Manse Macabre

When you set out to save the world for the first time, no one ever tells you about all the pressure. My God, it is ridiculous.

Cal Perkins was at the end of his rope. He would have had to be - be desperate, really - because otherwise he never would have been where he now found himself standing: in a dilapidated office building, on the 13th floor, standing in front of an office with a large glass window whose sign (some sort of vinyl cling-type number placed directly on the glass) proclaimed the business to be

"Cass Llewellyn - Wizard

Paranormal Investigative Services

Lost Items Found, Consulting, Advice."

Just beneath this, in finer print, the sign continued "no love potions, endless purses, or parties/entertainment." This person, this Cass Llewellyn, was either bat crap crazy... or the real deal. And unfortunately for Cal Perkins (or fortunately, depending on how things played out), he was desperate enough that he had to roll those dice.

Track 01 - Acid Rain by Lorn

The door to my office opened slowly, sort of hesitantly, and I glanced up from the doorstop paperback noir murder mystery I was reading in surprise. I wasn't surprised at the hesitance to open my door - that was absolutely normal - but rather that my door was opening at all. Business had been... well, painfully slow of late, if I'm being honest. I briefly considered removing my feet from my desk and at least attempting to make a good first impression, but then decided against it, as, for one thing, I was comfortable, and for another thing, my sign had probably already shot my chance to make any sort of decent first impression dead. I returned my attention to the book and waited for Timid Thomas to enter the office. When I finally looked up again, there he was: a tall, thin, handsome African-American man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties and looked, just, stressed the hell out. I quirked an eyebrow at him and, in my most wizardly manner possible, said,

"May I help you, sir?"

It took him a moment to compose himself, something I am quite used to dealing with, before awkwardly blurting out, "I thought only men were wizards?" and then promptly looking absolutely mortified.

I laughed. "Well, technically, you're not wrong... buuuut the word 'witch' has some nasty connotations to it, even in modern society, and also I'm nonbinary, so gender-specific things like witch versus warlock don't really apply to me."

To my immense surprise and pleasure, he suddenly seemed to relax, and a smile lit up his face. He had a simple, unassuming gold ring in his right nostril, wavy/curly black hair cut in a fade that was significantly longer on the top than the back and sides, a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones and nose, and hazel eyes that wrinkled when he smiled. "Oh, that's awesome! I'm just cis and kinda boring, but my partner is trans and our roommate is queer."

I laughed again. "Hey, nothing boring about someone who seeks out a wizard on a Thursday morning. Speaking of which, what can I help you with, mister...?"

His expression abruptly sobered and he frowned slightly at the carpet. "... Winston. And it's, uh... it's about my partner. They're missing."

I sat back slightly in my chair. "Mr.... Winston. I don't mean to be That Guy, but have you gone to the police? I'm just a private investigator. A missing person's case should be being handled by..."

He interrupted me suddenly and with such ferocity that I was shocked into silence. "The cops don't care!..." The anger left his face as suddenly as it had appeared and he suddenly looked very tired. "They've only been missing for a day, and the cops aren't taking me seriously because it really doesn't look like anything's wrong. There's no evidence of foul play, no bank withdrawals, no missing vehicles... no nothing. I tried to explain that they have a routine that they don't deviate from unless someone is super sick or there's, like, a natural disaster, but..."

I frowned and sighed. Normally, even if it had been less than 24 hours, the local police force would jump on a missing person's case if they believed there was even a shred of evidence, but there was something awfully earnest in the way this kid was talking. He genuinely believed something had happened to his partner. "Okay... I can look into it, but I have a retainer fee, kid, and I'm not cheap."

He pulled an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. "I wasn't positive what your rates were, but I figured five hundred should be enough to put you on retainer."

I almost choked on my coffee. "Uh, yeah, no, that will work." I set my coffee down and turned to fully face the young man, who was now seated across from me at my desk. "All right, look, I'm going to do absolutely everything in my power to find your partner and bring them back to you, but if I'm going to do that, I need you to be honest with me. Cool?"

