Chapter One: Night Shade

A nearly full moon cast the city of Evening in a dim, sickly, yellow green light. It was an unusual place, even for Night Shade Isle. Built into the mouths of several converging rivers that spilled into the Bay of The Claw, the city was a craggy, spindly, struggling metropolis carved out of the remnants of dead giants who had fallen who knew how many thousands of years before. Evening looking out over the dull brown waters of the 5th Sea and didn’t so much rest as sprawl. The city was protected on the ocean side by a string of deadly rocks called The Mermaid’s Teeth. Supply ships got in and out through a narrow pass into the harbor and the twin guard towers affectionately referred to as The Jaw. They jutted out into the water like fangs.

The rest of the isle beyond the city was made up of scraggly farmland and forests, and all was encircled by a mountain range known only as Wailing Heights. The peoples of Night Shade had a flair for dramatic naming.

The great city sat at the very tip of the isle, with precarious towers cutting the skyline and shantytowns springing up in every vacant space like a fungus. Law and order was not so much maintained as bought in the city, and many a traveler, wanderer, and resident found their lives drastically shortened in its rough and ragged streets.

Evening’s neighborhoods were carefully demarcated, little kingdoms inside a heartless, grinding machine. An uneasy, superficial peace existed as long as everyone stayed to their side of Hangman’s Bridge, the universal line between have’s and have not’s. For the most part this masquerade of peace was maintained through disdain from the Quality, and disinterest from the Scum. The only time the “law” got involved was to punish those who transgressed. Not surprisingly, this almost never included anyone with wealth. Or certain family names.

There were high and low houses, titles mattered, as did whatever “kind” you belonged to. Very few were “pure bloods” of any sort, though some liked to pretend. Which amused the rest since their lines were the least likely to be free of hybridization.

Even most of the technically human in Evening had something that wasn’t in their families somewhere. Most of them didn’t result in any abilities but some did have cosmetic effects. Those children who didn’t…fit in sometimes ended up in the orphan houses in The Pits. The street gangs there were full of the discarded and unwanted from all parts of Evening.

The Pits was what the residents of the slums called it, though its proper name was really Stone Heights. Old timers told of era’s bygone when it had been clean and full of businesses and prosperity. It was still full of business, just not the kind most folk liked to do in the daylight. And to the current residents it seemed unlikely it had ever been prosperous, the city thrived on eating its own too much and a place like The Pits gave it the perfect dish to pick from. Clean might have been possible if there had once been people who did nothing else but scrub the streets. It was difficult for anyone in The Pits to see the point. Dirt just came back. Might as well let it build up into nice cushiony layers.

There were those who dwelt in a kind of middle space between the two extremes of wealth or poverty. Some were fallen gentry, others elevated poor. Those who managed to carve out a place for themselves that depended largely on their own skills and ability to walk this careful line were a precious few. It was a delicate balance to maintain, a tightrope walk of who you knew and what you could offer. And any misstep could cause serious issues with your ability to remain alive.

Like most places where disparate groups come together there were always tensions. This gang hated that gang, this family hated the other, and long feuds were as common as short spats. Unfortunately, in Evening, problems were generally solved with blood of some kind. Spilled, spattered, or spliced.

Bodies showed up in different parts of The Pits to such a regular degree that most folk took barely any notice these days. There were graveyards all around the city, some marked and many unmarked.

Of course, in Evening, being dead wasn’t always a detriment.

On the scummier side of the river, beneath Hangman’s Bridge where the stalactites dripped in a never-ending stream of natural drool, a lot of junk routinely washed ashore. It had a general rankness that residents had gotten used to in the way you eventually got used to anything you couldn’t change. And sometimes-useful things could be taken out of the water, cleaned up a little, and reused.

Harbinger Dell was a river rescue connoisseur. She fished items out, used a powerful de-stenching spell, repainted, re-stained, or re-finished them, and then carefully chipped, cracked, and wore them down so they looked properly “antique”. Then she sold them at her shop, The Crafty Handle, to tourists and rich idiots who liked to slum it a little and thought they were getting a bargain.

Dell had been eyeing a crusty armoire that had recently bubbled up and was now hauling it to shore. There was something stuck to the side, an odd wooden box with carvings along the lid. If she could get the slime and gunk off it, someone would probably buy it as a keepsake for treasures. She cackled a little at the thought of some rich-y from the other side of the city giving it to their precious pearl as some kind of heirloom, never knowing it had been lovingly restored from the urine soaked depths of the river.

The armoire came out of the water with a thick sucking sound and Dell dragged it over to inspect it.

“Tch. Not bad, not bad.” She murmured. It was missing a few drawers but she would just find some that mostly fit from her orphan drawer stash and say it was a unique design by Von Flooter the little known, but highly sought after, artisanal furniture craftsmen. Who she had made up one day on a lark. Best lie she’d ever told. It was really amazing the things people would fall for just to say they’d gotten a deal on some funky old table.

