The Case of the Lacerated Assistant

Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.

I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing.  Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange.  For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell.  She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could.  At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes.  Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind.  But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.

We had been out late on a case.  It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery.  This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me.  At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out.  We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away.  Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault.  I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal.  But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse.  I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence.  It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how?  There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery.  The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there.  This was all very interesting...

When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells.  She got the fish, and I had most of the chips.  And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.

And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied.  “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it.  It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?”  Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut.  I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve.  And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.

“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!”  Calla flinched.  “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars.  I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly.  But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth.  “Okay.  It’s fine.  Very decent of you.  It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't.  I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her.  “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”

I smiled, a tad grimly.  Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of.  Care to examine me?”  She held out both arms for inspection.  I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over.  Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed).  But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion.  There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.

“Do you remember how you got that?”  I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars.  There are many I’d prefer not to remember.”  She frowned.  “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.”  Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up.  She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it!  I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.”  Realization confirmed the situation.  “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup.  Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”

This revelation was naturally very alarming.  But it did explain a lot.  The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it?  After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death.  Especially when it led to her getting random injuries.  There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt.  Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape.  But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance.  Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone.  He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them.  Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”

Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it.  It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any.  Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other.  And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant.  But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that.  Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic.  It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.

Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced.  “Just what the world needs.  A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people.  He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so.  Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow.  “Sharky?”
Calla blushed.  “It just seemed...appropriate for him.  His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough.  You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now.  He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.”  I thoughtfully munched a chip.  Suddenly a new point came up in my mind.  “When are you going to tell Lars?”

The kid flinched.  “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually.  Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!”  She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm.  I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home.  As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet.  But at some point...”

“Yeah, I know.  There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”

TANSTAV part 15

Chapter Five
The plot thickens (of course)

By now you readers must be tearing your hair out (or fur, or feathers, or horns, or antennae, depending on what you are), wondering who it is I suspected, why he has mismatched feet, what he’s doing in Galveston, and why I have such a deep personal vendetta against him. Well, I’m tempted not to tell, just to preserve the suspense for a while longer. But I really hate it when writers do stuff like that: they don’t get straight to the point about what they want to say, but have to go off on a tangent and blab on and on about something completely off topic, and you want them to shut up and get on with the plot, but they keep jabbering away about some random thing, until finally you yell at them to-

GET ON WITH IT!!!!

The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.

She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger.  Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc.  She’s recovered now, thankfully.  It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.

To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.

I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”

To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.

“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”

“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”

“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.

“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.

The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”

I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”

Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.

“What do you want there?”

“It’s for my case. I told you.”

But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.

“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”

“It might.”

“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”

“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.

“Where? Are you sure?!”

“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”

“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.

“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”

“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.

“What-”

“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”

Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.

“Thanks. I owe you for this.”

With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.

“Chernabog Prison.”

My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.