#witch's gambit

Weston told me it'd be better if we waited a few days for any police to come sniffing about before even scoping out the crime scene. I was inclined to agree with him, if only to delay seeing that study again.

So a week and a half later, I'm meeting him at my shopfront, an empty bag at my side. I've traded my skirts for a flexible pair of leggings and a tunic just in case. In case of what, I'm not entirely sure, I've never done this before.

The streets are quiet, the lamps have been dimmed. I'm so used to seeing these sidewalks filled with people, bustling with activity. But now, anything that may have told us that the city is alive? Gone. It's creepy.

Weston leads me through the back roads, worried beyond worried that we'll run into someone. His hand in mine is solid underneath the glove, like there's flesh underneath, something I could grab onto. He's not warm, but he's not cold either. It's strange, he's the first reanimated being I've ever met, so many of them are cagey like Weston. I want to ask about it, but I don't want to be rude. I keep my mouth shut as we stop in front of Elliot's workshop.

The storefront is covered in bright yellow police tape, and I want to let out a giggle as we duck underneath it and wedge ourselves through the open door. It's cold and dusty inside, the few days since I've been here allowing the police to come in and out, tracking footprints. But there has to be more, there has to be something that's missing. 

My heart thrums in my chest at the idea of being caught. This is beyond illegal, and if Alma finds out, she'll have my head on a plate. I'd never be allowed near another scene again.

"Okay," I blow air through my mouth and look around, hands on my hips. "Where to first?" 

"You don't know?!" Weston whisper-shouts at me as he climbs in the door, his foot catching on some of the tape. "You don't know where to go?!" 

"Not exactly," I admit, scuffing my boot along the floor. 

He rubs his temples, annoyed. "We're going to be arrested. Do you have any idea what a life sentence is to someone who can't die?"

"What're you, scared?" I tease, quirking an eyebrow.

He pauses for a moment, indignant, then plants his hands on his hips and throws his head to the side. "No."

I snicker. "You can leave at any time," and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear as I sweep my eyes over the foyer. "Sorry Elliot," I say to the air. "Can't solve your murder because my undead neighbor is scared of jailtime."

"I'm not leaving," he slices his hands through the air. "You're going to get in trouble, and then you're going to need me." 

I bark a laugh, accidentally, that quiets down into chuckles, my shoulders shaking. Weston folds his arms, fingers drumming over his radius bone. After another moment of my giggling, Weston lets out a breath, and I idly wonder if he truly needs to breathe. 

"This is your plan, Lucy. Where do we start?" 

The study, my heart says. But even the thought of going up there fills me with dread, runs cold over my body. And suddenly this whole plan seems ill-formed, hasty. I'm second guessing my decision--we could get in serious trouble if we're caught. But I already brought Weston here, we need to see it through. 

I shake my head to banish the anxiety, and plant my fist in my palm. "Let's start down here." 

The floor is an open plan. On the right a dining room that leads to a kitchen, on the left a living room, with a hallway in the back that connects the two sides. 

Starting in the kitchen, everything's where it should be. Elliot had dishes drying in the sink, there's fruit going bad in the basket. I spy the first teacup I'd gifted him, hung up on a rack of other gifted cups. 

The dining room is messy like Elliot would hate, and I imagine this is where the police set up their things. There's a lot of dirt on the floor and bootprints that branch through the house, stains from spilled coffee and the residue of forensic magic. The whole room has been sloppily cleaned, if that, and there's nothing left for us to find.

We run along every baseboard, every molding, every open surface in the living room and back hallway. We tap every open wall space, tamp our feet on the floor, and flip the couch on its end. It's dusty with more forensic magic, but still, we don't find anything. All the while I expect the police to kick down the door, arrest us on the spot, send us straight to jail like Weston worried about.

Then, with Weston in the kitchen again, I find myself at the foot of the stairs. "I'm going upstairs," I announce to the empty air, as if Weston wouldn't hear me press down that third creaky step, or hear my footsteps along the second floor, because the baseboards along the top are garbage, and Elliot had been meaning to move for months.

I take a hard left towards the guest room, where the police had set up shop. Like the dining room, there's dirt tracks everywhere, the duvet is askew from people sitting on it for days. I've slept in this bed, always pristine for guests, not covered in remnants of police tape and evidence bags.

It takes me far longer to search this room than it does downstairs, partially because there's more drawers and crevices and places for things to hide, partially because I'm biding my time. After this is the master bedroom, and then the study.

I'm saved the shame of digging through my friend's bedroom when I hear Weston start up the stairs and head to the right. Hypocrisy burns through alongside the shame-- I broke into his house, what's one more room to look through? That doesn't stop me from feeling like I'm breaching some form of social contract. I wouldn't go through his things if he were out of the house and left me alone. Yes, he's gone, but he was still my friend, and he's entitled to his privacy, even in death. That's what I'd want, at least.

I exit the guest room just as Weston exits the master bedroom, gently closing the door behind him, and we meet at the wide open door of the study. It's crossed in police tape, and it takes more maneuvering to get around than the front door. 

My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking. Logically, I know Elliot isn't in here, that they moved his body days ago. 

Stepping into the room, I'm hit with a wave of grief. There's a dark stain in the shape of a body in the center of the room, seeped thoroughly into the carpet, murky and undefined. Yellow tape wraps around the room, most of it over the walls but some of it ripped and laying on the floor. There's small place cards, white and pristine against the dark backdrop of the study, each one with a number that must have corresponded to some piece of evidence. Emotion clogs up my throat. I've been in this study, looked out the window to the street below, sat on that unbroken desk and chatted with my friend.

Elliot wasn't the type to shutter his problems away. We didn't exactly share secrets, but I always thought he could tell me anything, come to me if he needed help.

A hand falls heavy on my shoulder, and I startle out of my own thoughts. Weston is looking at me, and his eyes seem dimmer than before, half the size like a shade has been pulled. 

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly. Not a plea to leave like before, but a reprieve from the emotional toll of being here.

I shake my head. "I do, though."

We scan the room like we did the floor below, examining baseboards, crevices; we pull on every book on his massive shelves, and there's nothing. I eventually work my way to the desk, a massive oak fixture, dark wood splintered right down the middle. I'm on my hands and knees, not really sure what I'm looking for, when I see a small impression in the bottommost drawer. I press it, the button depressing and a the bottom of the drawer hinging open-- a secret compartment. 