The box was larger than Dell had realized and seemed to be really stuck to the armoire. She had to use a crowbar to get it off. It went flying, rolled, and then opened. Some dark strings trailed out.

Dell marched over and looked inside.

There was a head in the box, a woman’s, with dark tendrils of hair damply cradling it. The eyes had been sewn shut and the mouth was full of tiny slips of paper, each with a different symbol on it. The carvings on the box itself were a series of screaming skull-like faces, intricately woven together in a horrifying, but somehow still beautiful, design. Dell stared down at it, one hand on her ample hip, the other still holding the crowbar.

After awhile, she sighed, picked up the box, closed it, and walked towards one of the local doctor’s houses. She placed it on the doorstep, rang the bell, then quickly hobbled away as fast as her creaky knee would let her. She had no interest in waiting around to see what happened or whose head it had been. Dell wasn’t unfeeling but she knew that in Evening, she’d be as likely to be accused of putting the head in the box herself as anything. Best to leave it to those who might know what to do. Or at least dispose of it in a more humane way.

It was too bad, though. A box with that kind of carving probably would have fetched Dell a good price, too.

On that same side of the river, not very far away, still in the most charming of neighborhoods known as The Pits, a small, cloaked figure flitted along a narrow back alley. It moved cautiously, darting from shadow to shadow, staying mostly out of the meager light. Every so often the figure would cock its head to the side, listening, before moving on.

Even in the dim light, the cobblestones were slick and shiny as obsidian. A low mist was curling in the streets and the air was heavy with moisture. Condensation fell from rooftop edges and the low street lamps in lazy, slow drops. It was always raining or about to rain in Evening, dampness was a kind of dripping constant.

The figure turned its head up to the sky to look at the listless moon. A pale, pretty face was revealed in the glow, frowning and suspicious. The first drops of real rain fell and a quick smile flashed. While others complained about the damp weather of Evening, its storminess was exactly what she loved about it.  The rain made everything soft and wild, muddy and messy. She thrived in the muck.

Maggie Esterhouse was one of the between folk, someone who carefully managed a life free of true poverty and anything resembling even moderate wealth. She did not want the latter and studiously avoided the former. She had a particular set of skills that made her…unique. And in a world like Evening, that was a rare thing indeed.

Most people would not understand Maggie’s aversion to privilege, but she knew better than most that the façade of the upper classes was, for most of the women and quite a few of the men, a barely maintained shell that hid a much darker and empty existence. The women were traded like cattle, pawns in power games and machinations, with little political capital or freedom. Maggie was extremely invested in her freedom and would not give it up for anyone or anything. Not even that oft quoted, but rarely discovered phenomenon of “love”.

Maggie had grown up on the edge of The Pits, in a kind of mid-space between abject poverty and just making ends meet. Her mother had raised her on her own and always fed them (probably sacrificing her own empty stomach for Maggie’s full one on more than one occasion). She instilled in her daughter a fierce independence and encouraged her “gift”, though warned her to keep it secret as much as possible.

Of her father, Maggie knew very little other than that he had died when she was very young. And like a lot of women, her mother had found herself, as she would have said, “shit out of all the luck”. Her mother was a strong, toughly beautiful woman with dark hair and a quick laugh. She had taken work where it was available. Which included the occasional trick. She saw no shame in it and made sure her daughter understood that sex work was, at the very least, honest. You did what you needed to survive and you took no shit along the way.

Her mother had made sure Maggie was well educated, forcing her to learn to read and write even though at the time Maggie hadn’t seen the point. Same thing with figures, though now that she had her own business she was exceedingly grateful. Her mother had also made sure she trained with knives and even a sword, and armed with everything she needed to make her own way without having to rely on others. The way her mother had seen it, she was going to make sure Maggie learned from people who knew what they were doing or risk getting stabbed in an alley brawl by someone who didn’t.

She’d even given her daughter the seed money for her investigative business, which had taken off surprisingly fast. It turned out Evening was rather lacking in the justice department, even if that justice was largely street.

Over the years Maggie had been able to repay her mother’s confidence and taken care of her and put her up in a little place of her own. She’d dedicated herself to helping others, advocating especially for young mothers, children, and streetwalkers. She was a beacon of hope and rough compassion in a generally unforgiving place.

Had been. Was. Past tense, now. It still felt wrong to think of her mother as…gone.

Maggie moved quickly and quietly to the end of the alley and peered around the corner.  Her destination was across the street, The Devil’s Due tavern, it’s large front door opening with a golden spill of lantern light and raucous laughter. A few drunks stumbled out, weaving and still carrying mugs of ale, before singing a lively (and bawdy) tune as they wandered away. She waited until their song died back into silence before swiftly crossing the street and slipping into the tavern.  She hoped she had not been followed.

