The Book of Night

1

The street was quiet, for the most part, and the road that connected both ends of the river on either side was nearly empty of life for the only time in two decades. A dark matte painting, with perfectly angled lights buzzing out of the streetlamps, illuminating the asphalt a bright yellow. It was a very uncommon sight. The old city sirens were hidden in the dark, but just visible enough.

In brown cargo shorts and a tank top, with a blazer tied around her waist, was a half-elf woman on the sidewalk playing a saxophone with all the energy she could give.

No one was listening.

She was just playing. A melody from an old jazz record that she owned, one of the only things that played on the old record player, and one of the only pieces of plastic she owned. It was a collection of classic songs, most on saxophone of course, but with a view violin centered pieces compiled with them.

It reverberated throughout the city, bouncing off quiet buildings, and as she crossed 18th Street, it shot down each end of the street like an arrow. Groovy tunes filling the night, each note in such a heavy lived-in sound. That old archaic instrument, scuffed and chipping gold, swinging back and forth from the long leather strap over her shoulders. A large goofy smile was covering her face as she blew. She didn't know where she was going, only that it was forward. A pip in her step, hips swaying, and music not growing any quieter. Only the buildings, completely silent. People shuffling to find a good side of the pillow and covering their entire bodies in small blankets.

Her smile widened as she crossed 19th Street.

And she kept going.

And four ears kept listening to it.

"What's up with the player down there?" Was the only mention that night, from an apartment above a flower dispensary.

Up on the fifth story of The Cottage Apartments, Cameron stared down as the woman played. Her figure visible from across the street. His body was a shadow behind the window looking out, waiting for the owner of the apartment to return from the back, and realizing such once he heard that question. What's up with the player?

The owner seemed interested in the music, but more annoyed by Cameron's presence like before. Once he saw the player though, he was annoyed with them too. The man left and entered with a furrowed eyebrow at just the sight of this stranger waiting by his window, like he was about to jump ship and slide down the fire escape. It was better to just get it all over with soon so the man could leave, and he could get back to stripping naked and crawling into bed.

Cameron turned to him, his long beard, and the few strips of hair across his head. Cameron thought he looked like a Russian mob boss from a movie. "I don't know. Sounds nice."

"It's fucking loud." He scoffed. "People are trying to sleep. Like me, so let's hurry up." With a sigh, Cameron turned back into the dull apartment, the woman's sounds slowly disappearing behind him in the street.

"She come around very often?"

"Why, you want her? She's a dirty Mag."

Pulling out the small folder of photos he replied, "Just curious."

"Well, no. If she was a common attraction, I would've already called the police on her ass. Give me the photos." Against his own morals, but with the ideas that followed his job, he handed him the folder. He expected to see grease and blubber hanging in strings from the man's meaty fingers, but they were shockingly clean, only a few specks of dirt on his palm as he took the folder with a little force. Cameron would've too if they had switched places. Their energies clearly clashed; it was best to just get out and get home before 2am.

The owner shuffled through them quickly. "These will do."

Cameron put his hand in his pocket. "Did I get everything you needed?"

"I said they're good." A hefty cough came all the way from his belly. "What's your name again?"

"Cameron Heron." His introduction had only been about ten minutes prior, labeling the owner as another marker in the small written list of things that would keep him from talking with them again. It was simple as this: if a previous client he didn't like decided to leave a message, he'd just say he was gonna be fishing for the next week. It was the farthest thing from the truth. "Okay, Cameron, get the fuck out of my apartment. Thanks for the help."

"Do you have payment."

His voice got gravely. "Excuse me?"

"You haven't paid me yet."

Strips of light cut across his face from the window blinds. They almost perfectly illuminated his disgusted frown and the specks of food stuck against his five o'clock shadow in the twelve o'clock moonlight. "I thought we made it clear that I was going to be paying you in segments over time."

"I told you over the phone I was going to need it on sight."

"You didn't tell me shit." He growled, getting closer. "Are you trying to con me you motherfucker?"

Hi, I was wondering if Cameron Heron was in?

Name?

Apartment owner.

Oh yes, he is out fishing currently.

"Just get me the money by the end of the week. If you don't have it, I contact the authorities." Cameron's tone was half tired and half annoyed. He got a client like this every time he started the day with a pebble in his shoe it seemed. So, often. The man eyed him down, looking like he was about sock him in the nose, and out the window. Instead, he just turned with a loud grunt and made a B-line back to his bedroom.

"Fucking thieves. I'll make sure you run down into the fucking ground!"

Cameron had already forgotten he existed by the time that was said and opening the door out into the red carpeted hallway, lit in segments by single light bulbs. The coins in his pocket weighing him down as he strutted out.

--

Night in Night.

The halo lit streetlamps and the cozy blue and periwinkle yellow colors that covered the street would've made a great environment for a jazz player, but Cameron had missed her. Once he was already down the steps to the building, the sound was gone, and the presence of a human only resided with him. There was no point dwelling on it so he kept walking, his hand on the hilt of the small pocket knife in his jacket, hungry for any willing midnight stabbers.

He did this often, talking with clients late at night. There were several reasons.

