In the end, I don't head back to my place. Nah, that would be the sensible thing to do, and I can't play it safe or sensible. Not now. Not when I'm this close to the truth, so close I can practically taste it. Eleanor's out there, and I've got to track her down.


If only Lily was by my side. Lily, delicate as her namesake, the best partner I never had. She's got a nose for trouble that'd put any bloodhound to shame. Give her a scent, and she'll sniff out secrets faster than you can say "gumshoe."


I lean against a lamppost, nursing a damp cigarette, hoping my desperation will draw her out. Now more than ever, I wish she'd show. Lily's got a sixth sense for danger: knows when I'm about to step into it and knows just how to yank me back.


Cars zoom past, their headlights casting ghostly trails on the wet street, but Lily's nowhere to be seen. Not tonight.


Damn it, I'm wasting time.


The soles of my shoes grip the grime-slick sidewalk as I tail a whisper through the city's gut. It's a hushed undertone, weaving between the cracks of the mundane and the murk where magic breathes. A lead as brittle as old bones, yet solid enough to lure me into the shadows of an enclave they don't put on the map for the average Joe.


"Keep your head, Thorn," I mutter to myself, the breath curling in the cold air like a wisp of cigarette smoke. The alleyways here are a spiderweb, and I'm no fly—just a lone gumshoe with a knack for sniffing out the places where light fears to tread.


The buildings lean in close, like crooked men sharing secrets over a game of dice, and their windows are dark eyes that don't blink. They've seen things, these walls, heard the silent screams and the murmurs of spells cast in moments of desperation or greed.


I can taste the tension, bitter as day-old coffee left to stew. Magic—it's palpable here, a irregular pulse beating beneath the city's skin. My trench coat feels too thin, a poor shield against the chill or whatever else might be lurking 'round the next bend.


"Damned if the past ain't a shadow that clings," I grumble, memories of cracked cases and lost lives haunting my every step. Memories have a way of creeping up on you when the night is thick and your pistol's weight is the only truth you can count on.


A cat scuttles from a pile of refuse, its eyes catching the dim light before it vanishes. Even the strays know to keep to themselves in this part of town. But then, they don't have leads that pull them forward, inch by treacherous inch, into the heart of the arcane underground.


"Stick to the bricks, Vic," I remind myself, the mantra grounding me when the air feels charged enough to spark. "You're here for answers, not to become one of the whispered about."


But every step is a gamble, every corner turned a roll of the dice with fate. And in this game, the house always has the edge.

That's when I catch it—the low hum of voices, a chorus of murmurs rising above the city's heartbeat. I press against the wall, inching closer, a phantom among specters. My hand rests on the cold grip of my .38, an old friend in a world growing stranger by the second.

I peer around a corner, and there she is—Eleanor Hargrave, queen of enigmas, swathed in a black robe that drinks in the night. She's circled by figures that shimmer and shift, their outlines blurred like the boundaries between worlds. They're not talking—they're conspiring, the kind of hushed tones you don't want the stars or the streetlamps to overhear.


The meeting breaks, and the figures disperse like smoke, leaving Eleanor alone. That's my cue. I follow her trail, a silent predator stalking its prey.


"Careful, detective," she warns over her shoulder. "These alleys have ears... and fangs. Perhaps you've been peeking into corners you shouldn't." Her laugh is a melody laced with danger.


"Maybe," I concede, closing the gap between us. "But I've seen enough to know that you're neck-deep in this mess. So, how about we skip the dance and you tell me what you know?"


Eleanor's gaze locks onto mine, eyes sharp as daggers. "I could help you, Vic," she says softly, and I can almost believe her. "But the question is, can you afford the price of my truths?"


"Try me," I challenge, feeling the weight of the city's fate like a noose tightening around my neck. Her secrets are the key, and I'm here to turn the lock—or pick it if I have to.


She stops before a scarred door, runes carved deep into its surface. "Beyond here, Vic... are the ones who really pull the strings." Her voice dips low, serious now. "They're dangerous. But they're also the answer you've been looking for."


Eleanor traces a slender finger along the rune, whispering words that seem to twist reality. The door groans open, revealing a chamber where figures cloaked in shadows sit around a table that looks older than time itself.


"Remember, detective," she whispers, close enough that her breath tickles my ear. "In their eyes, you're less than nothing. A plaything. Don't give them a reason to end you."


"Charming company you keep," I quip, trying to keep my nerves from showing.