From the compartment slides a thin book, thunking lightly to the floor, along with a fountain pen.

"Weston!" I gasp, scrambling for the book. The cover is soft leather, with the same sigil on the silver piece embossed on the front. In my excitement to stand I hit my head on the underside of the desk, but I slap the book onto the portion of the desk that's still upright, ignoring the flare of pain in my head.

Weston is at my side in an instant. "What is that?"

"No idea," I breathe, straightening my tunic and flipping to the first page. "Found it hidden in the drawer. A journal?"

Opening the book, I'm hit with a burst of negative energy. It's gone as quickly as it came, like a ward against intruders. I look to Weston. "Did you feel that?"

He nods, and I open it again, a little more careful. 

We flip through pages of nonsensical jargon, mixed up sigils and corrupted runes. The source of the magic burst doesn't make itself known until we hit the dead center, where a glittering red symbol takes up both pages. The configuration is bold triangle with a rune in the center, and corresponding runes on each side connected by lines leading to the center rune. It looks like a communication line, but I don't know these runes. Was Elliot talking with someone? Someone he couldn't reach through ordinary channels?

I open my mouth to turn to Weston, when the front door slams open and a voice booms through the shouse.

"Police! This is a crime scene! You are trespassing!"

Shoot - We must've triggered some kind of alarm system.

Weston's hand on my head pushes me down behind the desk just as the bright light of a flashlight sweeps over the door. I recognize one of the voices as Martinez, the cop who questioned me at the scene. Great.

"What're they--?" Weston covers my mouth, and gestures to the window behind us.

"Before they get up here," he whispers.

There's a latch on the window that thankfully opens silently, and I thank Elliot again for his impeccable housekeeping skills when the window also pops open without a sound. I snatch the journal off the desk and shove it into my bag before Weston helps me out, his hand resting gently on my lower back as I step over the sill and onto the narrow fascia that separates the first and second floor. 

My heart is pounding, my grip on Weston's hand has to be grinding his bones together. 

"No," Weston says. "You need to go lower."

My stomach drops. "What?!" 

"I've got you," he says, his hand moving to clench over my wrist. His grip is painful, but steady.

"O-okay." I grip the sill with my free hand and flip myself so I'm pressed against the wall. At that moment, my foot slips, and I swallow a scream as my arm on the sill fails and I nearly pull Weston out the window.

I may as well be three hundred feet in the air. Sweat rolls down my back and I'm having a hard time breathing. Weston is halfway out of the building, still holding onto me.

"I'm going to drop you," Weston says, and my heart launches itself into my throat.

"No, I--!" Weston doesn't wait for me to reply, his hand releasing me, and I do my best to keep in my scream. A small squeak comes out anyway.

But my feet hit the ground nearly instantly. Oh. Right, we were only one story up.

I take a few calming breaths to ease my racing heart, and just as I have my breathing under control, Weston slams into the ground next to me.

"Wes--!" I gasp, but he scrambles to his feet and grabs my hand before I can finish his name, and we take off down the back street. We just barely miss the beam of a flashlight as it sweeps around the corner.

"Stop!" Another voice yells. It's Mr. Klangston, another officer from the precinct. He's not in the best shape, so I ignore the burning in my lungs and keep running. Maybe we can outpace him.

The buildings and streets are set on a grid, so it's easy to turn out of sight, but easy to find us once again. We duck under clotheslines and dodge trash bins, ignoring the litany of shouting behind us. My legs are burning but I cant stop, not with this notebook in my bag.

"There!" Weston points to a dark alley, and I take a sharp right. Dead end.

There's a fire escape to the right, a ladder just out of reach, but before I have time to turn and shake my head I'm being hoisted into the air, and I scramble up the escape, ignoring the slip of my hands on the cold metal. Weston is right behind me, and we both collapse onto the roof just as we hear two sets of footsteps catch up to us below.

I stare at the sky and try to catch my breath as quietly as possible, gulping down air as snippets of their conversation drift up to us.

"I just saw them!"

"They were right here!"

It's  a suspended moment of terror when Mr. Klangston mentions the ladder. 

"Do you think they--?"

"It's too high up."

I breathe out a sigh of relief as my heart continues to hammer away in my chest. Weston and I wait as their footsteps fade away, the muttered conversation of what the intruders could've wanted fading into the background. 

"That was too close," Weston says, making no moves to sit up or even look at me. "Never ask me to do that again."

With what little energy I have left, I bat him lightly over the chest. "I didn't ask you to do anything. You came along."

"I told you that you were going to need me."

I scoff, smiling. "Shut up."

We climb back down the ladder and to the street as quietly as possible, even though the cops are long gone. Dropping down the ladder is much easier than dropping down the building. 

I fish the journal out of my bag and hold it in the moonlight. No damage, thankfully. Despite going through Elliot's things, I'm glad we found this. A grin pulls at my cheeks-- we found something! Something that can explain what's happening!

At my side, Weston crosses his arms. "You're not going to take that to the police, are you?" His tone is flat, as if he already knows my answer.

My grin widens as I stuff the journal back in my bag. "Nope! And I could use your help in deciphering some of these runes."

Elliot Forsythe died sometime between seven-thirty and midnight last night, decapitated and drained of his vampiric blood. He's tall and lanky, he had cropped black hair, and skin pale as marble. He was the first friend I made upon moving to Grayslate, my neighbor for close to five years. The winter cloak I'd been meaning to return to him still sits in my hallway closet. 

Reading his memories feels like a violation, but I try to tell myself that he'd want me to do this, he'd want me to confirm it. I'd been asked, begged really, by Alma to be here. My messaging stone had gone warm with all her calls, and when I'd finally answered she'd been frantic and out of sorts. The news hadn't had time to truly set in before I was being questioned by two white men in their late forties, then sat in front of my friend's body, tracing sigils on the floor around him in chalk.

I'm thrust into memories that aren't mine, taking his place as if I were there. His childhood in the countryside with two doting if slightly overprotective parents. The fling with a naga I recognize as owning the bakery down the street makes my heart flutter as his did. Adopting his golden retriever that he named Paul brings such a rush of joy I temporarily forget I'm reading the memories of a dead man. I can smell the apple crumble his mother would bake every year for his birthday, even bringing it out on a visit when he moved to the city. The breeze in my hair is refreshing as he rides his bike to the store. 

