Sand (M)

This is the fifth or sixth version of a fantasy/mystery novel I've been playing around with for about two years now. I've never written more than about two chapters on any of the previous incarnations, so here's to hoping this one survives.

prologue.

Nobody told her it would be easy.

People told Madeline Hunter a lot of things about moving to the city on her own. They gave her a lot of rotten adjectives, most of them synonymous with “foolhardy” or “suicidal.” Urban women were always doing crazy sorts of things: looking for jobs, wearing skirts that showed their knees, smoking cigars with men at night, owning their own flats. Those were the sorts of wild things Madeline wanted to be doing, but, as her peers told her time and time again: “It’s unnatural, and, not to mention, something you just have to be born into. One can’t simply move to the city and accept to be accepted. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to prove yourself there.”

But there she was, then- out there, on the street, at night, proving herself. “You want to be a reporter?” spat a man behind a desk yesterday afternoon. “Prove it.” There she was, then.

The place was on the backroads, away from any semblance of night life, or so it seemed to the untrained eye. Hours of investigating and researching indicated that the building outside of which she was standing ---two stories, boarded-up pub on the bottom floor and who-knew-what on the top--- that was where the real night life was. That was where she was standing, russet hair done up in curls, skimpy little dress, reporters’ notebook tucked away in a big fake fur scarf. What she was doing was obviously life-threatening, but if she found anything worth finding in that building, she would forever be treasured as invaluable by the staff of The Sound, the city’s- no, the country’s- most decorated news source.

She bristled in the cold night air. She was standing under the building next to her target, still debating whether or not to go in. Was the possibility of success really worth the probability of danger? Maybe not. Or, maybe it was. Or maybe she-

“Pardon, miss-” Miss Hunter gasped. Standing behind her was a man, a seedy-looking creature, tall and of medium build. He was wearing a long, charcoal-gray pea coat with a matching fedora that covered most of the top half of his face. “Do you have some kind of business with this building?”

No time for indecision, save a split second. She said, “eh, yea sir, it seems I do. ‘m with Jules Gorman’s… y’know. He told me to come to Doc Carter’s place, said it was here. Dunno who sent for me. Prolly I reckon one of his goons.” It was a chilly spring night but she was sweating bullet-sized, knowing, just knowing- the jig is up, the jig is up, oh gods, I’m bloody dead-

-and his hand had been at his side, maybe in his pocket, maybe- was it at a holster, and he was presently bringing it up. He was going to shoot her, he was, and- “I’ll buy that. In any case, it’s a dangerous place for any kind of lady to be wandering unattended.” He held out his hand to guide, like a gentleman asking the fairest dame in all the land for a slow waltz around the ballroom. It was a gesture Miss Hunter had not at all expected to see, and she took it, albeit cautiously.

Slowly he led her towards the alley, where the entrance leading up to the second floor could be found. She’d seen a copy of the building’s schematics, memorized all possible exits, but there weren’t many and this knowledge didn’t give her any upper-hand in any case, not over people who knew the building well.

They approached a door obscured in shadows on the alley wall, one which the man opened for her. “I’m Joseph, by the way. Joseph Slater.”

“I’m Christine Brandy. Thanks for the door.” She walked on in, and he followed suit.

The smell that hit her was powerful- an odd combination of rotten wood, stale alcohol, cigar smoke, and sweat. They were squished at the bottom of a narrow stairway now, one of steep, uneven-looking steps. The walls were narrow. There was no railing. It was dark. Treacherous. “Ladies first.” Making her go up a staircase that looks like it could fall apart any second first? Gentleman, indeed.

She started slowly, but the steepness of the steps and her nerves were both spiking her anxiety. What if everything didn’t work out? Sure, this Joseph Slater seemed nice enough now, but she knew he’d be able to snap her neck in an instant- and she doubted he’d hesitate to.

When she reached the handle to the second floor’s door, she looked behind her for a moment, for some kind of reassurance from her temporary companion, or some offer to go in first. But to her surprise, he was still at the bottom of the steps. “To make it look like we didn’t arrive together,” he explained. “Wouldn’t want Mister Carter thinking I was trying to take you, now, Miss Brandy?”

“Right,” said Miss Brandy- rather, Miss Hunter- trying to sound as cool and cocky as he was. Did men like that from prostitutes? Why hadn’t she researched that, too? “Right.”

Without another second of hesitation- hesitation, she did know, was the difference between a secret hidden and a secret revealed- she turned the handle on the door and opened it slowly. But something stopped her from opening it far- there was a chain on the door. “Password?” asked a low, gruff voice.

“I…” she took a breath. “I’m one of Jules Gorman’s girls. Christy Brandy? He told me to come… said… peace offering? So I came over.”

“I don’t buy it,” the man at the door began. “Jules wouldn’t just-”

“Jules ent an idiot, though,” said another from across the room. “He knows he don’t want to get in it bad with Doc Carter. No one do. So what do he do? He sends us a moll. Lets embrace it. Figures if he do, maybe the Doc won’t bump off any more of his guys. Which we can’t promise…yeah, Harry. Let ‘er in.”

She smiled- not too warmly, or so she hoped, but not too dour, just sassy enough to fit the part- as the looked around the room. There were five of them lounging in a room consisting of a round rug, a sofa, two chairs, and a table on which there was a lamp and a few shallow bowls filled with a powdery, light brown substance.

She’d been expecting some kind of crowded juice joint. Where, then, was the alcohol?

Two of the men were sitting on the couch. One of them slapped the empty cushion between them. A cloud of dust rose from it when he did. “Sit down here, honey!”

“Alright.” She smirked and sauntered over.