Inside The Devil’s Due was a warm and beer-y glow of friendly intoxication. It was loud, but not deafening, and all the usual’s were enjoying the late evening camaraderie. She threw back her hood and made for the bar immediately. She nodded at a few other regulars. No one made a comment on her entrance, the patrons knew better.

At the counter a tall mug of dark beer was waiting for her, white foam nearly overflowing the brim. She smiled up at Angus who winked and gapily grinned down at her. She took her drink, without spilling a drop, to a back corner table that afforded a wide view of the whole room. She sat with her back to the wall.

She waited, nursing her beer, keeping an eye on the door. Maggie was early for her rendezvous and she was on edge. It had been six months since the murder, and she was getting desperate for a solid lead. She’d put out every feeler, called in every favor, bribed, begged, and beaten for every piece of information she could find. It had all led to dead ends. She had nearly given up hope.

Then, another…part had been found. A head this time, in a box carved with skulls and papers in the mouth. The eyes, brain, and tongue had been removed. This made it six dead women, including her mother. Different ages and backgrounds all killed in the same horrifyingly inhuman way. And this time, it had happened to someone who mattered.

Clues were few and far between, the law in Evening hadn’t exactly cared to make a thorough search. And no one knew where this head had been found, though it seemed likely someone had fished it out of the river and dropped it off at Doc Shawley’s. Which was a miracle, usually people would leave something like that alone and no one would ever know. Maggie had finally caught a break.

Maggie had made inquiries and found that, unlike the other body parts that had been found, this one had a clean wound on the neck and had been dead for several days before the decapitation. Which suggested she’d been held somewhere. And no other parts of her had been found, whereas the other bodies had included at least three limbs. Then there were the papers. No one could figure out the symbols on the papers, they just looked like random dashes and swirls.

And the final clue, the one that made Maggie both sick and hopeful, was the symbol carved into the flesh behind the ear. The only other body with the same marking had been her mother. It was small, not something anyone but the doctor had noted. It was a triangle whose one side was broke and became a jagged curl. It had seemed familiar to her, like she’d seen it somewhere before but couldn’t place it.

So she’d put out feelers and ruffled some distinctly unpleasant feathers. And then she’d had to do something she truly hated: She’d had to ask for help. It had been several weeks but she’d gotten word, finally, that there was a name. Tonight she would be one crucial step closer to finding out who had murdered her mother.

Then she would make them scream until there was nothing left of them but scraps.

She propped her legs up under the table as a plate of steaming fresh chips appeared at her elbow. Angus laid a huge, friendly hand on her shoulder for a moment, before limping back to the bar. She smiled at his broad back. Angus was good people. Well, mostly people.

She ate a few chips with plenty of vinegar, though lately food hadn’t really tasted like anything. When she remembered to eat. The hunt for her mother’s killer had consumed every waking moment, and when she slept, her dreams were nightmare-scapes of blood and tears. She was obsessed and nothing would cure it except finding the thing that had killed her. Her sweet, tough mother, who had loved knitting and silly novels with happy endings. A woman who had taken in other people’s stray children and made sure no one in their neighborhood went hungry. That she had ended in…pieces left Maggie feeling sick and angry.

The plate of chips was replaced with a warm mince pie and fresh beer, and this time Maggie squeezed Angus’s hand in thanks. He affectionately ruffled her hair and went back, again, to the bar. Angus was large and deceptively slow looking, with thick brows over crinkly dark eyes. He had a wiry gray beard, ruddy cheeks, and an easy smile. This affable exterior often led people to assume he was unobservant and dimwitted. They only made that mistake once.

Maggie knew, for instance, that Angus could be over the top of the bar in a flash, tree-trunk thick arms wrapped around an angry, knife-wielding card player who had just lost a round, before he’d gotten said knife halfway out of its hiding place in his sleeve. She also knew one punch from his hand could lay out a burly, handsy dock man with an uncanny grace, before immediately going back to polishing a glass and pouring a new beer.

Angus wasn’t the only one in the tavern whose looks had led to hilarious (and painful) consequences for those who thought they could take advantage. You would think those who lived in Evening would know better than to assume anyone who looked human actually was. The city was notorious for its unusually high population of half-breeds, fey-hybrids, garden variety undead, shifters, and “other”.