I've been on that bike, held my legs stiff on the back wheel as he pedaled, cutting a corner too quick and nearly throwing us into traffic. We went to dingy concerts together, celebrated holidays, drank tea on Sundays when all the attractive folk were exiting the yoga studio. 

And now I'm kneeling on the floor, touching his corpse, watching memories that aren't mine. 

Soul imprints start at the beginning, so I have to sift through half-remembered interactions with faces that shift like they're underwater. I see what he sees, and his emotions are my own. I'm seeing the world through his eyes, his recollection, his senses. Everything is laid bare like cards on a table. There's sections that're gone, repressed or more likely just forgotten because they were unimportant. But I don't mind pushing past years of his life. I want to be here as little as possible. To tell the detectives what they need to know and go back home to cry at the third crystal clear memory of him hugging Paul the dog.

"How long is this going to take?" I hear one of the detectives ask. His voice is the deep baritone of the taller gentleman I spoke with upon walking in, the one I'd never seen before today. 

"Give her a second," the other one says, Martinez. He's marginally more patient because he's been running homicide longer, but not by much. Every time I'm asked to come and consult in the morgue he offers me a coffee afterwards, giving me a look that says he wants to be there about as much as I do.

"Body's getting cold," the other one, not-Martinez, says under his breath. "She's gonna waste all the evidence."

"You know she can hear you, right?"

It's barely been five minutes and for the third time I have to resist rolling my eyes or break the imprint and start over.

I hit a patch in the imprint, something Elliot wouldn't want me to see. He didn't consciously block it out, but for being his last memories everything is faded like he wanted to forget.

I'm sprinting up the stairs leading to the office. That barricade at the door won't hold them long, and I need to get--

BAM!

The door flies open behind me but I'm too afraid to turn around. I need to get to the study, it's only a few steps more.

"Oh Elliot," a female voice mocks behind me. "Where ya goin, Ellie?"

Quickly, I need to act quickly. Barricading the door could work, so I start at that, slamming the door to the study shut, my eyes landing on the biggest, nearest object and dragging it over.

"He uh, he was in this room," I say, trying to breathe only through my mouth so I don't inhale Elliot's stench. The burning basil and essential oils only do so much. 

"Yes, we know that," the new detective says, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"He's breathing pretty heavy." I frown, concentrating. Everything becomes blurry, he's blinking a lot, and the whole world shakes. 

"I think he's crying," I say as the vision whips wildly back and forth--Elliot is looking for something. My heart flutters in my chest. "He's-- he's really scared." 

Elliot's emotions and thoughts slam into me like a train. If he had been more careful, kept his head down, they wouldn't have found him. He wouldn't be running from one of Donahue's pawns in his own damn home. He couldn't escape, there was no point in trying to run. Maybe if he let out Paul it could distract them enough that--no, what the fuck was wrong with him? Paul did nothing wrong, it was him. All of this was his fault. 

I nearly fall backwards as something grabs me by the collar and hauls me backwards. Elliot screams, desperately grasping for the hands on his back, before the vision rolls, blurring as he skids across the floor. 

"No, please," he breathes out, bringing his arms up as the assailant brings a fist up and knocks it across his face. I can make out the barest of features. This is what the detectives want.

"A half-orc woman. Green skin, dark brown hair."

She punches him again, the sickening crunch of his nose rattling my skull.

"Shouldn't'a left us, Ellie!" Another jab to the face. The image is still blurred, by tears and blood, but he manages to spit a tooth in her face. Good on you, Elliot.

I can only watch as Elliot tries to crawl away and is dragged back by the ankle and tossed into his desk like a dishrag. The vision goes black on impact, immediately followed by the crack of splintering wood. I wince in sympathy. That toss definitely broke some ribs. 

Elliot opens his eyes, blurry and blinking against the pain. It's like a slideshow of images, in each photo that half-orc woman moves closer. She kneels in front of Elliot, a hand reaching out to yank him by the hair and drag him across the floor. I hear her voice,  muffled like he has earmuffs on, and I hear her cackle. Elliot begs for his life, barely intelligible strings of words born of fear and desperation.

"No please, I'll double," "Make your dreams true," "Please, please, please don't hurt my dog."

Does he remember any magic from school? A basic defense spell, a ward against evil, anything? He raises his hand to cast a defensive spell, and his hand is slammed down against the ground for his effort. 

"You thought you could hide?" The boot on his hand grinds it into the ground. "You thought you could escape?"

I feel Elliot's panic rising, acid in the back of my throat. I want to scream, but the boot on my throat cuts off my air. 

"No--" He chokes out, begging over and over. 

They quickly draw a sigil with their index finger, a sigil I've never seen before. My stomach drops and I feel like I'm falling, the sheer depth of what's about to happen hitting me all at once. I'm going to die. She's going to kill me. I open my mouth to scream, but the woman sends the glyph with the flick of a finger and everything goes black. 

I come back to the world with a harsh inhale, grasping at my throat for the--no, that isn't me.

My head is spinning with memories I never experienced, sensations I've never felt. Coming out of soul imprints are always rough, but I've never had whiplash like this. It's hard to separate the vision from reality as the brain tries to consolidate the two. 

I squeeze my eyes shut against the headache forming under my temples, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. 

"Where's Paul?" 

The detectives look at each other, then to me. Martinez speaks up, "The dog has been taken to the pound."

The pound?! He'll never survive in--

No, wait. That's Elliot, still in my head. 

Okay, deep breath. In, then out. One more. Okay. The moment of silence stretches as I center myself again. I can feel both detectives staring at me, judging me. 

When I open my eyes, I'm blinded by the light streaming in through the far window. The early morning sun cuts the room into even thirds, and floods me in a sea of gold.  As my eyes adjust gradually to the light, I can make out the desk, nearly split in half. 

I relay Elliot's final moments to them, the more I talk the grimmer their faces become. Martinez takes notes as I speak, his heavy brow folding further and further inward as I go. 

Of the few cases I've consulted on, none have been a murder case. Memories are fickle things, easily manipulated or just flat out erased. It's why this ritual isn't taken seriously anymore, why it's not admissible in court. The brain is suggestible, temperamental. This assailant could wind up having the face of a dead relative, or transform into Paul the dog, it depends on the victim. But the face I see is the same one I saw in the back of the police car on the way here. The last moments of a soul can vary in presentation, depending on the manner of death, the memory of the passed, and a whole bunch of other things I don't have control over. 