The one on her left- the one who had welcomed her over- tried to put his arm around her. The one on her right protested. “Oi- not now. Can’t do nothing until Doc comes out of ‘is office- he’s bloody pissed tonight, if he finds out you’re touching one of Jules’ before he’s seen her, he’ll off you quick.” He drew his finger across his neck for emphasis. “Let’s jus’ wait until he comes out.”

They must have been talking about the door across the room, which must have led into his “office.” In there- the famous Doc Carter. If she saw his face and lived- well, she’d be one of the first.

But before anyone could say anything else, there was another knock at the door. The man by the door- the one who had let Miss Hunter in before- looked up at them. “Could be Digs. He said he had to go deal with a customer, right? Where’s he been?”

The man on her right said through gritted teeth: “well, what you bloody askin’ us, for? Answer the damn door!”

“Righ’. Password?”

“Marietta,” came the answer.

The man at the door looked up, shaking his head. “Not Digs. Wonder who?” Miss Hunter knew that, of course, it was Joseph Slater. But no one seemed to recognize his voice. Was he a stranger here, too?”

The man at the door unlocked the chain and opened the door all the way. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Joseph Slater,” he said. “I was given the password tonight by Digs. I told him I was a prospective buyer- said I knew who he was, and where I could find Doc Carter. I want to be in on your Sand business.”

Again, in the feeble lamplight, it was difficult for Miss Hunter- or likely anyone, for that matter- to see above the bridge of the man’s nose. But no one else seemed to be interested in his face, more interested were they in his words. “Where’s Digs?”

“He said he had ‘business.’ I presumed you’d know more about that than I. May I come in?” The man stepped slightly to the side to permit Joseph Slater’s entrance. He kept his coat and hat on. “Is Doctor Carter here?”

“He’s in his office,” said the man on Miss Hunter’s left. “He won’t see anyone yet. He wants to talk to Digs the second he comes in, won’t see anyone until then. Won’t even unlock his office. You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ll do that, then.” Joseph simply nodded. He lingered in the corner, by one of the boarded windows. The men were talking animatedly, occasionally glancing suspiciously at Joseph Slater or hungrily at Miss Hunter.

About five minutes later, Joseph approached the table, looking down at the bowls. “This is it, then?”

The men fell silent. Finally, one of them said: “Well, yeah. We were going to do a little bit later. But the Doc said not to. Said to wait for Digs. Said he’d kill any of us if he found out-”

“Right, he’s in a bad mood,” said Joseph. On the surface it sounded calm, but Miss Hunter noted a trace of impatience, with an edge of what sounded like nervousness. The others didn’t seem to sense it, because he quickly recovered: “I can understand. This stuff’s valuable: huge market, dwindling supply.” He paused again. “But isn’t it amazing? What it can do. I can’t even imagine exactly where it comes from. Not even I know.”

“Near nobody knows,” said another man, this one in the chair beside Joseph. “Doc Carter. Jules Gorman. Few others around the city. Not me. Rather not know. Things like this… just don’t seem natural anymore. Not human, I mean. Wild. Like the way it used to be, before we was really civilized. Don’t mind messin’ with it for a while, but only for a while. Can’t bear to think about where this stuff comes from. Can’t bear to think about it bein’ there all the time.”

There was another silence, this one stiffer, as if everyone was collectively wondering-where did Sand come from? Miss Hunter, she was behind. She had no idea what Sand was, but apparently all these men around her knew, and supposedly being one of Jules’ girls meant she was supposed to be aware of it, too. But she wasn’t aware of it, and from what she’d gathered, no one at The Sound was aware of it either. According to them, Doctor Carter and Jules Gorman were untouchable bigwigs behind the illegalized alcohol and prostitution rings in the city. But from what she’d gathered thusfar, those were minor. Just a smaller part of a bigger deal. Trivial nothings in relation to this “Sand.”

It was then, during that silence, that a frantic fist rapped quickly on the door. “Marietta! Marietta! It’s Digs! Have to talk to the Doc, lemme in, lemme in!”

The doorman scurried over, quickly undoing the chain. The door flew wide open and in rushed a big, tall, broad-shouldered man. But Miss Hunter couldn’t gather much about his appearance because the man became a blur as he bounded across the room and over to the door to Doc Carter’s office. “Doc! Doc! It’s me, message from Jules Gorman’s people!”

The door hastily opened, and Digs leapt in, disappearing as the door shut.

As the muffled voice of Digs battered on quickly, thoughts rushed through Miss Hunter’s head. Message from Jules. They might find out she’d been lying. They probably would. They’d kill her. Or, if it was a bad message, and he was threatening, they’d hold her hostage. Torture her. And then, when they found out she was of no value to Jules, then they’d kill her- after they’d had their fun, of course.

Then Digs said something that made the other half of the discussion go quiet- then Doc said, from the other side of the door, just barely audible. “What?”

Digs said louder, then- for everyone to hear. “Jules says he won’t bargain.”

All eyes in that grimy, dusty sitting room were on the door; and then, in an instant, Miss Hunter felt all the eyes move to her. Except- she looked up nervously, across the room, at Joseph Slater- not him. Joseph was still looking at the door, but there appeared to be something wrong. He was squinting, facial muscles contorted, concentrating, muttering under his breath, and apparently all at the door.

But soon Miss Hunter stopped caring about him and started thinking again about her own situation. The man next to her pulled his arm out from around you. “So Jules won’t settle, then,” he said, slowly, words dripping with anger. “What’re you, then?” He’d grabbed her arm now, and so had the man next to her, and now they were all getting up, all except Joseph, who wasn’t moving.