He avoided my eyes for a moment, but nodded. "Yeah, of course. ... my name is actually Perkins. Cal Perkins. I'm sorry, I just..."

"Read somewhere that you shouldn't give a wizard your name? Not entirely inaccurate. But I have better things to do with my spare time than summon humans, so don't sweat it. What's your partner's name?"

He stared at me for a second in shock, then composed himself and said, "Their name is Francis, but we all call them Ajax. For obvious reasons." He added, with a half-smile.

I had to grin. "That's great. Okay, so let's talk about Ajax. Do you have a photo and/or, by any chance, something that belongs to them with you?"

After Cal Perkins had left my office, leaving me his phone number and address, a photo of Ajax (who was adorable), a spare key to their house, and a necklace he had given Ajax for their second anniversary, I decided to get to work right away. The guy had paid me a huge deposit up front and in cash, and he was worried sick about his significant other. The least I could do was try to expedite reuniting the two of them, or at least getting him some answers. I tried not to think about the worst - to think about the assault and death rate of trans folks in the community - and instead began focusing my mind while I made a list of the materials I would need and formulated a plan. I could and would do some magic stuff to try to track Ajax down, for sure, but to start out with, I would be using more conventional methods.

The local precinct of the Kent City Police Department was less than three blocks from my apartment, and I like walking; for one thing, it's good for you! Gets the circulation going, gives you time to think, plenty of health benefits. And, of course, as a wizard, there are other benefits that I draw from walking places instead of driving or riding or choosing some other manner of conveyance. For instance, I have a handful of rings and bracelets that I store kinetic energy in, and walking charges them up faster and makes them more useful more quickly. Also, I really like having a little extra time to listen to music or podcasts or what have you while I walk around; I put my headphones in, plugging the jack into my phone, and put on my favorite playlist, hitting shuffle. As the opening strains of "The Hunted" by Saint Asonia began to fill my headphones, I started down the sidewalk in the general direction of the precinct.

In a back corner of the dingiest part of the precinct, there is a door that most of the cops that work for the KCPD avoid like the plague. It's a pretty unremarkable door - plain wood with little to no ornamentation and a brushed nickel doorknob, like all the rest of the doors in the precinct - but there's a small plaque mounted on this particular door. The plaque bears a somewhat bizarre looking crest with a scroll that reads "gibba nos rursus" and, above it, are the initials S.C. This is the only place I really spend much time when I'm in the precinct - well, here and the morgue - the office of Special Circumstances. Any time a case is a little too weird, a little too supernatural, a little too "can't be explained away by normal means," it gets turfed to S.C. and to my good friend, police Lieutenant Riot Harper. And no, the irony of her first name is not lost on her. When I walked in to the precinct, I received a few nods and a wave or two - I'm not unknown around the precinct, but I'm also not necessarily well-liked - as I made a beeline for the door to S.C. Just as I reached out a hand to open the door, however, it burst open, narrowly missing smacking me in the face, and someone barreled out of it, yelling.

"Well, if you can't help me, then I guess I'll just have to take matters into my own hands! I don't have time to wait around for you to decide it's worth your while!" The angry yeller barreled directly into me, and we stumbled back from each other, giving me a first glimpse of this incredibly irate person.

She couldn't have been more than five foot nothing, with lots of honey blonde hair tipped teal in what approximated a sort of lion's mane and tempestuous hazel eyes that flashed with anger. "Excuse me," she spat, roughly pushing past me and storming out of the precinct. I watched her go for a moment, impassive, then turned my attention to the very tired looking person standing in the doorway. Riot Harper was a paradoxical human being in that her appearance was fairly average but everything else about her was extraordinary; she was 5'3", had long, straight black hair that she wore back in a neat ponytail at work, olive skin, and dark brown eyes - the (self-described) "average Mexican girl." What was less average was the number of commendations she'd received (off the books, of course), the number of Brazilian jujitsu trophies sitting on a bookcase in her office, her accuracy percentage with basically any projectile weapon you placed in her hand, and the fact that she was the youngest woman to ever make Lieutenant in the KCPD. Of course, we often commented on the fact that she'd also be the youngest Lieutenant to get busted back down to beat cop if things with S.C. didn't continue to go well. Special Circumstances was the redheaded stepchild of the KCPD, and the Chief had put Riot in charge of it specifically because he knew she was a "get things done" kind of cop, the same kind of person she'd been when she'd served in the military straight out of high school. She had put her in charge in the hopes that Riot would be able to do what the other cops who had tried to run S.C. couldn't: actually close cases and get answers.

