I groaned, rubbing my temples, then barked, “OY!” Enhancing my voice with magic ensured everyone bolted upright like they’d been hit with a lightning bolt.
“Listen up,” I continued, my voice dripping with irritation. “You don’t have to go home, but you’ve got to get the hell out of here. SCRAM!”
Thanks to magic, they didn’t waste a second, each one stumbling out of my apartment at record speed. The door slammed shut behind the last straggler, leaving me with the aftermath of the chaos. The place looked like it had been ransacked by a particularly unruly horde of barbarians.
I couldn’t help but smile. With a flick of my fingers, the wreckage disappeared, the room snapping back to its pristine condition.
I turned my attention to Zefpyre, who was sprawled out on his enchanted castle, contorted in a way only a cat could manage. His golden eyes glared at me, full of disdain.
“I hope you know,” he said in his usual grumpy tone, “I hate you.”
I chuckled, grabbing a cup of coffee and lighting up a cigar as I collapsed onto the couch. “Regretting last night’s decisions?”
Zefpyre let out a long-suffering sigh. “More like regretting being forced to drink with you barbarians.”
I snorted, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Fair enough.” I took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter warmth. “Have you checked in on the Kid?”
The cat let out a soft meow, his ears flicking back in irritation. “She woke up hours ago. She’s fine.”
“Damn,” I muttered, shaking my head. “That kid is made out of sterner stuff.”
As if on cue, Mattie’s door creaked open. She strolled into the living room looking fresh and radiant, as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Wizard’s Quarterly. Not a hair out of place, not a trace of exhaustion.
I blinked at her, baffled. “How?”
She laughed, that mischievous sparkle in her eye. “I didn’t actually drink any alcohol last night. I teleported every drink I was handed into other people’s cups and just pretended to drink.”
I nearly rolled off the couch, laughing so hard I had to clutch my coffee to keep it from spilling. “You are one crafty Wizard. How the hell did no one notice?”
She winked, a smug grin spreading across her face. “Someone taught me perfect finger casting while I was a trainee. Turns out, drunk practitioners are terrible at noticing the finer details.”
I let out a low whistle, shaking my head in admiration. “Kid, you’re going to give me gray hairs. And here I thought I was the sneaky one.”
Zefpyre groaned from his perch. “Oh, wonderful. A future Arch Wizard and the current Master Wizard are nothing but a pair of scheming pranksters. I am truly honored to share my magical existence with such dignified individuals.”
Mattie and I burst into laughter, the hangover—or lack thereof—momentarily forgotten.
For the first time in ten years, I was having a good moment. A rare, golden sliver of peace in a life that had been nothing but storms. And it was insane because I’d seen my mother for the first time in over a decade. That should’ve left me a shriveled wreck, not sitting here basking in the surreal calm of the aftermath.
But of course, it was too good to be true.
A pounding came at the door, sharp and insistent, cutting through the stillness like a knife. I flicked my wrist, debating whether to curse the rude intruder for daring to ruin the moment, when the door creaked open, and Williams stepped in.
He wasn’t his usual calm, methodical self. His face was pale, his posture stiff, and something heavy was clinging to him—something dark.
I looked up, locking eyes with Mattie, and we both said it at the same time: “What’s going on?”
Williams didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, his chest heaving as if he’d run the whole way. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, raw with emotion.
“Bodies,” he said. “Lots of them.”
The crime scene was a grotesque theater of the absurd, an abandoned warehouse tucked away on a shadowed side street in Logan Square. The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood, mingling with the stale scent of decay. A crowd of onlookers, their faces pale in the muted streetlights, stood clustered behind yellow tape as though waiting for a curtain call.
I stepped past the flashing blue and red lights of squad cars, the grim faces of Chicago’s finest silently urging me to find answers they never could. Williams was already there, his face pale under the harsh industrial lighting. He motioned me inside with a grim flick of his hand, his usual humor absent.