“Please! I don’t know why he sent me, he just-”

“Aaaaargh!” there was a loud, long, anguished shout from the other room. The door flew open and Digs fell out backwards, looking stunned. And even though Miss Hunter hadn’t seen much of him before, she knew what he looked like now hadn’t been how he’d looked then- for his face was beet red, his eyes huge and bulging. And his tongue! It was growing rapidly, spilling out his mouth. He was gagging and coughing and gesticulating wildly. The door to Doc Carter’s office slammed shut, but from behind it, he screamed- “GET- THAT!- OUT OF HERE! KILL IT, KILL IT NOW!”

“Kill… Digs?” whimpered one of the men next to Miss Hunter, loosening his grip on her arm. “We can’t-”

Digs, on the floor, made an odd sort of gurgling screaming noise. His tongue was gigantic, now, and growing too big for his mouth, dribbling past his chin- he pointed across the room, by the window, at Joseph who- through the events- was still mumbling something.

Chaos erupted. The men let go of Miss Hunter, but immediately leapt towards Joseph, who, just before a punch connected with his head, opened his eyes and ducked. He was surprisingly nimble, and able to leap through a small space between two men across the room. “Miss Brandy!” he said franticly, making for the door. “Run!”

Without a thought she took off after him- through the door, down the stairs, to another door, into the alley, into the street. She grabbed onto Joseph’s hand, letting him half-pull her as the crowd of Doc’s men scramble after them.

“If we can make it out to the main road, they’ll have to go back. If they get jailed, Carter won’t bail them out!”

“Good!” she shouted. They were in a tangle of backstreets, though- she remembered it taking a long time to navigate her way to the building. Maybe this man knew a faster route?

“Owen Lace, by the way,” he said. “Private Investigator!”

“Madeline Hunter,” she panted as they rounded a corner. “Investigative journalist.”

And just as she was saying that, there they were- Briand Street. The road they’d just come from turned right onto this busier place, and a few meters away was the police station. Madeline couldn’t help it- she laughed with relief. She turned around, to see if they would follow, but their pursuers were nowhere to be seen. Joseph- Owen, rather- had been right. They were safe.

+++

It was a half an hour later. They were together at a table, outside of an all-night café. He’d taken it upon himself to order her a cup of strong coffee. She sipped it. Hot. Calming. Great for the nerves, he’d said.

“You saved my life,” she said.

He shrugged. “Mine was on the line as well, if you recall.”

“But you blew your cover for me,” she said slowly.

“How’s that?” he said with a slight smirk. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not stupid,” she replied, slightly insulted. “I know you were cursing him. So then you must be partially magic. I didn’t think they let your kind leave the slums, let alone become detectives.”

“Private Detective,” he said. “And… they don’t, ordinarily. But they don’t know about what I am. Incidentally, you’re one of the first to figure it out. But the fact that you automatically jumped to the conclusion of what I am means you’re either very smart or very… well, shall we say, naïve.”

She frowned. “What?”

And then, he clapped his hands together, as if he’s just come to some kind of grand decision. “I’ve got an idea, then. Since you’re the keeper of one of my secrets, I’d say I’d like to keep you close. So what do you say you join me?”

“Join you?” Miss Hunter said, bewildered. “I came to the city to be an investigative reporter, not a private investigator.”

He sighed. “You want to be an investigative reporter… which means you aren’t already.”

“I was trying to find my big break. I was going undercover to get a scoop. The editor of The Sound told me to prove I wanted to be a reporter, so I did.”

“Do you think he’ll hire you for sure, then?” he said slowly.

She shrugged her shoulders, and took a sip of her coffee. “I’m… I’m not really sure if he surely will. To be honest, I don’t think he’ll hire me at all. I was sort of hoping I’d get more information on Doc Carter and… sort of… well, bribe him into hiring me. But I don’t think I can do that anymore. Not until I learn more about…”

“…Sand,” he finished.

“I want to know what Sand is.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t use it supplement your piece, because no one at The Sound would believe you. No one would believe anything any anyone said about Sand, because it hasn’t hit the light yet, and we don’t even know the half of it. But the death of my people en masse in the city; the mysterious suicides of your people, hundreds, every week; and the kidnappings of the Old Tribes in the Western mountain range- you’re a reporter. You know about all of them, have read into all of them. And they’re all connected, and it’s through Sand. I’m not sure how, but Miss Hunter, I’m willing to do anything to find out. I will go to any length to get the truth, and I’ve learned tonight that you’re just as driven- just as driven to find out, and then prove yourself. You don’t have to join me, and that’s your decision. But you see how things are becoming tense between Jules Gorman and Doc Carter, and I’m sure you know that relations are only going to get worse now that war has effectively been declared. War is about to break out, and you saw it happen. You and I are among the only witnesses to this catalyst, this thing that’ll set off a bloody conflict in this city very soon. So you can go, now- take the details of your story to The Sound, leave out the part about Sand so as not to seem crazy. Get a job. Forget about Sand until it comes to the surface, find out about it with everyone else. Or you can come join my team- see the war as it happens- and then stop it.”

Miss Hunter looked to her right- out on the street, it was starting to rain. “Like I said-” It looked quiet and peaceful out there now, music coming from inside the few places that were still open, water pooling by the gutters, twinkling pools under the streetlamps. “-tell me about Sand.”

Excellent! A very intriguing installment, and a much-needed breather from the typical archs and such of fantasy. Your writing is superb, and your characters are very full. I await the next installment! (even though I've read it already! XD)

Very very nice story Lly! Very mysterious and original! Love it! Moar! MOAR!

thanks for the replies, amigoes :3

chapter one.