As Martinez flips his notebook shut, the two of them share a look and then walk out of the room to talk, leaving me alone.

I stand, averting my gaze from the corpse of my friend, trying to look anywhere else. Elliot knew her, knew this woman, but he never mentioned any half-orc. Was she a vengeful ex, or maybe an old friend? The imprint didn't tell me much, but Elliot wasn't confused by her presence, he knew her from somewhere--but where?

A glint of light catches my eye, right under the desk. Like a bit of exposed metal or a screw. The curious part of my soul wants to pick it up, to have something of Elliot's that I can cherish. The coat is going in the donation pile-- knowing I never returned it will be a boon on my soul.

It's almost completely jammed inside the wood, my nails just long enough to pry it out without breaking any. Upon inspection, the piece isn't a piece at all--it's a button, about the size of a dollar coin. On the face is a sigil, but one that looks corrupted. It's similar to the symbols on Elliot's body, chaotic, with no flow to it. I've never seen it before. There's a splash of blood on one face, dark red and dried. Could it be important? It's small enough to miss on an initial sweep of the premise, and logic dictates that I should give it to the police. 

I go to the door, hoping to provide some useful information, when the voices of the two men make me stop.

"Did we really need her here? We have our murderer."

"I don't like it either, but the boss asked for her specifically. When that magic shit actually works it helps a lot, apparently."

"Well it didn't help today. She looked around and told us what we already knew."

"At least we don't have to pay her," the new one says, and Martinez scoffs a laugh. 

I scoff under my breath. They think I'm useless? Well, I'm going to find out what this button means--without their help. It slips easily to the bottom of my pocket when the two walk back in and I'm pretending to examine the cracked desk.

"Please don't touch anything," not-Martinez drones. "This is an active crime scene."

I put on my cheeriest face, the one I use when grouchy customers try to call me a hack when my luck charm didn't win them the lottery. "Of course not, detectives. Did you need anything else?"

Martinez offers me a sympathetic expression. "Do you have anything else to tell us?"

For a split moment, I fear my thievery has been discovered. My hand falls to my dress pocket where the button is stored, but neither of the detectives are looking at me accusingly. They're just bored. They're not after me, they want me gone.

"I wish I had more to tell," I confess, gesturing down to Elliot, but still resolutely not looking at him. "He knew the murderer--"

"Alleged," the new one  mutters.

"And I don't recognize any of these sigils." I sweep my arm over the circle on his body and the floor. Bright orange, arranged in a circle, the center right where Elliot's head should be.

"Well, thanks for the help," he mutters sarcastically.

"This is a pretty open and shut case," Martinez says, looking down at Elliot. "We have the perp in custody. Think you could magic up a better confession?"

The two of them share a chuckle, and I try not to seem too indignant as I force a smile. I know Martinez isn't being cruel on purpose, he's just a callous guy. I'm glad I don't work with him.

I step out of the room and I feel like I can breathe. There's another room to the right of me, filled with officers. That's Elliot's bedroom. I can walk in there as easy as breathing, I know there's a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony that overlooks the yoga studio across the street. The wheel on the door squeaks when it opens. 

Elliot's shop is next to mine, but his home is a few blocks away, about a ten minute walk in the opposite direction. I wonder if the shop is closed, or if his brother Brenan is running it today.

"Lucy!" Alma's voice rings out from the bottom of the stairs. She pushes through her subordinates, flitting over to me on her translucent pink wings. At first she seems excited to see me, but her face falls as she gets closer. "You look like hell."

I rub my arm. I just want to go. "Been a long day."

She reads something in my face, her brows pinching in concern. "Did you know him?"

I can't lie my way out of a paper bag, so I nod.

Alma grimaces. "Shit, I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if--"

"It's fine," I say in a rush. "Honestly if I had heard it from somewhere else I would've broken."

She rubs her hands up and down my arms. "If you're sure…"

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "Yeah, yeah."

"Were Martinez and Becker nice?"

I shrug and offer her a smile. "They were just doing their jobs."

She looks past me, and glares. She's a full head shorter than me, nearly my opposite in appearance. Short blonde hair, pale white skin, petite frame and an angular face. We've been friends since grade school, and she always has my back. "I'll talk to them later."

I cringe. "You really don't have to." I'd hate for her to yell at them over me, they were just doing their jobs.

She turns those hard brown eyes to me. "I asked you here for a reason. If they don't respect that, they need an attitude adjustment."

I pull her into my chest in a hug. "Thanks, Alma."

Her tiny hands pat my back reassuringly. "Go home and get some rest. You need a ride?"

"I'll walk." I pull back and Alma eyes me skeptically. "I need the fresh air, promise."

She squeezes my arm. "Call if you need anything, and I'll stop by on Friday."

After another hug, I start down the stairs and out the front door. I don't get very far before I'm stopped by Carlos, another relatively new officer who doesn't look up from his laptop to hand me a business card.

"If you think of anything, give us a call," he drones, and I slip the card, which presumably has his number on it, in my pocket. It's going straight in the garbage.

After another lengthy questioning session, some papers to sign stating my silence on the subject, and more condescending glances I really don't need, I'm finally allowed to step out of Elliot's home and into the street.

A crowd has gathered, just past the barricade setup by the department. Police lights and their bright yellow border spells are like magnets to the general populace. There's a group of reporters with their cameras and flash bulbs, surrounding several officers already trying to get as much information as possible out of them. 

I slink by unnoticed, and for that I'm glad. I push through the sparse crowd on the sidewalk and into the freedom of the street. It's a clear day, blue skies, the wind in my hair would be nice on the bike--

No, I don't have a bike.

The street is full of cars, the sidewalk full of pedestrians. Human, fae, fiend, and everything in between crowd around me, commuting to work, or going home, or even just out for a stroll. All of them blithely unaware that just around the corner, on the second floor of the suite, lies a dead man. And the world just keeps turning. It doesn't feel fair.

Categorizing what I need to do in my head is a decent enough distraction. Mrs. Kinoko ordered a long-lasting protective charm for her daughter that's moving at the end of the month, and I can work on that in my lunch. The Dredsy twins need their weekly cleansing water which I have waiting for them in the back room. A gentleman named Leon asked for a bundle of lavender charms for his home to ward of thieves.

