I follow Djehuti the lightkeeper down a twisting series of stairwells. The stairs are tight and constricting, and make me feel claustrophobic. All the while I’m still trying to piece everything together. I go over everything I know so far. Herodotus, advisor to the king, found murdered on the grounds of the lighthouse. I woke him up to ask who killed him, and his skull went berserk and tried to kill me. Oh, but not before whispering an incredibly cryptic poem to me, which I hope is somehow the answer to all of this. And to top it all off, his body is missing its blood, muscles, and organs, which I assume have all been extracted through a small hole in the back of his neck. So how do these pieces fit together?

  I return to the poem, now that I’m armed with new information. Could the nature of Herodotus’ death and subsequent inner liquefaction have anything to do with it? I go line by line. A nettle’s scratch can form a mortal wound. Well, that doesn’t really make sense. The hole in the neck is a hole, not a scratch, and seems to have been formed by some kind of instrument. Besides, the line itself is strange. A nettle’s scratch, by all accounts, can not form a mortal wound. It certainly stings, but I’ve never in my life of someone actually sustaining a serious injury from one, let alone dying. Okay, scratch that one off. We can skip the second line as well, since we already know it’s about King Ptolemy. Around he’ll walk to find a turtle’s tomb, upon whose back lie three protective rings. Well, a few seconds of thought gives me absolutely nothing on that one. I can’t even begin to think about what that could mean.

  I go line by line through the rest of the poem, making sure to not get too distracted while I do so. These stairs are awfully steep, after all, and an errant step could spell a pretty ugly portrait for me if I’m absent-minded. Still, I need to keep my mind moving, if only to stave off my sheer exhaustion. A potter who’s into bestiality… no clues there, I don’t think. A wine-drunk sphinx, a boy with wings, and a polymath. Well, I’m stumped. It still doesn’t make any sense. I suppose I don’t know why it should—all I know now that I didn’t before is that Herodotus’ body is more of a burlap sack of skin than an actual corpse. Still, it was worth revisiting. I go over each line in my mind again, just to make sure the memory’s fresh if any new information comes up.

  Djehuti leads me into a large room. There are eight people standing or sitting around in here, including the two guards from before and Theodosios the magister. Theodosios looks pale. I don’t really blame him. A part of me actually feels sorry for the man. In my little game of ‘make the magister look at blood and guts for the first time’, I didn’t really expect there to be a startling absence of both of those things. Neither did he, obviously, which again, leads me to somewhat suspect he isn’t the murderer. Well, at least not the person who committed the act. I haven’t ruled him out as a potential accomplice, given Herodotus’ strange attitude towards his presence, and his repeated insistence on the presence of eels.

  With myself and Djehuti, there are ten people stuck in the lighthouse together. It’s a bit too high a number for my taste—going to be annoying to interrogate all of them. Still, I am glad the body wasn’t found in the daytime. The lighthouse is a bustle of seaside commerce during business hours, and imposing a lockdown like this would be a complete nightmare. I suppose the storm is also a boon, deterring any would-be escapee from leaving anyway. Still, the people sequestered here are not exactly exciting prospects. It’s highly unlikely that any of the people in the room with me are the culprit. Not unexpectedly, criminals tend to flee the scenes of the crimes they commit, since it makes it harder for them to be apprehended.

  That being said, murders and murderers tend to break the molds of most criminals, since murder is a unique crime in the grand scheme of things. Ultimately, the personal nature and sheer viscerality of the act of murder tends to draw certain types of people to commit it, and those people tend to not care about the usual rules. I’ve seen the strangest things over the course of my career—murderers returning to the scene of the crime not even a few hours after they committed it. Murderers being the ones to report the crime in the first place, thinking it’ll make them less culpable. Especially with this case, given how strange everything has been so far, it wouldn’t surprise me if one of the people in this room had something to do with it. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part—I’m surely desperate for any clue at all at this point. But there’s something about this night, this place, this room—I’m not sure. There’s something here, something I’m meant to find.

  “Hello everyone,” I say, trying to make my voice loud enough. “I am Drakon of Deimos, necromancer for the court. I am here investigating a murder. It is I who have gathered you all here in one place, and I regret to say that you must remain here until my investigation is concluded.”

  One of them raises their hand. He was a spindly man, with shifty eyes, and a gaunt face.

  “Yes. What is your name, sir?”

  “Andreas,” the man said. “On whose authority are we being detained, exactly?”

  “The King himself has tasked me with discovering the culprit of this heinous crime,” I reply. “And has invested in me authority as I see fit in regards to the handling of this case. But as to whose authority you are currently sequestered, I would have to say it’s Zeus.”

  Just as I speak his name, a raucous blast of thunder bellows beyond the walls of the lighthouse. Andreas seems to take my meaning.