“Brandies Borelles was found dead in his penthouse last night,” she said, slapping the paper on his desk early that afternoon.

Owen sighed, spinning in his swivel chair, going back to his book. “It took them long enough, didn’t it?” he said.

“Owen!” Hunter said. It was just Hunter now, with no more Miss, mostly because her partners bothered with an extra syllable. “You can’t be taking it this lightly!”

He frowned. “It’s not levity, but I’ll tell you what it is- frustration. How was it we knew he was dead twenty-four hours before anybody bothered to check his flat to see if he was missing? I’m not mocking Borelles. I’m mocking the police, and the incompetent reporters who were supposed to have been investigating recent events anyway.” He paused, looking out the open window at the street outside. It was a sunny afternoon, and in the three weeks since the incident with Digs, the spring had gradually gotten warmer. Hunter had gotten to know little about her companion- the former Joseph Slater, now Owen Lace- in that time. She knew that he was thirty-three, as strong as his tallness indicated despite his ace, his neat black hair starting to show a little gray. She knew he lived in a meticulously neat apartment above the office. She knew he wasn’t married, but was on and off seeing Cynthia, the woman whose family owned the bakery across the street. She knew nothing else of him, except for his somewhat cynical attitude. “I’ll bet Ace is a little bit upset, though. I’d guess his parents knew the Borelles family.”

“Speaking of Ace, we should get in contact with him. He owes us money. Perhaps I’ll drop him a visit.”

“That would be nice.”

The following silence would have been somewhat awkward and unsteady, neither Owen nor Hunter sure of what to do next. There was very little to do during the day, since most everything they’d been doing thusfar had been at night.

But that awkward silence never occurred- it was replaced by the absurd sort of tension that occurs when someone barges in a room without knocking. “Did you hear about Brandies Borelles? He’s dead!” Ace was frantically pacing the small space in the office in front of Owen’s desk, now. Long, bizarre strides- appropriate, of course. He was very tall. “He was friends with my dad, a long time ago. And his wife and my mum, like sisters.”

“We know he’s dead,” Owen said slowly. “Rather, we’ve known.”

“Then you know how he died?” Ace said eagerly. “This is connected. It’s got to be connected to my sister’s case, to the whole Sand thing, then, doesn’t it? There’s no way it couldn’t be. Everything these days is connected, you know.”

“We’re less concerned with how he died, though, and more concerned with the why,” Hunter said. “Think about it, Ace. Borelles doesn’t fit average gangster- he’s hardly a gangster at all! He makes his money on travel locations, hotels, parks. And we know it’s connected, but we don’t really know in what way it fits into the scheme right now. There’s no reason why Jules Gorman or Doc Carter wanting to off him, unless they were somehow getting his money.”

Ace shook his head. “It all goes to his son, with a little bit to his wife. And his son doesn’t even live in the country anymore, so I don’t see how that would fit in.”

Owen sighed. “We’ll figure it out. Tell you what- maybe you can be of some use to us. Pour yourself some tea, pull up a chair, and tell us everything you know about Brandies Borelles.”

+++

Antoine Marquee- or Ace, as Owen and Hunter had opted to call him, was an object of annoyance, pity, and admiration all at once. His father, before his death, had had his hands in everything that had to do with banking, and was one of the wealthiest men in the country. His mother, before her death, had been the star of the social scene, remarkably beautiful, and the envy of every woman in the country. At twenty, Ace had unexpectedly inherited the entirety of the Marquee fortune. At twenty-four, despite never working a day since then, he was still enormously independently wealthy.

He was also, as it happened, brilliant.

“We know he’s had that plot, but he’s had it for decades. Why kill him? Why now?” Owen couldn’t wrap his head around this one, and he was growing impatient with the young man. After ten minutes of Ace’s ramblings of numbers and figures about the Borelles Agency, they hadn’t found anything useful, and no motive for murder.

“But you’ve failed to see the connection,” said Ace. “The one that I’ve been trying to make all along. Brandies Borelles was building another hotel.”

“You’ve been saying it over and over,” said Owen. “It doesn’t make it mean anything more. Stop dangling it in front of us and tell us.”

“He’s not connected to Sand. Not that we can see yet, anyway. He’s connected to the disappearances in the Western Mountains. He was trying to build a hotel at the foot of the Mountain Range, on the coast of Lake Glass. He was planning on developing it for the first time, but he’d owned the land all along- just hadn’t touched it! Which could lead me to believe that someone has been using his land under-the-radar, probably using it as a route for whatever’s being pulled among the Mountain Tribes.”

“Where did you find out he was building another hotel?” asked Hunter. She sat on the front corner of Owen’s desk. “Who told you?”

Ace held up his copy of The Sound, the one he’d been waving in their faces a few minutes before. “You should read it.”

Hunter ignored Ace’s answer. “Owen, what are we going to do tonight? There hasn’t been a death among any of Gorman or Carter men in two days.”

“No, you’re right. But there was a suicide, and two halfies were found dead in the gutter this morning. I’ll be damned if they weren’t all related to Sand.”

Ace sighed. “Why concern yourself with the halfies all the time, Detective Lace? They’re killing each other off, just like always. They’re hardly even civilized.”

“It’s like you said, Ace- everything is connected.” He stood up from his chair, suddenly looking wearied. “Hunter, let’s go get something to eat. Ace… just go.”

“Oh, so what, I’m useless now?”

“Yes,” said Hunter. “We need to discuss some things. We’ll talk to you later, though.” She lightly shoved him out of the office- towards the door, into the lobby. “Get some fresh air. It’s a nice day.”

“I-” but before he could finish, she’d slammed the door in his face. She turned to Owen. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. He doesn’t know!”