I round the corner and nearly stop walking. There's a line outside my shop that reaches the next shop over. I walk past the black marble and darkened windows of Mr. Engstrom's clock repair, also taking the chance to catch a glimpse inside. Nothing, as usual. 

I walk to the front door and dissolve the seal keeping the door locked. “Good afternoon everyone, thank you for waiting!”

“You in trouble, hun?” Ms. Garrett asks with a smile. “The cops finally caught ya?”

“You know it,” I reply with a wink, and a few people chuckle.

There's a lot to do, a lot of orders to fill, and I'm jittery. This morning threw me off, toppled my plans. I have charms to make and talismans to saturate. The wards around the shop to notify me of theft are starting to dim so I need to reset those, and the sprigs of lavender growing in my windowsill are starting to sag, so I probably need to water them with extra love. There's just so much to do my head is spinning as everyone outside rushes into my shop.

"Do you have any more of this cream?"

"How about my Polly--you know her, right?--any charms to make her schooling go well?"

"Did you see all the police down the street?"

"Oh yes, I've seen them! Nasty business, that."

Conversation and the buzz of a busy afternoon flows over me like water, I'm so overstimulated that nothing has any meaning anymore. The talk of Elliot feels like a thorn in my side, something I need to square away for later. That's an issue for after the shop has closed, after everyone has gone home and I go upstairs to mourn in silence.

"Here Mrs. Briggs, give three doses to your husband and his arthritis should start to feel better."

"No--! Please don't touch that! It's decoration only!"

"Yes, I'm so sorry about that, let me offer you a refund."

I don't get a chance to think about much of anything. It's all turned into noise, a pleasant fuzz that surrounds my head like a raincloud. By the time the day is over, I'm collapsing into a hot bath and nearly falling asleep in it.

Only when I fold my dress over a chair does that button fall out of my pocket. I pick it up off the floor, examining it in the low light of the room. Taking it to the sink, I scrub the dried blood off, watching it swirl down the sink in a red-brown haze.

The button glows, a soft silver light projecting onto my hand. The corrupted glyph on both faces is apparent, and when I angle it away from my face, I see the glyph almost takes on the image of a face. It's got an angry expression, with horns jutting out from the head and cheeks.

The button catches the light again, reflecting the yellow glow of the room, and reflects onto my hand. Suddenly, the button glows red-hot, the sigil burning into my palm like a brand. I drop the button with a yelp, the smell of burnt skin invading my nose. Rushing to turn on the sink I run my hand under cold water to assuage the pain, and it helps a little, but when I pat my hand dry, in the center of my palm sits that corrupted sigil.

From my bathroom, I grab a salve, rubbing it over the burn mark and leaving the button on the counter. Sigils don't…do that. At least, no sigil I've come across has ever burnt me. Eyeing it from the bathroom like the button will grow legs and charge at me, I step into my room and shut the door. Today has been chaos, absolute chaos, and I don't have time for demonic buttons. I can worry about it tomorrow.

Hand throbbing, I fall into a fitful sleep, hoping tomorrow brings less heartbreak.

The following handful of days are monotonous. I drift through them in a haze, stuck on autopilot because anything else is too overwhellming. Customers come in, customers go out. All the while, my mind is buzzing, my thoughts an incessant fly around my head.

I wave goodbye to Elliot as the coroner's vehicle rolls down the street. I watch as police go back and forth down the street, flashing bulbs painting my shop in shades of blue and red.

It's halfway through the evening when I can't take it anymore. I watch as a young couple peruse the racks of charms I offer towards the front. They're the type not to buy anything, simply coming into a witch's shop for the fun, and I don't mind patrons like that as long as they don't try to steal anything. The boy has wispy black hair pushed away from his face, he's tall and lean, and out of the corner of my eye I thought, just for a moment, that Elliot had come into my shop like he always does on his days off. 

And I'm hit with a pang of melancholy so powerful, so concentrated, that I'm bent over myself before I can think. Every feeling I'd been hoping to store away comes rushing out full force--the anger, the fear, the sorrow, oh the sorrow. No more dances, no more tea, no more easy conversation over pastries. It feels incredibly selfish to think of it this way, what I'm lacking instead of what his family, his other friends may be without, but I can't help it. All I can think about it what I'll miss, the void in my life, what can't be replaced.

I crouch on the floor, as if being closer to the tile will make my descent into grief that much easier. 

Mr. Guss toddles up to me, sympathy etched in the lines on his face. He pats my back as I dissolve into sobs and the few people in the shop awkwardly shuffle out.

"I'm sorry," he says, his hand big and heavy over my back. "He was a good kid."

I don't respond, but I don't think he expects me to, and for that I'm grateful.

The chime over the door goes off and I hear Lady Duranta exclaim, "Oh dear!" before she also toddles over with her clicking heels and cane.

Lady Dee is a regular, and has been since I first opened. She's always been there when I'm in a crisis, whether that be telling off a grouchy customer or helping me put out a fire, she always manages to turn up at the worst of times. Once I'd asked whether she had any magic lineage and she'd just laughed and continued helping me pick up a shattered kettle from the shelf. It makes sense she'd be here when I'm having a moment of hysteria. 

"I'll take it from here, Guss," she says, her voice like butter. 

Guss, who seems quite uncomfortable, shuffles around us to my other side.

"Are you going to be okay, Ms. Breban?"

It takes me a minute to gulp down the air necessary to respond. "Fine, I'll be fine."

Mr. Guss awkwardly pats my shoulder, and I hear the chime of the bell go off and the slide of the lock in place.

Lady Dee is at my side again, fretting over me as she guides me to the ground. We sit there, on the dirty floor, as I sob my brains out and she rubs my arms with her wizened hands. She can be harsh, pushy, but she also has a soft side. She never chides me for getting upset, not that she's seen much of it. But this side that cares for me, wipes my tears away. I didn't know my grandmother, both of them passed before I was born, but I imagine Lady Dee would be a good fit.

I manage to stop hyperventilating long enough to watch another round of police officers glance in my window and roll their eyes.

Lady Dee sighs above me. "I'm going to miss him too, dear," she says into the quiet of the store.