“Forty-two bodies,” he muttered as I passed. His voice was like gravel—worn, raw, and heavy with things better left unsaid. “All mortals. But that’s not the weird part.”
I stopped mid-stride and lit a cigar, letting the warm bite of smoke distract me from the pit forming in my gut. “What’s weirder than forty-two dead humans?”
Williams led me inside, stepping around pools of congealing blood. The bodies were arranged in neat rows, each one reclined as if they’d just settled in for a show. Their faces were unnervingly calm, eyes closed, hands folded on their laps. Death wasn’t violent here—it was methodical. Or theatrical.
And then I saw it.
Stacks of tickets, piled in rows in the back of the warehouse. They littered the scene like confetti from some twisted celebration. Each ticket was printed with the same message: "Goodman Theater Presents: The Phantom of the Opera."
Williams handed me one, the sharp edge of the paper brushing my fingers. The ink felt fresh, almost damp, as though it had been printed minutes ago.
“There’s 479 of them,” Williams said flatly.
I almost dropped the ticket. “You’re telling me someone printed 12 factorial worth of Phantom tickets?”
Williams gave a stiff nod. “And it gets worse. These tickets—they’re magically tagged.”
I glanced back at the bodies, my eyes narrowing. "Tagged how?"
Williams gestured to one of the forensic techs, who handed over a scanner buzzing faintly with residual mana. “Every ticket carries a faint trace of necromantic energy. It’s not enough to raise the dead, but it’s there. Like a signature.”
I felt Mattie stiffen behind me. Her voice was small when she spoke, but it carried the weight of realization. “A signature… or a warning.”
I exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl upward into the dark. “A magician, a necromancer, and a theater fanatic walk into a warehouse. Sounds like the start of a bad joke, but it’s our reality.”
“Think they were part of a ritual?” Mattie asked.
I nodded slowly. “Forty-two bodies, 479 tickets… It’s not coincidence. It’s deliberate. Someone’s playing with numbers, and if they went this far, it means the real show hasn’t even started yet.”
Williams looked at me, his face dark. “You think this is just the opening act?”
I tossed the ticket onto the ground and turned toward the exit. “The Phantom hasn’t even stepped onto the stage.”
Williams led us to the far end of the warehouse, where a makeshift forensic station had been set up under harsh halogen lights. The scene buzzed with activity as techs moved like ghosts, their hushed voices blending into the steady hum of scanning devices. The smell of antiseptic barely masked the pervasive stench of death, and every breath felt like swallowing cold iron.
One of the techs, a wiry woman with sharp eyes and the kind of nerves only years of dealing with the grotesque could forge, handed Williams a tablet. “Prelim’s in, sir. Thought you’d want to see this.”
Williams skimmed it, his mouth tightening. He handed the tablet to me, his eyes heavy with meaning. “You’re not going to like it.”
I scrolled through the report, my cigar dangling precariously from my lips. Each body was accounted for, tagged with precise details: age, gender, apparent cause of death. All mortals. No mana signatures, no signs of magical tampering on the corpses themselves. Clean deaths. Too clean.
But the anomalies were glaring. Every victim had a faint, identical scar on their wrists, a small incision just above the vein. Ritualistic. Deliberate.
“Bloodletting,” I muttered, handing the tablet back. “Someone drained them before staging the scene.”
“Not just blood,” the tech chimed in, her voice clinical. “We ran a scan. Their mana cores are completely inert. Drained dry. If any of them had latent magic, it’s gone now.”
Mattie leaned in, her brow furrowed. “Mana siphoning? Isn’t that… rare?”
“Rare?” I said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Try impossible. To pull that off without leaving traces would take expertise most practitioners don’t have. This wasn’t some amateur.”
“Then there’s this,” Williams added, motioning toward one of the piles of tickets. A tech held a scanner over them, and the display lit up with a faint glow. “Every single ticket is laced with residual necromantic energy. It’s weak, but it’s consistent across all 479. Whoever printed these had access to massive magical resources.”