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  As he’s speaking, I notice another man across the room looking at Andreas. He seems like he knows him, or maybe they know each other. They’ve feigned otherwise, though, choosing to stand completely opposite ends of the room. Interesting. Actually, now that I’m thinking that, Theodosios seems to know him, too. I’ll have to dig into that later.

  “What I’d like to do now is have each of you introduce yourselves,” I say. “I will then proceed to interview each one of you, just to ascertain for certain whether or not you know any relevant information to the case.”

  “This is a waste of time,” a woman blurted out. She sat at the table in the middle of the room, reclining backwards in her chair. She wore a mess of hair, the kind that was both pristinely maintained yet managed to look completely thrown together. She was, unfortunately, completely gorgeous. I say unfortunately because in my experience, attractive women are always hiding something. And, also in my experience, I am hardly ever able to figure that something out, usually because I am easily distracted. I am not a man without flaws, and I must admit that being easily seduced is one of them.

  “What’s your name, madam?” I ask.

  “Hestia,” she said indignantly. “And I don’t have time for this. I imagine many in the room feel the same. Some of us have families waiting for us at home.”

  Ouch. She didn’t have to go there.

  “Regardless,” I say, “You don’t really have the option of leaving, not in this storm. And I need to be certain about all the facts of this case. Besides, you don’t have anything better to do than to answer some of my questions, at least until the storm subsides.”

  Hestia huffed, and reclined back in her chair. She was going to be trouble, in more ways than one.

  “That’s two down,” I say. “And I’m already familiar with Djehuti, Theodosios, and the two guards. That leaves you four. One at a time, please.”

  “I am Ramses,” A barrel-chested Egyptian man said, standing tall. “And I agree with the beautiful woman. I do not have time for these shenanigans.”

  “While I sympathize,” I repeat myself for the umpteenth time. “It is clear that these shenanigans have time for you. Who’s next?”

  “Delia,” another woman said. Her face was stuck inside a book, and she didn’t raise it even an inch to look at me as she introduced herself. She was scrawny like Andreas. Her hair was tied back so tight that it dragged her hairline upwards, which combined with her long nose gave her the look of a peacock.

  I gesture towards the man who snuck a look at Andreas before. Out of this crowd, I was most interested in him.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “M-Mordecai,” he stammers. I can’t tell whether he’s shivering or afraid. He adjusts his spectacles, and looks away. Interesting.

  “And, last but not least,” I say, gesturing towards the old woman sitting at the table across Hestia. She says nothing, her eyes closed.

  “Is she awake?” I ask Djehuti.

  “I’m… I’m not entirely sure,” he replies. “Let me check.”

  He makes her way over to her. Her face is mostly covered by a shawl, so I can’t quite make out her features.

  “Excuse me, madam,” Djehuti says. No response. He rustles her lightly. “Excuse me, mada–”

  Lightning flashes, thunder roars. All the lamps in the room are snuffed out. I hear a scream—maybe Hestia’s.

  “Get the lights on!” I bark. “Somebody get the lights on!”

  I hear rustling, and I keep my hand on my ceremonial sword. Don’t know why—it’s ceremonial, for Hades’ sake—certainly not meant to defend oneself.

  Djehuti manages to get one of the torches re-lit, and in the dim light, I see the old woman standing now. The flames cast shadows on her wrinkled face, and she looks at me with a strange, cryptic knowing.

  “Hert-Nemat-Set,” she says. “I am Hert-Nemat-Set.”

  The guards help get the rest of the lights on. I just stare at the woman. She’s awfully small, like most old crones, and uses a wooden staff to keep herself stable. She looks Egyptian, I think, and I have to assume, based on the name.

  “...Right,” I say. “Well, again, I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’ll need to interview each one of you thoroughly. Starting with you two.”

  I motion towards the guards. They’ll probably be the most helpful out of this lot, since they actually found the body. In truth, I don’t expect most of the others to be helpful at all. But I feel somewhat directionless in my approach with this case, partially because of its uniqueness, and partially due to the absence of my assistant, who always helps keep me organized. Oh well. I can spend the time chatting up strangers until he returns.

  “There’s a private room right here,” Djehuti says, motioning to a door. “You can conduct them inside, and we’ll wait until you’re finished.”

  “Alright,” I tell him. “Oh, and try to find some food and refreshments, will you? It’s going to be a long night, and I don’t want everyone going crazy.”

  “Of course.”

  Djehuti leaves the room. The two guards follow me towards my newly-appointed interrogation chambers. My migraine returns, but I smack myself in the forehead until the outside of my head hurts more than the inside. Whatever works. I just need to be lucid enough until I can figure this out, and my gut tells me it’ll take a good, long while.