***

Because I was raised to be a good host, I lead her to the small storage room in the back, where I've hooked up a small portable stovetop with a kettle. Calling the moisture in the air to create water feels like a heavy blanket on my shoulders, but calling it in such a way gives the tea a clean, crisp taste that tap water just doesn't compare to.

Lady Dee won't let me do any more though, ushering me to sit at the small card table I've set up, sitting me in one of the rickety folding chairs that I've needed to repair for going on two years now. It squeaks unpleasantly as I sit, and the silence is broken by Lady Dee making tea and my occasional sniffing.

Crying always leaves me feeling hollowed out. It allows me the space to think, but also feel guilty for focusing on myself. I'm competent enough to store away such unsavory emotions for a later date, but the past few days I've been too exhausted to do anything past make myself dinner and go to bed. Perhaps this was a long time coming, then. I should know better.

Still, the space is quiet, and I feel my mind working over the case.

Elliot knew who his killer was, and he was afraid. The information gleaned from his soul imprint didn't tell me a lot, but there must have been something I missed, that the detectives missed. They can't just let this go, there's got to be more. The killer they have in custody called them to admit to the murder, then just sat in his study, waiting. That's too easy. There's got to be something.

I'm starting in on a headache when Lady Dee sets a steaming cup of tea in front of me.

"You're shaking like a leaf, dear," she says as she sits, reaching over to grab my hands in hers.

"It's…" I huff a humorless laugh. "It's been a week."

"I'm surprised you opened up at all. Once I heard, I thought you'd be closed until Monday at least."

I shrug, hopeless. "I thought…distraction."

She raises a thin eyebrow. "Maybe some time off would help more?"

"You're probably right." I bring the cup to my lips and take a deep inhale. She'd picked a morning blend: jasmine, marigold, orange, and lemongrass. It's bright, refreshing me as I sip. Lady Dee is right, I probably need to take a break, but I can't just close my shop for three days. I have orders due, ingredients I need to use. There's a shipment of flowers coming in that I need to hang and dry, and a cannister of cleansing water for my tools that's about to expire.

Lady Dee looks at me over her own cup. "I know you're not going to rest. I can see your mind working from here. What is it?"

I rest my head heavily on one hand. "Elliot was good. Who would want him dead?"

She brings her cup to her lips and takes a long sip before saying, "People always have something to hide."

My attention drifts to the button in my pocket. Lady Dee has been around, traveled the world. Maybe she'll recognize this symbol. I fish the thing out of my pocket, and set it on the table.

"I found this where he-- at the scene. Have you seen it?"

Her eyes light up as she sets down the tea cup. "What's this?"

"I'm not sure. This symbol," I tap the button with my finger. "I've never seen it before."

My hand is still wrapped up from the burn, but I keep my palm down all the same. I don't want to worry her, especially if this rune is something bad.

She squints at it, adjusts her glasses and leans in, and then she shakes her head. "Could it be necromantic?"

My face screws in confusion. "I don't think so. Mom was super strict on what to avoid when she was teaching me, and that doesn't look at all familiar."

And as far as I know, Elliot wasn't into anything illegal. But then again, everyone has something to hide, I suppose. 

"You know who might know," she says, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "That dashing fellow next door."

I flush. "Mr. Engstrom?" He is well put together, dashing as Lady Dee says, but he's also very intimidating. We've shared only a handful of words in the scant few years I've run my shop next to his.

Lady Dee smiles like she's in on a secret. "He's the one. Been around longer than I have. Maybe he could help."

I tither with my gloves. "I wouldn't want to bother him this late."

It's late afternoon, most shops are preparing to close for the night. Surely we'd just be bothering him at this hour.

"Nonsense! I just walked by, he's as dead as a drowned rat, could probably use the company!" As she speaks, Lady Dee pulls me from behind the counter and then gently but firmly steers me out the door.

Whenever I walk by his shop, he's bent over his desk with long, dangerous tools in his gloved hands. The skull that makes up his head doesn't allow for expressions, barely even moves as he talks, so I never know what he's thinking.

His shopfront is the opposite of mine. I try to maintain an open atmosphere with bright colors and smiles, I even installed a purple awning for shade last year. But Mr. Engstrom's front is all black marble and darkened windows.

Mr. Engstrom's shop has a towering spiral of dark brick and mortar up top that immediately caught my eye when I first moved to the city. I'd wanted to be close to it, like a moth to flame, or maybe use it as a landmark to bring customers back. I never see many people coming or going from it, but I do see several regulars once every month. It must be enough to afford the ridiculously high rent, because he's never seemed too stressed about it.

Not that we've had many conversations. Mr. Engstrom isn't cold per say, just rather quiet. Our longest interaction was asking him to repair the locking mechanism in my door, and it proved the most awkward interaction I'd ever been in. I'd invited him for tea afterwards and he refused, like he couldn't return home fast enough. He did an amazing job though, the lock has never faltered since.

The door to his shop is open despite the hour, and Lady Dee brings me inside. "West! I have a visitor for you!"

The shop is empty and dark, and I realize I've never actually set foot in here, only viewed it through the large window pointing towards the street.

I'm greeted by high ceilings and an open balcony to the second floor. The walls are filled with clocks, grandfathers along the floor and chimes on the wall and even more hung all the way up to the open second floor. They start huge at the bottom and get smaller towards the top, like a waterfall of metal and glass. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a single clock, and distant footsteps.

"Miss Duranta, it is very late and--" The door at the back left opens, and Mr. Engstrom appears, holding a lantern aloft in one hand. The round, quarter-sized lights inside his eye sockets flick to Lady Dee, then to me, and back to Lady Dee. The silence is broken by that steady ticking, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. 

I've only ever seen Mr. Engstrom through the front window of the shop, or bent over when hes working. He's tall, his form is lithe, his clothes hold volume as if there's a body underneath. In the low light of his lantern I see a faint flicker all around his head--heat waves, like the air above a fire. Is that the magic keeping him upright? I don't know much about reanimation or necromantic magic, only that most of it has been banned, but this makes me want to research it. I want to know how he works.

He must have been preparing to retire for the night. His waistcoat is gone, and the shirt underneath has been rolled up to the elbows, the first few buttons undone casually. His clothes sit above his frame, as if there were flesh and blood underneath. It gives the appearance that his sleeves are floating, and I can't look away.

Lady Dee speaks up. "This lovely young lady is your neighbor."

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me, and I straighten my back. "I'm well aware," he says.