Mattie looked around, her voice low. “But why tickets? What’s the connection to the victims?”
Williams snapped his fingers, motioning for another tech to bring over a bagged piece of evidence. “Found this tucked into one of the victims’ jackets. Thought you’d want to see it.”
The tech handed over a slip of paper, yellowed and brittle. A program for The Phantom of the Opera, dated over a century ago. The handwriting scrawled across the bottom was jagged, desperate: He comes. He sees. He claims.
I stared at the note, a cold weight settling in my gut. “This wasn’t just a message. It’s a calling card.”
Mattie’s voice was barely a whisper. “Who’s ‘he?’”
Williams shook his head. “We don’t know yet, but there’s something else. We cross-referenced the victims. Most of them had no connection, but six of them… They were regulars at Goodman Theater. Season ticket holders.”
The implications hung in the air like a noose.
“Someone’s building something,” I said finally, the words heavy. “Something big. This wasn’t a ritual—they’re setting the stage.”
Williams looked at me, his expression grim. “The bodies, the tickets, the message—what’s the next act?”
I took a deep drag of my cigar, the ember glowing like a dying star. “Whatever it is, it’s going to make this look like an opening monologue.”
The temperature in the warehouse dropped like a stone, and the familiar cold breeze rippled through the air. A faint metallic clink preceded the skeletal figure stepping out from the shadows. Chiron, the Ferryman, loomed at the edge of the forensic station, his bony fingers wrapped around his staff as if it was the only thing tethering him to this plane.
The room froze, every tech and officer present stepping back instinctively. Williams, to his credit, stood his ground, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. Mattie shifted closer to me, her hand brushing her wand, ready for anything.
“Why the hell are you here?” I barked, irritation lacing my voice. “We didn’t find any silver coins at the scene. I checked—hell, everyone checked.”
Chiron tilted his head, the unnatural movement setting my nerves on edge. “Oh, I’m well aware,” he said, his voice a rasp that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “They were taken.”
“Taken?” I snapped. “By who?”
The hollow smile that followed chilled me more than the cold. “A thief. But you needn’t worry, Master Wizard. I’ve already dispatched a special force to retrieve them.”
Mattie stepped forward, her voice defiant. “What kind of thief steals coins from the Ferryman? And why?”
Chiron’s empty gaze fixed on her, the faint glow of his sockets flickering like dying embers. “That, child, is beyond your station to question.”
“Convenient,” I muttered, taking a step closer. “If you’ve got it under control, then why are you here, Chiron? We’ve got enough mysteries piling up without you adding to them.”
The Ferryman’s grin widened, though no humor touched his expression. “I told you, Julius Azrael Holmes. We would be seeing a lot of each other.”
My patience, already hanging by a thread thanks to the hangover and this macabre spectacle, snapped. “Cut the cryptic bullshit, Chiron. What do you want?”
He chuckled, a sound like the rattle of old chains. “I am merely here to observe. But since you ask so nicely, a warning, if you will. Pay attention to the theater, dear Master Wizard.”
“The theater?” I scoffed, gesturing to the mountain of tickets. “You mean the Goodman?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his skeletal fingers tapped the top of his staff in a slow rhythm. “You’ve stepped onto the stage, Julius. The curtain rises, and the actors are in place. Beware the audience.”
I frowned, the words twisting in my mind, their meaning eluding me. “What does that mean? What audience?”
But Chiron was already fading, his form dissolving like mist caught in sunlight. “You’ll know soon enough,” his disembodied voice whispered, trailing off with an unsettling finality.
Mattie shivered. “Well, that was... helpful.”
“Helpful?” I snapped, running a hand through my hair. “That was a whole lot of nothing wrapped in a riddle and tied up with a bow of dread.”