“I know he doesn’t mean to be rude.” Owen sighed, leaning on the wall behind his desk. “And I should prolly tell him, right? It’s not like he’ll take his business elsewhere, and he’s effectively part of the team now.”

“So don’t be cross!” She crossed her arms. “And let’s focus on what we know. We know that Borelles’s land held the route that the kidnappers have been using to steal away the tribes, as well as to get their hands whatever they use to make Sand.”

“Then we should go out there,” he said. “Since nothing’s been happening with Carter and Gorman, and we have no leads in that direction. We’ll take the train tomorrow morning, if there are no major incidents tonight.”

“Okay,” Hunter said, making for the door. “I’ll see to it.”

+++

Lunch, ticket purchase, and an apologetic visit to Ace took surprisingly long- night came quickly. It descended like a bandit, seemingly seconds after sunset, stealing away any sense of safety Hunter could have during the daytime.

She hated living far away from the busier districts. After every corner she took, she looked over her shoulder, checking to see if she was followed, half-expecting to find herself chased again. Being around Owen had made her jaded, and overly-cautious, bordering on paranoia.

She was relieved when she finally reached the house. It was a big square structure in a fairly nice neighborhood- fairly clean streets with gutters and sewers, flowerboxes in the windows, quiet with lights out by ten. It was nine o’ clock now; late for Miss Hunter to be out by neighborhood standards.

But Mrs. Hart didn’t mind Hunter coming in after dark. Not much, anyway.

“Madeline, dear,” she said sweetly. She was sitting in her rocking chair by the fire, radio on, paying some soft music. “My, you’ve been out late.”

“I was visiting Ace,” she said, taking off her coat and placing it onto the hanger beside the door. “He thought I should stay for dinner, and then deserts, and then tea, and… it got to be a hassle. He wanted to keep me over longer than he needed to.”

Mrs. Hart chuckled. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. How was Mr. Lace today?”

“He was fine,” she said, taking a seat in the chair opposite the older woman. “How was your day?”

“Oh, it was peachy. I went to the market and ran into Mister Bunkley, and he had the most amazing flowers that he said he’d gotten at the florist, so I…” Hunter’s attention sort of drifted, after that. It was warm and hazy in the room, the smell of recent tea thick in the air… she loved Miss Hart, but she tended to go on. And, on. She’d been staying with her since her arrival in the city- the house was nice but Mrs. Hart lived alone since her husband’s death, so she was willing to lower her prices for company. “…so that was very nice.”

Hunter sighed. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hart. Well, I think I’m exhausted from work today. I’m going to go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning!”

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight.”

Hunter moved dazily through the hall and towards the stairs, ascending them slowly. Each step was a pain. She wanted to get to bed as early as possible- tomorrow was an early morning, if they wanted to get the train.

The room where she was staying was small, with a ceiling slightly slanted, it being just under the roof. There was one window, overlooking the street outside- but Hunter pulled the shade immediately, not wanting to be tempted to look, for fear of her eyes fooling her, and seeing something moving in the dark. It had once belonged to Mrs. Hart’s son- the one she didn’t like to talk about, the one who had moved out a while ago. It might have been too small for him but Hunter, being smaller and shorter, thought it was cosy without being cramped.

Quickly, she changed into her nightclothes and pulled back the blankets on her bed, falling in and feeling herself drift off into sleep, slowly…

+++

“…should be safe here, and I kept some extra under the around in here. It’s from a while ago. Still pure. Reckon it’ll help: I’ll see if I can find it.”

“I aint gonna last much longer… they got me good, I-” there came a choking noise from across the room.

Hunter stayed very, very still under the blankets, stiff as a statue. There were two men in the room with her. One, she felt, was sitting slumped on the edge of her bed. The other was fumbling through her drawers. “Shut your kisser, I’m trying to help you, but there’s someone trying to sleep, so be bloody quiet!”

“If she didn’t wake when she smashed the window, we ent gonna wake her now,” said the other from the foot of her bed. His every word sounded pained. He sounded like a man who had just been punched in the chest. “I’m gonna faint…”

“Dammit! Dammit! Wasn’t in the drawers, my mum’s probably cleaned them, might’a thrown it out, thinking it were junk.” He paused. Hunter listened intently, still not moving- his voice sounded familiar, like someone she’d heard before, but not someone she knew well. “Check for loose boards.”

“Feel… dizzy…” said the other. He tumbled slowly off of her bed, hitting the floor with a thud, and a crack.

The other man scurried over to him, cursing several times. “Jules? Jules? Aaw, damn. Aaw, dammit, no, Jules, wake up. C’mon, Jules, don’t be dead, that means that I…” He drifted off slowly, because Hunter had let out a little gasp- a gasp at the name Jules. Jules. Jules Gorman? Surely not, couldn’t be, no way in hell. What would Jules Gorman be doing in her bedroom? And who was the other man whose voice she’d heard? Was it Digs? It could have been. But what was Digs doing with Jules?

“Hey…” the voice said softly. “You’re dreaming.” Right, it must have been to her. “This is another dream. Now dream somethin’ else. Forget you were dreaming this. Forget…”

And there it was- suddenly Hunter knew who it was. Not Digs. And he sounded so vulnerable, his voice weak, his voice trembling, and this was her chance. She sat up, and leapt out of bed. “It’s you,” she said quickly. “It’s YOU! I know exactly who you are!”