Riot rubbed her face, sighing. "Come on, Welly, I'm sure you need something."

I put a hand to my chest, feigning offense. "Lieutenant Harper, how could you? I could just be checking in on a friend! My reasons for being here could be totally altruistic!"

Riot narrowed her eyes at me. "Are they?"

Dammit. Busted. "Well, no... but they could be!"

For the first time since I'd seen her that day, Riot cracked a smile, albeit a tired one. "Get your ba-tuchus in my office, Welly, I swear to Jesus."

I grinned. "I thought he didn't like it when you swear. I'm going, I'm going!" I added hastily, as she reached for her shoe. "Not la chancla, mamacita, I'm going!"

"That's what I thought," Riot retorted, but I could hear the smile in her voice as I scurried down the hall to her office.

Moments later, Riot and I were comfortably seated in her office sipping police station coffee - which is only slightly less terrible than most gas station coffee - and looking through missing persons reports on her computer. Only a few had been filed recently, and none of them were Ajax, so whoever Cal had talked to hadn't bothered to put anything in the computer. God knew if they'd even written anything down. I sighed. A dead end this early on in the case probably didn't bode well for me, but here we were. Riot arched an eyebrow at me.

"That's an awfully gusty sigh for 8:27 in the morning, Welly." When I didn't answer her, she put a hand on my shoulder and softened her tone. "What's going on, hon?"

"Well, obviously, it's a missing person's case," I said tiredly, sitting back in my chair, "but the missing person's significant other tried to report it to the precinct and evidently got blown off. I was hesitant to believe that anyone at the precinct would be so dismissive, but this is proof. The report would have been within the time frame I had you search, and there's nothing there."

Riot frowned in concentration for a moment. "Hmm. Wait a minute... what if someone put it in but they mis-typed the time or the date? It could have been entered, but just put under the wrong time or date stamp!"

I groaned and slid down in the chair. "Riot, that's literally worse. Can you imagine trying to comb through all of the data that could be a digit or two off from when it was supposed to be?"

She wasn't listening. Her fingers were already flying deftly over the keyboard. "No, listen, Welly, I'm onto something. If we check neighboring dates, ignore time filters, and filter out any reports that aren't missing persons..." Her brow wrinkled slightly in concentration as she worked and I sat back up. She actually was onto something! That could work, provided that Cal's report had actually been put into the system.

A few moments later, Riot held a hand out to me, palm up, making a grabbing gesture. "Name?"

"Francis... um..." Oh, for fuck's sake. Get it together, brain. You've had coffee. "Greer! Francis Greer. I have a photo, if that helps."

Riot turned the computer monitor slightly so that it was facing more towards me. The photo being displayed was unmistakable, even though it was clearly Francis pre-transition. This particular photograph was so different from the one Cal had given me, though, that I found myself unsettled and startled. In the photo I had in my possession, Francis was looking at the camera over their shoulder, a playful smile on their face, sitting in a broad beam of sunlight in a sun-soaked bedroom. They looked happy and vivacious and alive. The photo that Riot's computer was now displaying for me was so different that it was almost uncomfortable. It was a mug shot, and Francis' expression was taciturn and cold, with hollow, dead eyes staring blankly at the camera and a vacant, slight head tilt. I stared at the photo and swallowed hard.

"Holy shit."