Williams crossed his arms, his expression grim but tinged with something almost resembling pity. “I feel sorry for the poor sad soul that stole those coins. I hope it was worth it.”
I walked up to Detective Murphy, trying to steady the storm brewing in my chest. “Can you send out some patrol cars? Search for the person who stole those silver coins from the crime scene.”
Murphy raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “Priority?”
I waved a hand dismissively. “Ehh, I’d like it to be done, but hell, there’s a lot of things I’d like.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and headed back to the car. Mattie and Zefpyre fell into step behind me, the rhythm of their steps echoing in sync with my own. I swung the driver’s side door open and slammed it shut harder than necessary, the sound reverberating in the quiet tension of the scene. Mattie slid into the passenger seat, her face a careful mask, and Zefpyre hopped into the back with a lazy grace only a cat-turned-elemental could manage.
Mattie reached out, her hand light on my arm, a gesture softer than I deserved. “Boss man… are you okay? I’ve never seen you display so many… emotions before.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
From the backseat, Zefpyre couldn’t resist a jab, his voice dripping with his usual sarcasm. “It’s about time he started to care about his job.”
Mattie shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension. I exhaled slowly, resting my forehead against the steering wheel for a beat before sitting back. “Sorry, kid. It’s just this case… Seeing my sister, my mother, and…” My voice faltered as Cassidy’s name lingered on the edge of my tongue. “Cassidy.”
Mattie’s eyes softened, and for a second, I hated how much she cared. Hated that she was making me care more too.
“You’re right,” I continued, more to myself than to her. “I need to refocus.”
The engine roared to life, and I tightened my grip on the wheel. We had a long road ahead, and for once, I wasn’t sure where it would end.
We rolled up to the Order, and Zefpyre had been yapping his tail off the entire ride. Section this, subsection that—his legal jargon was a relentless droning melody I had no interest in deciphering. The cat could file a report on my behalf if he wanted to play bureaucrat so badly. As for me, my brain was tuned out. I parked the car, killing the engine and Zefpyre’s lecture in one fell swoop.
I glanced over at Mattie. Not long ago, she was looking out for me, but now, she looked like a storm barely contained. The Other Realm doesn’t deal with death the way Earth does—certainly not like this. To her, the idea of more than forty-two bodies stacked up was a surreal nightmare, not the grim reality it had become. Even in the five years she’d been my trainee, we’d never had a case with bodies piling up faster than evidence. No leads. No witnesses. The kind of case that makes even the most seasoned detectives lose sleep.
I sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on me. Time to do something I swore I’d never do—a conference. Gather the scraps of facts, pin them down, and see if there was a thread to pull on. It felt like admitting defeat, but even my magic couldn’t conjure answers out of thin air.
We walked into the Order, the familiar hum of activity buzzing around us. At the top of the grand staircase stood Gabriel, waiting like a hawk perched above its prey. His golden eyes locked on me, and his finger jabbed the air in my direction. Then, the universal gesture no one wants to see: the beckon.
I stopped in my tracks, every instinct in me screaming to turn and walk the other way. Playing nice with Gabriel wasn’t my idea of fun, but our murder board was growing uglier by the day, and if there’s one thing the higher-ups hate, it’s unsolved murders. I plastered on my best "I’m cooperating" face and started up the stairs.
“This better be good,” I muttered under my breath. Zefpyre, trailing behind, snickered.
It was a silent walk to Gabriel’s office, the kind that hangs heavy, like storm clouds about to break. The moment we stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind us, rattling on its hinges. Gabriel didn’t waste time. “Take a seat,” he barked.
I stood there for a beat, sizing him up, before slumping into the chair like I had all the time in the world. He glared at me, fire flickering behind his golden eyes, and I waited for him to start the show.
“Where are we on these Necromancy murders?” Gabriel’s voice cracked like a whip. “We’ve got over a hundred bodies in the morgue, and almost five hundred soul gems, all less than five years old. That means someone’s been running a slaughterhouse right under our noses.”