As the chamber door closes behind us, sealing off any semblance of normalcy, I size up the situation. These are the high rollers, the real shot callers of this arcane world. And they're sizing me up right back, eyes glinting with an intelligence that's seen centuries. What is it with these secret societies and masks, anyway? They look like rejects from a masquerade ball in their drooping feathers and smudged sequins, jewels whose glitter tarnished a long time ago. Of course, the only barefaced one in the room is the broad who needs a mask most of all.


"Welcome, Mr. Thorn," she croaks, her voice like gravel dragged over ancient bones. "We've been expecting you."

"Can't say the pleasure's mutual," I reply, one hand instinctively curling around the pistol grip.


Eleanor stands beside me, a statue of composure, but there's a flicker in her eyes—fear? Anticipation? I can't tell. The room is a chessboard and I'm the reluctant pawn. Trust Eleanor, or trust my instincts to never trust anyone? It's a gamble either way. I draw in a breath tainted with ancient incense and power plays.


"Alright, let's talk," I say, stepping forward. "But just so we're clear, I'm here to solve a murder."


A collective murmur ripples through the room, as if the very notion were a blasphemy to their ears. I strain to catch a snippet of recognition in those guttural tones and grunts but can't place a single one. When none of them try to move on me, I take it as a good sign.


"Word on the street is that you're having memory problems," old gravel voice says, leaning forward so the lantern on the table renders the underside of her craggy features in a sickly yellow that does nothing for her pitted and wrinkled skin. From its greenish cast, she could be fae, goblin, or some hybrid horror bridging either definition. It wouldn't be polite or wise to ask—even something as simple as her name is too much—so I keep my speculation to myself. Whatever her ancestry, the broad's got a face straight out of a demon's nightmare. As she continues to speak, light flashes from the heavy golden hoop in her pointed ear and flickers blearily down the chain ending in a lethal black barb in her bulbous nose. Another hoop bisects her lower lip, connecting it to the center of her too-prominent chin.


"Word on the street travels fast," I reply, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger. She's not wrong, as much as I hate to admit it.


"Are you here to ask for my help, Thorn?" she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.


"I need answers about that night... the night Morrison...." I trail off, unwilling to pull too hard on that conversational thread. Instead, I square my shoulders and clear my throat. "About what really happened."


She leans back in her chair, studying me with cold obsidian eyes. A sly smile plays at the corner of her mouth, gifting me a glimpse of long, stained fang. I mentally add vampire to her potential genetic list. Of the three, a bloodsucker makes the most sense.


As if on cue, a name slithers into consciousness, one I've only heard whispered in the forgotten rooms—tombs of memory, cold and lonely places the light left long ago. Seraphina. A beautiful name to mask ugliness, age, and an even older power, an evil beyond measure, maybe beyond memory itself. Could she be the Seraphina?


"And what makes you think I would have those answers?"


The rattle of her voice jolts me back to myself. I grit my teeth, feeling my frustration mounting. "Stop playing games. This isn't a joke."

"Isn't it?" She settles back in a chair whose intricately-carved back makes it look like the throne of the damned. "I think you're the one who's been playing games, Vic. With facts. With fate. With yourself."


Her words hit me like a blow to the gut. The room reels, and for a moment, I feel unsteady on my feet. She's right. My own memories have become a maze, twisting and turning in on themselves until I don't know what's real and what's not.


"Sit down, Vic," she says, her voice affecting a more genial tone as she gestures towards a chair. "Let's have a drink. You look like you could use one."


I hesitate, but then sit down, my eyes never leaving her wizened face. She leans in close—closer than I'd like—and I can smell her: cloves, sour chemicals, and beneath these, a whiff of rot. The cloying stench of death outwitted yet not completely outrun. Oh, she's a vamp, alright—one that passed her stake-by date long, long ago. Just my luck.


As she reaches into the folds of her robe, a jeweled goblet of I-don't-want-to-know-what materializes beside her. The room draws a breath, drinking in my essence while pulling her coven of cronies and Eleanor into its suffocating embrace.


"Drink this," she says, holding a small vial filled with a dark liquid out to me.


"What is it?"


"It's not poison, Vic. I'd never be so crude. Besides, you're worth more to us alive," she says, eyes glinting in the low light. "Think of it as a gift from me to you, a little something to jog your memory. Now drink."


I stare at the vial, feeling a mixture of fear and curiosity. I know that I shouldn't trust her, but what other choice do I have?

"Bottoms up," I say, then down the contents of the vial in one gulp.


For a moment, nothing happens. And then, slowly, the world around me begins to shift and blur. My vision swims, and I feel as though I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into an abyss.


"Stay with me, Vic." Eleanor's voice seethes from somewhere amidst the shifting shadows. "Stay with me."


But it's too late. Darkness swallows me whole.