The tall, lanky man was backing up slowly, into a wall. “No, honey. I aint no one. No way you know who I am. No way in hell. But it don’t matter, right? ‘cause you’re still dreaming. You’re dreaming, right now. You’re dreaming right…” …now. Now, Hunter wasn’t dreaming, but now, the man was sliding slowly to the floor, his eyes vacant becoming vacant, his mouth slacking. He was dying, slowly, the life slipping from his body. It was as if he was going to sleep, then and there, and his lids drooped shut slowly, his head slightly to the side as his body slid to the ground.

Magic. A curse. Someone had cursed this man, just like someone had cursed the other man, Jules Gorman, at the foot of her bed. “Wh-who’s there?” she whimpered. “Who’s doing that? Who’s killing them? Come out… please…” Of course it was in vain. Whoever was killing them was hidden, somewhere in the room- or outside?

The window was smashed, the curtains open, a light breeze flowing in. Were they outside? Who was the assailant? Legs shaking, she made her way to the window, and forced herself to look out into the street- but it was empty. No movement- the entirety of the night was still, and silent, and-

The door to the bedroom slammed open on its hinges. “I heard a noise,” Mrs. Hart said, panic-stricken, “So I came up. Madeline, why are you at the windo- OH, MY LORD, THAT MAN!” She pointed at the body at the end of her bed, to Jules Gorman. “He’s dead?! How did he die?! Did you…” she looked up in horror.

“I just woke up, and they were on the floor,” Madeline said with unease. She was startng to feel sick- with nervousness, with fear, with a sick little excitement. “Mrs. Hart, I have no idea why they’re here.”

“They..?” Mrs. Hart said softly. Her eyes slowly moved, then, to the wall, to the body slumped by the door.

And then the stillness of the night was broken, as Mrs Hart let out a long, labouring cry. She fell to her knees, her eyes suddenly welling up with tears, wailing: “My son! My son! My little boy!” She picked up the body on the ground, the one of the man who Hunter had confronted, hugged him close to her body, rocked back and forth on the floor.

The lights came on in some houses along the road. A man, their neighbor, and one of Mrs. Hart’s friends, appeared in the street in his pajamas. “What’s going on?” he called up at Madeline, who had her head out the window.

“Call the police,” she shouted down. “There’s been a murder. Her son’s body is here in the house.”

Hunter wanted then to talk to Mrs. Hart, but she couldn’t. While waiting for the police to arrive, all the hurting woman could do was mutter “My son, my poor son,” while rocking back and forth on the floor, all the while hugging the body of the late Doctor Carter.

chapter two.

Hunter had not expected to become a suspect. In the case of the death of Doctor Carter and Jules Gorman. But there she was- wrists in cuffs together at her front, being pushed out of her room, down the stairs, out the front door and into the beetle-black police car. She could feel it rumble as it plodded slowly over the uneven cobblestone streets, bumping about at a dragging pace. It felt like it ages that the vehicle slowly pulled forward. And no one said a word to her—no one asked her a thing, so she kept perfectly silent, hands folded on her lap. She was tired and still in her bedclothes: not sure what to think, and too sleepy to feel anxious of the thought of being tried for a crime she did not commit. Yet right now, she seemed to be the prime suspect for that very crime.

“Alright. We’re here.” A tall officer at the car’s window opened the door for her and helped her out. They were standing at the foot of the city’s Northern Police station. Because it was in the nicer half of the city, it generally dealt with smaller crimes, and very seldom had anything to do with men such as Jules Gorman or Doctor Carter. And yet, there it was, the odd sort of situation: the blood of the city’s two most notorious gangsters staining Station North’s soil. How strange it was.

It was a nice, old looking building, clearly built early in the country’s settlement and clearly adapted from some ornate structure that had certainly not been a police building. It looked more like a brown stone mansion, with elaborate front steps and a big, beautiful front hall, walls decorated with oil paintings, depicting scenes of magic and heroics. Past the lobby Hunter saw the real character of the building- there was a desk and a few chairs, and down the hall a few cells. Only one of the chairs was occupied- it was a man looking grim, and unresponsive to the questioning of a policeman. Hunter looked away when she recognized: it was Digs.

“Petty theft, this one,” said the officer dealing with him to the one leading Hunter past the chairs and desk, down to hall to the cells. “Won’t even give me his name.”

Hunter looked darkly at the cells- the officer, reading her expression aptly, shook his head. “No miss, those aren’t for you. Not yet, anyway. We’re going to take you in for questioning. Then we’ll see.”

Hunter shuddered- less with fear then relief- as he led her past the cells, down a hall to the left, and into a small room that looked like something of a basement. It contained a table and a few rickety chairs- nothing too intimidating. She sat down in one, and then the officer sat down in one, and then another man came in, this one in a long coat looking like he had just arrived.

“So, you’re Miss Hunter?” he asked, taking his seat. She nodded. “We’re sorry if there’s been any confusion. We know a little lady like yourself couldn’t possibly kill those two men. But we had to bring you in, see? So. We brought you in because you’re new to town, and no one can really vouch for you, except for the old lady, who couldn’t be spoken to at the time. Do you know of anyone that can?”

Hunter frowned. “I work for Owen Lace. He’s a private detective. I was also visiting Antoine Marquee, a friend, this evening. I had just arrived home from Ace’s home, and went to bed, and woke up to find the two men there in my room.”

The detective looked at the officer. “Detective Lace and Ace Marquee? You’ve only been in this city a short time, and you’ve already fallen in with quite a cast of characters.”

She simply shrugged. “It wasn’t intentional. Detective Lace was looking for a secretary, and I needed a job. He was currently working on a case involving Raina Marquee, so I’ve become acquainted with him.”

“So you say you were visiting Mr. Marquee. Exactly how long were you there?”

“I left at about nine thirty, and walked home. It wasn’t far.”

“All by yourself, at night? Are you aware that isn’t safe?”