A month or so back a few thieves wielding swords had burst into the Due, yelling with bravado and furious purpose. They had met a wall of suddenly sober eyes before the growling began. It had raised the hairs on the back of her neck, not unpleasantly, and every muscle in her own body had tensed and tingled. Maggie herself was fast, but before she’d even stood up, Angus had been in front of the shocked thieves, flanked by Fuzzy Jake, Brian the Black, and Effie Summers, the barmaid. Jack was taller than Angus, but thin as a stick, with long, stringy, graying brown hair and a beard that was, of course, fuzzy. Brian the Black was stumpy, broad, and had inexplicably ginger hair. He did, however, always wear a black stone around his neck, hence the name. Effie, meanwhile, had a sweet, cherubic, fair rosy prettiness, with strawberry blond ringlets and a substantial bosom. She held a large iron skillet like a sword and was, in a certain practical way, more terrifying than the men. It might have had something to do with the fact that she also sprouted long spikes from all her exposed skin the second the door had burst open.

Angus had not spoken a word, but he had smiled. And kept smiling until the width of his grin had been an impossible, gaping, slash full of teeth. Brian, meanwhile, had simply growled, at a low, insistent level that made your head feel strange. Fuzzy Jake had gotten exponentially fuzzier, and long spindly horns had grown from his head. The rest of the tavern had simply stared, many from eyes that were clearly no longer quite human.

One of the thieves had immediately lost control of his bladder. Another had made an impressive exit, dropping his weapon and running full tilt back out the door. The one who had come in first merely stared up at Angus, who smiled wide, and he leapt back so quickly he’d knocked into his pissy friend and they’d both gone down into the puddle. They’d been escorted out, the sound of a few shrieks, thuds, and snarling echoing back. The tavern had then gone back to normal. It was rare that Maggie ever felt truly safe, but The Devil’s Due was as close to neutral ground as she was likely to find.

A subtle shift in the shadows across from her caught her eye and she sat back, crossing her arms across her chest.

“About time you showed up, Percy. I don’t have all night.” Maggie said.

“Don’t call me Percy. It’s Veil,” said the shadow reproachfully, in a low, soft voice.

“You have got to be kidding.” She rubbed her forehead. “Veil makes you sound like a complete twat, Percy.”

“I thought it sounded mysterious.”

“Not even remotely.”

“Oh. Damn.” A long-suffering sigh emanated from the shadows, and a pair of yellow, hovering eyes blinked at her. She waited a minute in expectant silence. He did the same.

“So?” she said.

“What? No chitchat? No, “Percy, long time no see, how’s the information business, met any pretty lads lately?” No, “Thank you for doing me this huge, insane, incredibly difficult and time consuming favor?” His grin flashed out, white and obnoxiously cocky. She sighed with an edge.

“Percy, I’ve saved your incorporeal ass so many times you’re going to owe me favors until you’re 300. You know this matters to me. Don’t be a shit.”

“Sorry, Maggie. You’re right.”

“Could you maybe get solid now? I hate talking to floating eyeballs and teeth.” She waved at the stool across from her. Percy materialized into his reassuringly solid form of boyish good looks and perpetually floppy brown hair. His golden cat eyes somehow managed to look both abashed and mischievous. He also looked a bit drawn around the edges. She slid the uneaten half of pie to him and he ate it in huge, gulping bites. Maggie felt a little bad for being so short with him. He was a good kid, cheekiness notwithstanding.

Maggie motioned for more food and a hunk of cheese, fresh loaf of bread, and meat of some kind were set down in front of Percy. He ate as though he hadn’t in months. She took a closer look at his fine boned face and noted a large and fading bruise along the line of his sharp jaw. She glanced at his hands and saw that the left had livid marks.

“What happened, Percy?” she asked, softening her voice.

“Oh, you know. Some folks got fresh. You know me, mouth runs faster than my brains.” He grinned, gesturing with his knife and fork. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Alright. For now. Eventually you’ll tell me who did that—“ she pointed at his jaw “—and these. And they’ll be sorry.” She held his wrist with care, lightly running her fingertips along the purple-y red marks and frowning. She’d known finding the information would be dangerous, she had not expected Percy to actually get hurt. One of the reasons she’d asked was because of his tendency to be…not very solid. Someone had clearly managed to catch him. And that alone was disturbing.

“Aw, you do love me, don’t you Mags?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Now, about the info. I’m assuming you got it. “

Percy sat back with a satisfied smile and rubbed his belly. He looked at her face and got serious.

“I did. I got a name, like my message said. It was…very difficult to come by. People really didn’t want to give it up.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you for your trouble. I always do.”

Percy shook his head, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “That’s not it. The name…I’m worried. I think you might be in over your head, Mags.”

“I’ll decide that, if you don’t mind. I can handle myself.” she smiled without any humor.

“Normally I wouldn’t argue. Much. But this is different. And remember: this doesn’t mean he did that to your mother. But his name is somehow involved.” Percy was leaning close now, his voice low. He was scared; she could see it in his eyes.

Maggie leaned in, her blue eyes blazing. “Only one way to find out. Tell me. What’s the name?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: The Man Himself