I cleared my throat, taking my time to light a cigar. The ritual calmed my nerves, or at least that’s what I told myself. “Well,” I started, dragging out the words as much to annoy him as to delay my answer, “I came in because… I think… we… possibly… perhaps… maybe… most likely… need… an Evidence Conference.”
The admission tasted bitter, like cheap whiskey after a long night. I hated saying it out loud, but there it was. We had jack, zilch, less than nothing on this case. And even I had to admit it.
Gabriel exhaled sharply, the weight of his frustration filling the room. “Alright, that’s not a bad idea,” he conceded. “Celeste finished her report, and we’ve combed through all the victims’ homes. We’ve got files on each one. Anything specific you need?”
I leaned back, puffing out a plume of smoke. “The Spell Singer,” I said. “He was some kind of psychologist, right?”
Gabriel rifled through his notes. “Music therapy and hypnosis,” he confirmed.
“Good. I want his patient list and all his medical files,” I said, my voice firm.
Gabriel nodded, already jotting it down. Then his gaze shifted to Zefpyre. “Set up the Evidence Conference. Our so-called Master Wizard here probably doesn’t even know how to start one, since he’s never attended or hosted one in his life.”
Zefpyre let out a soft, sarcastic meow and padded out of the office. I could feel his smirk without even looking.
Gabriel turned back to me, his tone dropping to something more menacing. “Word’s starting to spread in the Other Realm. First, the Ritualist. Now, a Necromancer on a killing spree? People are paying attention, and not the good kind. I need this dealt with, Julius. Fast.”
He waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing me like some errand boy. My blood boiled.
- Do. Not. Get. Dismissed.
A smirk crept across my face as I stood, slow and deliberate. I took one last drag of my cigar and ashed it onto his pristine desk, the embers burning a tiny black mark into his polished wood.
My leather trench coat swept dramatically as I turned and stalked out of the office, leaving Gabriel in silence. The satisfaction of that little defiance was worth every ounce of trouble it would cause.
I strolled up to the central desk, leaning on it with the kind of swagger that usually gets me a glare, and this time was no exception. “Amber, my girl,” I drawled.
Autumn’s response was as sharp as ever, her tone colder than the Chicago wind. “For the ten billionth time, my name is Autumn.”
“Oh, sorry about that, Ashley.” I grinned, knowing full well it would only irritate her further.
She didn’t bother with words, just a pointed glare and a finger aimed at the main conference room. I followed the direction of her pointed accusation and peeked inside. Files. Stacks and stacks of them. Enough paper to make me reconsider my aversion to fire spells.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I let out in one long, slow breath.
Zefpyre was already in there, prancing around like a smug little prince of organization. He didn’t even look up from the files he was sorting. “Oh, good. Who do you want to invite?”
I let out a sigh, lighting a cigar to dull the edges of my rapidly fraying patience. “All available patrolmen and detectives. Williams, of course, and any senior leadership involved in the evidence.”
Zefpyre gave the barest flick of an ear before sauntering out, his tail held high like he’d just won an argument. He didn’t need confirmation. He was a bureaucratic machine, and I wasn’t going to stop him.
I turned my attention to Mattie, who was staring at the stacks of files like she was deciding whether to dive in or cry. Her finger hovered over one file, but she hadn’t opened it yet.
“Boss Man,” she said, her tone heavy with the realization of what we’d gotten ourselves into, “I’m going to order some food for us. We’re going to be here for a while.”
I nodded, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. “Yeah, Kid. Order big. It’s going to be one of those nights.”
The room was buzzing, bodies filing in like moths to a flame. By some miracle—or maybe sheer desperation—more reports, files, and God-knows-what-else kept pouring in, delivered on rolling carts like offerings to an angry deity. Chalkboards, storyboards, evidence displays—they wheeled in everything short of a sacrificial lamb. By the time an hour had ticked by, the room was full. Every seat was taken, Order members lined the walls, and the air was thick with tension.