“I know it wasn’t safe but I didn’t see any other way. I wanted to make it back home, and did not want Mrs. Hart to worry.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Hart: she says she found you standing over Gorman and her son when you came into the room. Why would that be?”

“I got out of bed to investigate. I heard Carter’s body drop to the ground, and it awoke me. I wanted to see what the source of the noise was, and I found them.”

“You awoke to the thud of Carter’s body falling, but not the smash and shattering of the window.” The detective leaned in, putting his face close to Hunter’s. “That’s the detail that doesn’t sound right to me. Tell me the truth, now sweetheart.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t wake up then.” Hunter was speaking quickly, now. “I just know it took me a while to fully come to.”

The detective shook his head. “But you’re the only one who was around when they died. You were frightened when they came in, Miss Hunter. Anyone could have made the mistake, bashed a man’s head in with a lamp or something. It’s okay to admit you made a mistake.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The detective had implied that this whole thing was just a formality, and she would be let go. Yet here she was, being treated like a criminal. She just gaped.

“Miss Hunter, at this point, we’re going to let you find a lawyer. I think from now on it would be best for us to keep you here, but just for the night.” The police officer stood up, and bade Hunter to do so. “You will be-”

The door opened, practically flying off its hinges as Owen and Ace stormed in, both looking very angry and very bedraggled. “You’re going to keep her here as your prime suspect?!” he said. “She’s just a girl! You think Miss Hunter could have bested the two most notorious gangsters in the country?”

“Detective Lace,” said Hunter’s interrogator pleasantly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid so. Miss Hunter is currently our only suspect, as she was the only one present at the time of their deaths.”

“And did you figure out how they died?” asked Ace. “Because if it was a gun wound, well, you’ll have to find a gun, which I’ll bet Miss Hunter doesn’t even have in her possession!”

The detective, however, simply shook his head. “Our officers are looking at the scene right now. They should be back quite soon.”

Ace looked out the door. “That would be them coming down the hallway, then?” he said. “Look, a man. And he’s carrying what looks like… bottles? Hm, why’s that?”

Owen and Ace stepped into the room, permitting the other two men entrance. “Detective Bryce, I have the coroner here with me,” said one of the men, some kind of high ranking-officer. “He would like to give you some details he noted about the bodies discovered on scene.”

“Meaning, there were none!” the little man exclaimed. “Details, that is. These men had not a scratch on them, no signs that they were bleeding internally. They seemed to have died peacefully, just sort of drited off into a deep sleep. Imagine! It’s fascinating.”

“…that sounds familiar…” Owen mumbled, as if under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Detective Bryce said slowly, sweetly. “Have you something to say, Detective Lace?”

“I was just saying, sir, that that sounds familiar. All the deaths that have been happening among humans- the chain of suicides- they all involved what appeared to be without wound, without cause. No slit wrists, no guns to the head, and everyone seems to have poisoned themselves quietly, with something like cyanide.” Ace visibly winced. Owen continued. “It’s tragic, and needs to be investigated more fully.”

Detective Bryce circled the table. “But it’s not as if we had any evidence that these men were poisoned. For all we know, it could have been shock that killed them!”

“Actually,” said the ranking officer, “If you’ll look at what we found near the scene: these two bottles, containing whiskey laced with cyanide, were found laying by the side of the road on top of a rubbish heap down the street. They have the prints of Gorman and Carter… respectively. They might have been poisoned by some unknown attacker.”

Detective Bryce began to ramble a bit: “So we can discern that Gorman and Carter were killed slowly, through poisoning, probably far away from Miss Hunter’s window. And it would not make sense for them to be having a drink together- perhaps one was chasing the other. Gorman must have been chasing Carter- probably back to Carter’s childhood home, where he thought he could hide. Maybe… perhaps they were at the same pub, Gorman spots Carter, Carter runs away down the street , both still carrying their bottles. They deicide to ditch them in the same rubbish heap. They climb the tree in front, Carter smashes the window to find a place to hide, Gorman catches up, they both die. Sounds about right.”

Hunter blinked. “So I’m free to go?”

“Looks like,” said Detective Bryce. He glanced over at the officer next to her and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Uncuff the lady!” He quickly undid her shackles and she found herself able to move her hands, flexing her wrists back and forth.

Ace scurried over, plopping his jacket onto her shoulders. “It’s bloody freezing in here,” he muttered. “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t have let you grab your coat before leaving. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Wait a moment,” said Owen as Detective Bryce started to leave. “That’s not right.”

The other man looked back at Owen in annoyance. “It isn’t? Have you got any other ideas?”

Owen shrugged. “Not really, no. But your story makes little sense. I can understand that the men were poisoned. But why would Carter cower in fear at the sight of Gorman? I understand that they’re rivals: that much has been clear to me for a long time now. But if they were at some kind of speakeasy, probably surrounded by their men, why would Carter run away like a child? And furthermore, the neighborhood around Miss Hunter, I believe, has proved itself to be neutral territory. I’ve been doing investigating, and Carter and Gorman very seldom seem to be active an anywhere outside the southern portions of the city. Why would they be drinking in pubs outside of their territory, let alone at the same time, undisguised, alone?”

Detective Bryce stepped away from the door and towards Owen. “Look here. I know who you were: big shot boy detective down in South Station. And then you thought you were too good for everyone else, so you started your own agency. Well let me just say: butt out, Detective Lace. This is my case, not yours. I’ve got it solved. You think you understand those gangsters so good? You don’t. You don’t know how goddamn scared they are deep down, how scared wet they are when they see each other. They put up tough fronts boy, but inside, they’re nothing. Think they’re big ****, y’see, but what killed them? Poison in a drink. That’s how they go down. That’s really how they go down.”