Lady Dee scoffs. "And she needs your help!"

The lights in his eyes move in a circle, like he's rolling them. "Could this not wait until morning?" 

"Emergencies don't wait!" she fires back.

They bicker a bit more, and it's strange. I expected an echo to his voice, but there's none. I've spoken to living armor at the museum, their voices reverberating with a tinny flatness that accentuates their polite upbringing, but his doesn't. It's just deep, rich. However subtle, there's emotion there, inflection. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I'm talking to a man.

But I wouldn't want to close my eyes, because he is fascinating up close. The two of them seem to come to some conclusion while I was lost in thought, because Lady Dee pats me on the back and says, "Go on, dear," as Mr. Engstrom steps back to his countertop at the back of the store.

He sets the lantern on the countertop with a heavy thud, leaning on one arm, the other planted on his hip. "Well, Ms. Breban?"

Lady Dee scoffs. "Don't be rude, West."

I know Lady Dee means well, but she's been trying to set me up with potential suitors since I moved here. Told me that I had no business being on my own for my whole life. So she had made it her life's mission to find me a partner. Maybe she'd picked up on my small, miniscule fascination for Mr. Engstrom, but her encouragement and obliviousness to his regard for me aren't helping me calm down.

I walk up to the counter, fumbling around in my pocket for the button. Setting it on the counter, I crush the urge to step back and instead let my arms fall to my sides.

Mr. Engstrom tips the lantern forward, illuminating the button a fiery red and orange. His other hand comes up to rub his chin, and he hums thoughtfully.

Lady Dee mentioned that Mr. Engstrom is old, but she never said how old. Lady Dee appears to be in her seventies at least, but I've never asked Mr. Engstrom his age. It seemed rude, especially over smalltalk while he was doing me a favor.

"Well?" Lady Dee says to my right, nearly scaring the daylights out of me. "Anything good?"

Another long moment passes, my face tilted towards the mysterious button, until Mr. Engstrom tilts his head towards me. I mirror the movement, our faces very close, and he starts, standing up straight.

"Where did you find this?"

I twist my fingers in my hands. Will he go to the police if I say--

Lady Dee comes to my rescue. "She nabbed it off the street, what's it matter?" 

He looks between us, unconvinced as he folds his arms over his chest. "That hardly constitutes an emergency."

Lady Dee groans. "Do you know what it is or not?"

He hums, one hand coming to his chin again, before aiming his gaze back to me. "Might I borrow this for the evening?" he asks, straightening his shirt.

I pause, unsure. "Oh, uh, of course. Is everything…?"

"Quite alright, Ms. Breban."

"Call her Lucy," Lady Dee slaps me on the back a little too hard, making me huff out my breath.

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me. The lights, shutter for a quick moment before reigniting, like he just blinked. And he's awaiting my approval, so I nod once, embarrassment warning my cheeks and forcing me to look down at the floor. I doubt a handful of sentences constitutes knowing me familiarly enough, but if I press the issue we'll be here all night. I'd hate to keep him up, I've already put him out enough as it is.

"Very well," he says, picking up the button and pocketing it. "Once you're closed up tomorrow evening, come by."

***

The customers are full of gossip, nowhere to go but the closest shop after the police department cleaned up Elliot's shop. It was awful--cars everywhere, dozens of officers coming and going. A few stopped into my shop and looked around, and I'd been terrified that they'd start questioning why they found my fingerprints at the scene. But the worst of it came from the customers, gossipping amongst themselves.

"Who lived there?"

"What happened?"

"I heard it was a murder."

"Not a murder you dolt! A suicide!"

"Suicide?! How could anyone do such a thing? It's beyond me."

Sometimes they ask my opinion, but then quickly talk over me in favor of conspiratorial whispers and judgemental stares. It's not answers they want, it's gossip. So I let it flow over me, centering myself in my work and the best way to serve my customers. There's orders piling up, so I begin to work through those as the day ebbs around me.

The space is loud, full, and normally I like it, it's easy to fall into and block out the rest of the world. But not when I'm trying to think.

What could that symbol have been? Did Mr. Engstrom recognize it? He hasn't contacted me today, but I'm still planning on visiting his shop tonight.

The end of the day can't come soon enough, as I lock up the front door and rush over to Mr. Engstrom's shop. I'm surprised to feel that the door is unlocked, expecting to have to wait outside for more direction. There's usually magic surrounding this door, like my own. Magic to keep out thieves. But right now there's none.

It's dark inside. I thought the windows had been tinted but no, he's dimmed the lights. I hadn't gotten a good look at the shop last night, it was hard to see in the darkness. But now I see everything is in black marble, with clocks along the walls and a large pendulum mounted stationary on the wall. 

Mr. Engstrom is bent over his bench, like usual. He's looking at something small that I can't see from the other side of the room, he hadn't even acknowledged my presence. The only sound is my breathing and the ticking of a clock that I can't see, and then my boots as I pad up to him. I clear my throat, and he doesn't budge.

"Um, Mr. Engstrom--"

"Please, call me Weston."

"...Weston." I like saying that. I like that we can be friends instead of just neighbors.

Walking up to the countertop, into view comes a small piece, barely the size of a coin. There's even smaller pieces laying against the black table top that're barely bigger than my fingernail, and he's working with tools that are the width of a needle. Weston doesn't seem to have any magnifying glasses on--then again, why would he need them?--and the light is so low I have to squint until my eyes adjust. "What're you working on, if I may ask?"

He stares at me for a long moment, the candles behind his eyes flickering like he's considering something. Then he puts his head down back to his work. "If you must know, it's a time-piece from the early 16th century. Priceless family heirloom and they couldn't be bothered to keep it clean."

His tone is clipped, he doesn't bother looking up at me again. I shuffle my feet, the sound grating against the peace and quiet. "I can come back later if--"

His head snaps up. "No, no, it's--" he sits up, running a gloved hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Ms. Breban, it's been a very frustrating day."

"Lucy."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Lucy."

His head lifts and he focuses his gaze on me. "Lucy," he says slowly, and a shiver runs up my spine. "That silver piece you gave me was quite the find."

Silver piece. "It's…not a button?"