Gabriel stood at the front, his usual composed demeanor radiating authority. He gestured toward me, breaking the restless energy of the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. Master Wizard Holmes, this is your meeting. Please start us off.”
I resisted the urge to glare at him, choosing instead to settle back in my chair and light a cigar. The room grew quiet as I began.
“Look,” I said, letting the smoke curl lazily upward, “we’ve got one hundred bodies and six hundred victims. Five hundred of those are soul gems.”
The room erupted in murmurs, a ripple of unease spreading like wildfire. I barked, “OY!” and the noise died instantly. With a flick of my fingers, the names of every identified victim appeared on the board in stark, glowing letters.
“Over the past few days, we’ve found these murder victims at three locations across the city. One hundred bodies. All had their souls ripped out, their blood and organs drained—and taken, for reasons we still don’t know. Every single one of them had silver coins over their eyes, and Chiron, our lovely ferryman of the damned, made a grand appearance at every scene.”
That earned a few uneasy shuffles from the crowd, but no one dared interrupt.
“Now,” I continued, “only three of our victims were practitioners. Our first three. Simon Devour—a Spell Singer. Jon Taylor—a Potion Maker. And Jeff Timbs—an Enchanter.” I flicked my fingers again, and their names and images appeared, floating ominously above the board. “We’ve got evidence these three did a lot of business together. Normally, that’s not suspicious. Most people in the Order and the magical community have worked with them at some point. But for the purposes of this case, we’re going to assume they were connected.”
The room was silent, every eye on me. “We’ve compiled a list of Simon, Jon, and Jeff’s patrons and customers.” Another flick, and a new set of names appeared. “This is where you come in. We need to comb through this list. We’re looking for connections—anything that ties these three to the rest of our victims, who, I’ll remind you, were all mortals.”
With another flick of my fingers, a map of Chicago shimmered into view, red and blue pins dotting its surface. “The red pins mark our crime scenes. The blue pins mark the victims’ homes. Mattie and I couldn’t find any pattern in the victims’ locations. At the warehouse in the Back of the Yards—our second crime scene—none of the fifty-five victims had any connection to each other. Not a single one lived in the same neighborhood. Hell, some of them didn’t even live in Illinois.”
I paused, letting that sink in before moving on. “At the Logan Square scene, out of the forty-two bodies, six were season ticket holders for the Goodman Theater.” I lit another cigar. “We’re keeping an eye on that, but for now, the season tickets might be a coincidence.”
I let my gaze sweep the room, holding their attention like a hook through the gills. “Here’s the plan. Patrol officers, you’ll be given lists of names and addresses. You’re going to conduct wellness checks on the patrons of Simon, Jon, and Jeff. You’ll also get a set of specific questions to ask. Be thorough.”
I stood, smoke trailing lazily from my cigar. “The rest of you will stay here. Go through these files. Comb through every name, every scrap of evidence. Find me something to work with.”
The room stayed silent for a beat, then the shuffle of movement began as everyone got to work. I leaned back in my chair, eyes on the map. Somewhere in this mess was a thread. I just needed to find it before the whole damn city unraveled.
Patrol had barely cleared the door when the room erupted into a flurry of activity. Papers shuffled, files snapped open, and voices murmured as the Order dug into the mountain of information before us. The energy was palpable—everyone scrambling for a lead, a thread, something that could break the case wide open.
Moments later, catering rolled in, led by Mattie. She shot me a grin, arms full of trays like some kind of culinary savior. I nodded my thanks, grabbing a cup of coffee and lighting a fresh cigar as the room buzzed on.
Not ten minutes passed before an analyst flagged something. "Sir," they called, holding up a file. "We've got a name here—missing person, presumed dead. Listed as one of Simon's patients."
I turned, eyes narrowing. “Oy! Someone contact CPD. Get a squad car to that address for a wellness check. Until we have evidence otherwise, that name is going on our victims' list.”