"Your missing person has a sheet, Welly, and it's not pretty. Their past may have caught up with them. I'm officially interested. If you need anything...?" She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. Riot and I had had each other's backs since middle school. Nothing had or ever would change about that. If I called her and needed her help, she'd be there in a heartbeat, with or without the badge and gun.

I smiled warmly at her and squeezed her hand. "I know, LT. Hey, can I get a printout of that photo and also of Francis' rap sheet?"

"Yeah, just use 'em responsibly, you hooligan." Riot retorted, but her eyes were twinkling at me.

That afternoon, I returned to my office in a funk. It was difficult for me to try to reconcile the Ajax that Cal had talked to me about to the Francis Greer whose rap sheet was folded neatly up in the inside pocket of my leather duster. Then again, I was a self-taught expert in thinking I knew people and finding out just how wrong I was, so maybe Cal was in for a similarly rude awakening. As I walked, I debated whether talking to him about it would be the right thing to do or not. Finally, as I reached my office and took the stairs up to floor 13, I made my decision. I'd drop by that evening and have a conversation with Cal, see if he had any inkling of Ajax's darker past. As I exited the stairwell into the hall, an uncomfortable prickle of energy crossed over me, as though I'd just walked through an invisible, electric wall. I paused, extending my senses out like a web, waiting to see if anything would disturb a strand before I began moving forward again, slower and more cautiously this time. As I moved, I loosed my blasting rod from the sleeve of my duster, letting it fall into my waiting left hand. I was never a boy scout, but boy HOWDY is "be prepared" the best motto ever. I approached my door and was reaching into my pocket for my keys when I realized that the door was already open, ever so slightly ajar. There were marks on the doorjamb that implied a crowbar had been applied to the door with no small amount of force. I crouched slightly and began to push the door aside to move into the office, noticing that there were also some fresh scratches on the doorknob, as though picking the lock had been attempted first and then swiftly given up on in favor of brute forcing a way in. Amateurs? Or is that just what they wanted me to think? The door swung inwards on silent hinges and I was grateful, once again, for the building's super and his liberal use of WD-40. I slipped in through the gap and bumped the door back to almost shut, how it had been left. With my blasting rod gripped in my left hand, I reached into the pocket of my duster with my right and withdrew my other weapon of choice: a Smith and Wesson Model 500 .50 revolver. Riot calls it - not inaccurately - my "hand cannon." Then again, her off-duty carry is a 1911 Officer, so I'm not sure she's got room to talk.

I edged along the wall of my office until I was in partial cover, mostly hidden from any line of sight by my desk. Then, slowly and deliberately, I poked my head around the corner of my desk to scope the area out. Nothing, zilch, nada. I rose slowly until I could just see over the top of the desk and scanned the room. Still nothing. I slipped out the other side of my desk, flattened myself against the wall, and moved down it slowly towards the second room of my office, where I kept files, evidence, bric-a-brac, and some of my magical supplies. A glance at the door told me it hadn't been tampered with; the protection runes I'd put over it were still in place and there was no evidence of attempted lock picking or door forcing. Across from it, however, the door to my small personal library was slightly open, the smallest of gaps showing a flashlight beam flitting around in the darkness of the room. I narrowed my eyes. Bingo. I sparta-kicked the door open, bringing my revolver to bear and yelling,

"Freeze! I'm armed and I will shoot!"

"FUCK!" The shadowy figure dropped their flashlight and it rolled away, illuminating several shelves of old books. With my non-gun hand, I reached behind me and flipped on the light switch. The girl in front of me was none other than the blue-haired angry girl from S.C. earlier that day. She blinked at me owlishly as the lights kicked on and I sighed.

"Hey. Nerd. What are you doing here?"

She stared at me. "I... Uh..."

"You don't remember me, do you." It wasn't a question. I rolled my eyes. "You ran into me while you were leaving the KCPD Special Circumstances division earlier today in a wild-ass hurry. This is your version of handling something yourself? A little light B&E before lunch?"

She paused a beat before answering, then said, "I can explain."