There was a tense silence. Everyone was frozen- Detective Bryce confronting Owen physically, Ace and Hunter still standing awkwardly by her seat. “I know men like Gorman and Carter. I’ve seen the way they act. They don’t run away unless there’s something significant to run from. And bottles don’t land neatly in rubbish heaps, one next to another.”

“What are you implying?” the coroner asked tentatively.

“Surely not that the bottles were planted, Detective Lace?” asked the ranking officer. “Without the planted bottles, the case makes no sense. There’s no reason why these two men should have died. Like this coroner said—there were no wounds on the bodies. Nothing. They’re clean. Not a nick on them. They must have been poisoned.”

“But look at all the suicides that have been happening!” Ace left Hunter’s side, approaching the officer quickly. “All the things that have been going on, all the people that have been dying! You keep saying: death by poison, death by poison, death by poison! Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that there’s something going on?”

“The only thing I can see was that Gorman and Carter’s men were trying to poison their rival leaders,” Detective Bryce said gruffly. “Come off it, Mister Marquee. You really can’t believe that there’s something else going on.”

“Yes!” Ace said fervently. “Magic! They’re being cursed!”

“Magic is outlawed,” the officer said. “We have ways of detecting it. We’ve got halfies in our department, adjusted ones, ones who can sense t and lead us to crime scenes. We’ve arrested some on and off but no one we’ve arrested was strong enough to take us, let alone curse us. We’ve scared them all silly. No fluffy magic can stand up to men with guns.”

“But what would have made Gorman and Carter run like that?” said Owen. “What else would make them run off together? Maybe it wasn’t one pursuing another- maybe it was both of them, running from a common attacker, trying desperately to get away from something that was after the both of them? What if there’s someone bigger than the both of them, waiting out there to take their places?”

Detective Bryce laughed at this. “Lace, boy, if you want to discuss conspiracy theories, perhaps we can do it for another time. But for now, I think you should take your friend and go back to doing what you do best- finding lost dogs for harried grandmas, or whatever you Private I’s are doing these days.” He took a step out the door. “I’ve got real work to do.”

And with that Detective Bryce left the room, followed by the coroner and the two officers. They left the door ajar, waiting for Owen, Hunter and Ace to leave. Owen was breathing deeply, now- Hunter could see his frustration in his eyes, which were wild, still glaring at the place where Bryce had been standing. “We should leave,” she said quietly. “Let’s get out of here quickly. There are a few things I need to tell you.”

+++

Getting properly out of the office took some time—paperwork and all, they were out on the street again and heading towards Hunter’s home within an hour. “We’re going to accompany you home,” they insisted. “It’s a dangerous night.”

“I told the officers I woke up when I heard Carter’s body hit the ground,” she whispered. “Which isn’t true. When I awoke, Carter and Gorman were talking. Carter was going on about looking for something that could help them, something that he’d been hiding there… he said it had been around for a while, so it was ‘still pure’ or something to that end. It was like you said, Owen- they seemed to be running from one common foe. And Carter was trying to help Gorman, because Gorman seemed to be dying, and he was aware of it. As a matter of fact, he died just before Carter did.”

The turned a corner, passing under a flickering streetlamp- Hunter was already on edge. “So whatever this is that killed them, it’s big enough to scare Carter and Gorman into teaming up,” Ace said.

“But that teaming up was too late,” added Owen. “It must have just happened recently. Maybe whatever it was killed off both the leaders, before they become a force too powerful to reckon with.” He paused, for a moment, and they walked in silence. “I wonder what’s become of their men. I wonder if their men know of the merger.”

“We should ask someone,” Ace said. “Find someone and ask. It would be good to get our hands on one of their top dogs.”

Owen sighed. “That will be difficult. Their men try to stay under the radar, inconspicuous. We’d have a hell of a time identifying one of them.”

They walked in silence again, through the darkened street, until Hunter said, brightly, “Wait a moment: I saw Digs in the police office, being tried for petty theft. Maybe we can talk to him tomorrow!”

“Sounds like a plan,” Owen said. “We’ll track down Digs in the morning.”

Hey, I actually read this last night and left a comment, but it was lost in the whole hacker thing. So, here we go again with it.

I'm a big fan of the steampunk/hard-boiled/speakeasy style. You pull it of rather well with distinct characters and a clean, well edited structure. I look forward to seeing where our two detectives end up in their story. Rock on pulp!

The only thing that threw me off was the magic. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, it was just rather...unsuspected. It doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of the style you are going for. Maybe that's just me being caught up in all the stereotypes and a century of the entertainment industry's programming, but it really seemed out of context.

Anyhoo, you're the dreamer here, not me. Just my opinion.

thanks for the crit- much appreciated.

I'm actually really glad you pointed out my characters. When sitting down to write this, I told myself I wanted to write a story that was primarily character-based, but as I started writing I got nervous. I had no idea how to go about it, and I thought they were poorly-written at first, but thanks so much for the input. It's taken a load of anxiety off my shoulders.

As for the awkward placement of magic: I originally intended for this story to be a sort of perspective on what that generic fantasy country would be like if it were to advance somewhat technologically. I have a whole convoluted history, set of laws, and list of uses of magic mapped out, but I've no idea how to go about incorporating it into the story without doing a great big infodump. The fact that it seems out of place is probably due to the fact that the world I've built is very... unclear at this point, unfortunately. :< In chapter four I start to get more into using magic and Sand generously, so hopefully that will clear things up a little.

Thanks for pointing that out to me, though. Now I know exactly what I need to be working on. :D