He shakes his head, "It's an ancient piece of currency. Come with me," and stands lifts the divider in the table. But instead of moving towards the stairs at the front of the shop, he leads me further back, into the wares. There's an adequate amount of light back here, and it's needed. Stacks and stacks of boxes line the walls, some two or three deep, marking a jagged path that we take to the back of the shop. Some are open and filled with carefully organized papers, others still filled with smaller boxes and labels with script so small I can't read it. There's a lot here, but it's organized. Like my shop, it seems. 

We go further back than I thought the building stretched, when Weston stops. There's a ladder, leading directly upwards

"I wasn't sure at first," he says as he starts climbing. "But I've seen this symbol before."

The attic, like the back of the shop, is crowded with boxes and various objects. But unlike the back of the shop, there's no organization here. As if everything had been thrown here and forgotten, I wouldn't know where to even begin. There's trinkets, and clocks, and I see the glint of armor in the back corner. There's fabric so faded with time that I can't begin to parse out what it even is, and some items that seem almost brand new in comparison.

And over everything, old and new, is a layer of dust that makes my nose itch. 

There's a small path in the floor that winds to the back, and I see a book shelf along the back wall. It's where he leads me to, pulling a book down from a high shelf. Thick and faded, it's a tome at least two inches thick, but through the dust I can see the chaotic symbol on the cover.

"I knew I'd seen it somewhere before," Weston says, opening to a depression between the pages, revealing my silver piece in the margins. "Spent all night looking for it."

"You didn't lose sleep over me, I hope," I say, leaning over his shoulder to look. This is exciting, I feel like a detective. Not the ones I dealt with last week, but ones who solve mysteries. It's also easier being around him without watchful, expectant eyes on us. My heart thumps in my chest as I rest a hand on his arm.

Weston starts at the contact, and I instantly feel bad for leaning into his personal space. "This symbol is old. Very old."

"Older than you?"

He huffs a breath of amusement, the first I've heard. "Not quite."

He flips through pages so thin I can see the print on the opposite side, looking for something specific. The print is too small for me to skim, and the blocks of text with carefully detailed scientific diagrams make me think it's a reference text of some sort.

Weston continues flipping, until he gets to a page with the same symbol as the silver piece, surrounded by others I recognize from the crime scene. There's a small block of text on the opposite page that I can't read in the dark.

"At the time, they were called Messengers of the Enlightened." He reads from the small block of text, "A small underground following of the Enlightened One, they attempt to bring her into this plane and usher in a new era."

I frown. "Sounds like a cult."

"How so?"

"Elliot's…body," I shudder at the memory. "He was covered in these." I point to the symbols on the following page. They're not quite runes, but also not quite sigils. Something in between, as if someone had been experimenting. Even in this non-magical book they feel…corrupted. I lean into Weston, trying to get a better look as I flip to the next page.

"Where did you say this book was from?"

"I took it from a library in the 3rd Century." Well there go my worries about Weston calling the police.

"So this information could be outdated?"

"Oh it certainly is," he clicks the book shut. "You said your friend owned a shop? He was social and had friends?"

I nod.

"Then this is likely much bigger than a handful of members now. Indoctrinating the general public instead of remaining underground as they were likely means they've grown significantly." He pauses for a moment, then looks to me. "Was there anything else at the scene that looked like this sigil?"

I chew on my lower lip, hopeless. "I didn't really get a good look. I only saw the button--silver piece, because it caught the light. But…" I trail off, thinking. "The police hadn't done much to the scene. When I got there, they were driving off with the murderer, and only wanted me to confirm it was them."

The police there didn't seem particularly interested in investigating, either. Mostly they stood around answering press questions. They definitely could have missed something. 

I whirl on Weston, "We have to go back."

He blinks at me several times, the lights in his eyes shuttering. "Back? Back where?"

"The crime scene!"

"I don't think that's--"

"Listen! The police must have missed something, looked over a detail that we can find!"

Weston snaps the book against his palm. "That is out of the question."

I throw my hand in the air. "Then I'll go by myself!"

Weston points a finger at me. "I was willing to overlook you tampering with evidence. But this is too dangerous."

"But if there's something there that could help--"

He throws his hands out, and his eyes, for the briefest moment, flash red. "No!"

I flinch at his shout, so sudden and abrasive it's like opening a window. To think he could get so angry over me, basically a stranger.

Weston pauses, looking at me up and down, and then rights himself, turning his head away and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I apologize, I shouldn't have shouted."

I look down at the coin in my hands, a frown puckering my brow. It would be stupid to leave this alone, but the police aren't going to do anything about it. I flip the coin in my hands and sigh. "I suppose I should take this information to the police…"

Weston places the book back on the shelf, and crosses his arms. "And why is that an issue?"

Mirroring him, I fold my arms, grabbing each side with my hands. "They said it was too much work, it was above their paygrade. They'd seen another like this before but--"

"They discussed the case with you?"

I flush. "Not exactly…I kind of…listened in. But they didn't care! Not about Elliot, or his death, or even his sweet dog and--"

Tears build in my eyes again, and I furiously wipe them away. I'm not sad, I'm angry! This isn't fair to Elliot, to be tossed into another cold case file! Something needs to be done! Angrily, I stomp on an open patch of the floor, and dust springs up like a water spout, flying into the air, and then straight into my face. I'm thrown into a coughing fit that has me keeled over, and Weston's hand is on my back, guiding me to an equally dusty lounge chair. Sitting on it kicks up more dust, so I hold my breath until it settles. He sits next to me, hands falling to his lap as I try to recall how to breathe correctly.

"What kind of dog?" he asks.

I huff, very mature, and stare at a spot on the ground. "What do you care?"

He rests his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He says quietly, "I love dogs. Used to breed them for a line of monarchs in the Alps."

His tone is so sincere, like he's never told anyone that before, a secret just between the two of us. I crumble a little. "Paul. A golden retriever, barely a year old. And they just threw him in the pound."

I swipe at my tears again, and Weston offers me a handkerchief. It's a small square of silk, and I wonder why he has it if he can't cry.

"That's a shame. Young dog like that, someone is bound to pick him up eventually, though."

I only shrug my shoulders and sniff away more tears. They wouldn't take as good care of him as Elliot. I would've taken him in if I'd had the space, or the time. But I have neither, so poor Paul is left up to chance.

We sit as my tears dry, and I hand him back the silk handkerchief, that he tucks away in his waistcoat. Weston looks down at his hands, and clears his throat. "Well, if you're not going to the police, then I'm coming with you."