The analyst nodded, already on the phone.
Over the next hour, the board filled with names. The list of Simon’s patients grew longer and darker, each one tagged as missing or presumed dead. By the time we hit triple digits, it was impossible to ignore the connections.
I walked over to Mattie, her brow furrowed as she pored over files. “Looks like some of our soul gems are getting names,” I said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Thoughts?”
She looked up, her face set with grim determination. “You think Simon was killing his patients and turning them into soul gems?”
I took a drag on the cigar, letting the question hang in the air. “I think he was killing them for sure. Turning them into soul gems? That’s out of his wheelhouse. Soul magic like that—it’s advanced, dangerous. Not something a pleasure demon like him would dabble in.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “So he was just… feeding them to someone else?”
“Could be. Could be something worse.”
I turned, scanning the room until my eyes landed on Collins. “Collins!” I barked.
The man straightened, looking up from a file. “Sir?”
“You’ve got connections to the vampire covens?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice steady.
“Good. Take a team and knock on some doors. Make sure none of these missing persons ended up... with them. If they’re feeding off someone’s patients, I want to know.”
Collins nodded sharply, already gathering a few officers to join him. They moved quickly, exiting the room like bloodhounds on a scent.
I turned back to the board, the web of connections growing tighter and more tangled by the minute. The air felt heavier, like the room itself knew we were on the edge of something big. Something bad.
The thought gnawed at me as I looked back at Mattie. “Whatever’s going on here, Kid, it’s not just about Simon. We’re looking at a lot of moving parts. Stay sharp.”
She nodded, her determination unwavering. “Always.”
A team of analysts approached me, their expressions tight, eyes shadowed with too many hours and not enough sleep. One of them, a lanky kid who looked barely out of his trainee robes, stepped forward. “Sir, we’ve been combing through Jon Taylor’s sales records. We found some... irregularities.”
I tilted my head, cigar glowing faintly in the dim light. “Irregularities?”
The analyst nodded, holding out a thick file. “A list of flagged customers. These names don’t seem to exist anywhere outside of his records. No confirmation of identity, no paper trails, nothing.”
I flipped through the file, my eyes scanning the pages. The names meant nothing, but the purchases told a story. “Significant purchases?” I asked, smoke curling from my lips.
“Yes, sir.” The analyst cleared his throat, nervously adjusting his tie. “Each flagged customer bought large quantities of specific ingredients. On their own, the purchases wouldn’t stand out—most are common alchemical supplies. But put together? They’re the exact components needed to make a soul gem. And with five hundred of those gems already in evidence...”
I didn’t let him finish. “Good work,” I said, cutting through his ramble. With a flick of my finger, the Chicago map on the wall sparked to life. Yellow pins began to pop up, spreading across the city like a rash. Each pin marked the address tied to one of Jon’s flagged customers.
“These are the locations?” I asked, gesturing to the map.
The analyst nodded. “Yes, sir. Every flagged customer on Jon’s list.”
I turned to the room, my voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter. “Alright, people! We’ve got a lead. Get boots on the ground. I want every one of these addresses checked out. I don’t care if it’s a dilapidated shack or a goddamn high-rise. If there’s a yellow pin on that map, we’re knocking on doors.”
The room buzzed as patrol officers and detectives scrambled to organize themselves. Mattie sidled up next to me, her expression pensive as she watched the map fill with pins.
“This is a lot of addresses, Boss,” she said quietly. “What if it’s another dead end?”
I took a long drag from my cigar, letting the smoke curl out slowly. “Then we mark it off and move to the next one, Kid. It’s all we can do. But something tells me... these ‘customers’ aren’t as imaginary as they seem.”
Mattie nodded, her eyes narrowing as she studied the map. “You think these flagged purchases connect directly to the soul gems?”
I exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate. “If they don’t, I’ll eat my hat. “
The conference room felt cavernous, stripped down to its essentials. Most of the Order was out pounding the pavement, leaving behind only the unlucky few tasked with holding the fort. The silence was maddening, the kind that crawled under your skin. I sat at the head of the table, scanning Celeste's report on the soul gems found in Simon Devour’s pocket dimension. My cigar was burning low, the ash hanging precariously.
A thought struck me like a punch to the gut. I slammed the report down, the sound echoing off the walls. “Oy! Anyone got a connection with a known necromancer?”
The room froze, the few remaining members looking anywhere but at me. The silence was deafening. I raised an eyebrow. “Please, don’t all speak at once.”
Gabriel finally broke the awkward stillness, leaning against the doorway with that trademark smirk. “The only necromancer I know of is in the Lesser Realms. I could summon him, but before we start mucking about with the dead, I’d like to know what we’re hoping to learn.”
I tapped the ash from my cigar into a tray, considering his words. “I need someone who knows soul gems inside and out. The kind of dirtbag who’s spent their life wading through the muck of necromantic arts. Also, I want a primer on necromancers in general—what makes them tick, what they’re capable of.”
Before Gabriel could respond, the door flew open, slamming against the wall. Brock stormed in, a whirlwind of energy and purpose. I nodded at him, motioning for him to spill. He didn’t need any encouragement.
“We’ve been combing through Gus’s inventory,” Brock began, his voice sharp and fast. “Turns out, a very old tome called The Necromantic is missing. Gus isn’t sure when it disappeared—he picked it up at an estate auction about thirty years ago and forgot he even had it.”
I sat back, folding my arms, and gave Gabriel a look that could curdle milk. My eyebrows shot up, my arms outstretched in mock surprise. “See? And you wanted to wait.”
Gabriel scoffed, shaking his head, and left the room muttering something about dramatic wizards.
I turned my attention back to the room. “Oy! Who’s got the list of Gus’s current and former employees?”
An analyst, a wiry woman buried under a mountain of files, finally surfaced. She rifled through the stack and handed over a sheet. “Here.”
“Excellent.” I waved the list in the air. “Take this and start canvassing. I want every single employee, past and present, brought in for questioning. And make sure they know they’ve got the right to representation. We don’t need to step on any toes.”
The analyst nodded, clutching the list like a lifeline, and scurried out the door.
I leaned back in my chair, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Looks like the pieces are finally starting to move. Now, let’s hope we can catch up to the bastard pulling the strings before they move again.”
The room hummed with quiet chaos—papers shuffling, pens scratching, the occasional muttered curse. Mattie sauntered up to me, her arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Make sure they have representation?” she asked, tilting her head like a cat batting at a toy. “I didn’t know you cared.”
I took a long drag on my cigar, letting the smoke curl around my words. “Look, kid, I need Gabriel to keep working with me. This case is getting a lot of eyes from the Other Realm, and the last thing we need is a procedural screw-up turning this circus into a three-ring shitshow.”
Her smirk widened into a grin, and she leaned in closer. “Awwww, Gabriel and Julius sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
I shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. She cackled and strutted back to her work area, diving into the mountain of notes like she hadn’t just made me consider hurling a perfectly good cigar across the room.
I stood, addressing the room at large. “Any leads from Jeff’s pile of evidence?”
Analysts scrambled like rats off a sinking ship, papers flying as they dug through the Enchanter’s records. The room buzzed with nervous energy.
“Come on, people!” I barked, the smoke from my cigar punctuating my frustration. “I know Jeff was a friend to a lot of folks in the Order, but it looks like he was knee-deep in something darker than his enchantments. We need answers, not sentimentality.”
Across the room, Gabriel caught my eye and crooked his finger, beckoning me over.
I clenched my jaw. This beckoning nonsense was really starting to grind my gears. Worse yet was the fact that it actually worked. I found myself walking toward him, hating every step for how easy it was.