbane flowers and silver on what remained of the lycanthrope blood on the boy’s knife, whatever his name was, that pushed Bradley too far. Too much silver boiled the blood away in a reaction too violent for the wolfsbane to be effective, not enough wouldn’t prevent regeneration. Likewise, too little wolfsbane would just make him an upset werewolf, not one unable to transform, but too much made the mixture a sludge and difficult to move through the needle.

By the end of the hours in the kitchen above the shop, the whole floor positively reeked of something chemical and bitter, even with the windows open and fans blowing whatever they could manage out into the frigid winter night. Even the relatively noisy neighborhood strays and raccoons gave the place a wide berth in spite of the rich pickings to be found in nearby trash barrels and those neighbors that left out food for them. None could blame them. Satisfied, however, with the product they had reached and having no more blood with which to test iterations any further, Charlie placed the jar of somewhat murky, subtly glinting liquid in the back of the fridge, and the fentanyl further behind it, to be mixed in when the time was right.

Ring. Ring. Ring. R-

“Ugh, Charlie, what is it? It’s, like, 11 at night. Dude, what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I know, Sasha, look - I’m real sorry to do this to ya. But listen, hey, I had nasty spill cleaning my sink and the funk, you know how cleaning liquids are anymore, it’s enough to choke a mule. I can hardly breathe up there, never mind sleep - can I crash on your couch, just for the night? Won’t bother you for breakfast neither, promise. I’m a real gracious guest like that, you know me.”

There is muffled grumbling back and forth on the other end of the line - one deeper voice, one lighter - as the phone receiver is quickly covered. Sasha and her boyfriend. A light sleeper, Charlie knew.

“Fine. You know where the key is. Never say I don’t do anything for you.”

“Hey, me? C’mon, never, we’re best-”

“Pals. Right. Night, Charlie.”

Click.

With a wince and a low grunt of a growl at the effort, a punishment for their own stupidity, Charlie pushes themself up from the couch by their injured arm - clawed by the very same werewolf - to slowly pace the dimly lit apartment above their workshop, tail lashing in something like irritation as they drink and think. Asking Emanuel would be too obvious, even if it is the most expedient option; the less that can link Bradley and Charlie together, the better, and Manny is only so good of a friend. That is, not so good as to help cover up a murder. The library in Ceburn might have what they need, but the local one might be a safer bet to look less suspicious. No need to check the books out either, no paper trail. Is it more reasonable to take time away following a traumatic experience? It could give Bradley time to calm down, too, not seeing Charlie about town, and fall back into his routines if they left for the capital.

Besides the werewolf thing, Bradley makes a delightful target. Wonderfully predictable and unobservant, one could almost steal his watch and set it by the man’s comings and goings, but with enough spontaneity to him that his wife doesn’t appear to be surprised if he occasionally shows up several hours late.  Especially with a gift to compensate. So, maybe the watch-setting is a poor idea, actually. Never late for work, doesn’t work weekends, never misses dinner, bi-weekly poker game on Saturday. Likes ducks - no gun, a few cameras, so possibly a casual birdwatcher. The past few weeks of stalking and scrying have been certainly enlightening, though not overmuch of it entertaining. He’s a boring man, that Bradley. And a shit poker player.

Charlie had no idea what struck them about him. Maybe it was the faint smell of cinnamon, maybe it was the way he looked at them like they just insulted the guy, maybe it was just an itch, a feeling, a click. Regardless, Charlie nearly shivered with anticipation.

"Take a seat, bud. First time? Hey, I know that feeling, first time, you never forget it; tell you what, for you, new guy, pay what you want. You tell me how good I do, see for yourself, don't take my word for it. What do I call you?"

Bradley. Not Brad - he was insistent - but Bradley. Middle aged, probably just straight human by the look of him, hints of gray showing at his temples, crow's feet, and a wrinkle in his brow. Charlie nodded along, humming as they removed the laces of Bradley's shoes, some faux leather jobbers, and placed them in a bag with a cleaning solution, before shaking them vigorously. They'd sit for a while, to be replaced in the end.

"You a talker, Bradley? You like to jabber? My hairdresser, bless her, she can gossip for hours if you let her, I tell ya, you can hardly get a word in around her. I love the gal, but take a look at me and tell me I look like I went to the hairdresser lately, you know what I mean? Haha. But hey, c'mon, I know folks don't come here to listen to me. Relax, kid, you're gonna walk away feeling like a million bucks. Or at least ten, right?"

Punctuated by a friendly soft elbowing to the shin that got a huff of a laugh and a smile, at least, Bradley adjusted in his seat and leaned back as Charlie got to work. A little saddle soap - a sharp pine tar scent - to clean the grime, working the brush in smooth, quick circles. A little cream polish, a little wax, rubbed in with similar practiced movements, and buffed with a horsehair brush. Can't forget the edge dressing, Charlie, gotta get every detail. Turn that pleather into a mirror. Both Charlie and Bradley were quiet - one transfixed with focus, and the other by the almost magical process, the humming and the almost rhythmic motion of fingers trapping the eye in something otherwise so very mundane. Before either of them knew it, twenty minutes had come and gone. True to Charlie's word, Bradley's shoes had never looked better. True to their suggestion, it was worth a ten-spot. At least.

"Hey, hey, look at you, high roller. Glad you're satisfied, and if you ever need the hardest working part of your wardrobe to look like it isn't - or if you got friends that do - tell 'em about me, will ya? Old cats like me gotta eat somehow and I'm not much of a rat fella; ratfolks don't like that line of joking, haha."

Wherever Bradley went after, pausing just before he left the view of the shop window to admire Charlie's work once more, was irrelevant if it wasn't home. The easy-going grin dropped like a lead weight from Charlie's lips as they slipped into a back room, and a room beyond and below that one. They drew a dagger, set it aside, and dug out from a filing cabinet a stone bowl so old and cracked, it was a small miracle the thing hadn't fallen to pieces. Placing the money in the bowl and repeating a divination with a quiet, slow, almost cooing tongue, the ten dollar bill burst into intense heat at the strike of a dagger point. It burned only briefly, but in the ashes that resulted there swirled colors that coalesced into a perfectly clear view of Bradley and his surroundings.

Charlie watched in silence, attention rapt, as they memorized every step home that Bradley took. Three blocks past the bank, a left onto River Street, four blocks down, right onto Old Willow. A quaint little place, far as city houses go, and sky blue with white window trimmings. Across from the movie rental place. Charlie let out a shuddering, excited breath before returning the scrying bowl back to its secret place and tucking the dagger back into their belt sheath.

"Yeah, that's the ticket. Every move you make, kid, it's gonna be mine."