1. They didn't like to be seen in daylight

2. To reduce suspicion

3. They only worked day shifts

An owl flew by him, hooting, and then disappearing in a dirty and grimy alleyway lit only by TV light from the windows looking out into it. They better have gotten reduced rent for having to live in such a trash heap. Cameron hated apartments, and yet could only envy that these people didn't have to live in their own office. But at least he didn't have to stare at trash all day long, with another apartment staring him down. Someone inside with a prostitute or watching a VHS tape of their favorite porno actor. Maybe it was good that he didn't have to worry about owning a car or paying for gas because he used it all for going to his office, because he could just wake up and enter his office, flipping the sign on the clouded door and wait for people to call in because of an ad or to follow up.

Kellie thought it was a big problem though, so he felt obliged to listen to at least that.

Kellie knew best.

Wasn't that an old TV show?

He couldn't remember, crossing over the street, searching the empty road for a car and finding nothing but more darkness and metaphors. His apartment was only seven more blocks away, luckily it seemed that it would be unheeded by traffic or humanity in general. Humanity seemed very tiring once the clock was past 12am.

Shockingly though, he felt no fear out on the streets. As odd as it was, it felt comforting to be in an empty city. Something about it was almost impossible. Usually there'd be some teenagers drinking, or a few late-night drives. Anything.

No fear of a mugging or random murder against him, his mind was occupied by just about everything else, the apartment owner mostly. Something about his words seemed so curt, I'll make sure to run you into the ground! Cameron was already there. At most, his income was slightly below average. Run me into the ground, I'm already there bud. Just make it quick please. He crossed another street. Still no noise. No saxophone. Why was he still looking for it? Down the street came a noise, making Cameron instantly stop and shoot his senses forward. Wind in the dark rushed by in front, and he recognized the noise.

A dog's bark.

Someone must have knocked on a door or something, maybe the dog saw him from down the street. It didn't sound big, but it quickly died down after, and Cameron continued walking.

What a sweet dog.

Such a sweet sweet pup.

Was it alone or was it with its owners?

--

Once he had walked all the way back to his office, the roads being empty for the most part the entire way there, he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel disappointed about not seeing or hearing any saxophones. Looking around, it just stayed as empty as he would've expected it. It wouldn't be long before he'd hear an old man screaming 'FUCK YOU!' at a taxicab at around 9am, while traffic began booming and picking up outside. Regular citizens on their way to a 9 to 5, while he stayed in his office, waiting for a client. Wishing it wouldn't rain. Hoping that there wasn't another stock market crash. All of the above. Cameron mentally shivered and pulled out his keys to the building, unlocking the chain as quietly as possible.

It wasn't a very wide space, but it had two stories, making up for the fact that it was probably three queen sized beds in width. On the first floor he kept his office, HERON INVESTIGATING, a quaint place with nothing but a desk, a chair, and a few filing cabinets. It looked more like a travel agent's office than one where you deal in secret pictures.

And possible divorces.

Rarely ever murders.

Maybe insurance fraud.

A lot of the time, it was Knack related matters.

Kellie preferred he didn't take up the kinds of jobs with clients that seemed mentally unwell. Like a husband that looked unhinged at just the thought of his wife cheating on him. He agreed wholeheartedly. While he did have a PI license, owning a gun was never on his to-do list. It didn't fit his MO. Taking pictures and investigating scenes for people was more the style he preferred. Maybe that's why he was so broke.

The keys jangled with his coins in his pocket, the door opening with a creak. Kellie was probably sound asleep upstairs, but he didn't want to risk it with simply a door opening up.

She knew he was going to drop of the photos that night, but that didn't mean she would wait up for him. The smell of lilac hit his nose with the warm air brushing against him. As soon as that happened, he felt like he was freezing, the outside autumn air biting at his face, and he couldn't wait to get in. He threw his heavy coat onto his desk, covering the paperwork he still needed to sign for the Night Police Department. Some incident with his client--former pawnbroker Benjamin Major--ended with an attempted murder and Cameron needed to prove some things and give a few statements about how he acted so they could make a more accurate incident report.

"Kellie, you awake?" He asked up the stairs. His voice was light, and hoarse. No response came. The door at the top of the stairs to their home was open very slightly, so maybe she didn't hear it, but he wasn't gonna take that chance.

Must have been a long day at the Cupboard.

He just walked up the stairs gently, breathing and thinking to himself lightly.

Sleep.

That was what Kellie would do.

Fuck, that's what she was doing.

2

Years before, on the 14th of October, Kellie Wood walked into a small Wiccan owned metaphysical supply store called Elle's Cupboard Magick in downtown Night. It had been on her to-do list for the past month and a half. Any other time she tried to make her way here, there was always something stopping her. It was irking her badly. The incomplete list stared her right in the eye every morning. She'd wake from her slumber and see it hung from her lamp, and just groan. A few times, she contemplated eating it. Problem solved! No more things to do. They have all been eaten. Man if that doesn't sound like something a mother would say, you can't just eat all of your problems. Then she'd reply, No shit mom, I can't eat sexism. Although I wish I could. And bing bang boom, she wouldn't be getting a Christmas card that year.

Then again, her mom didn't like that she was a Knack.

She brushed her short red hair over her ear.

Work had been keeping her too busy overall though. So when York gave her a day off, she took it to visit the shop. Her mother had recommended it as a good place to get back into her own zen, a quality she was lacking. The store was small, quaint, angular and colored like a Tim Burton movie. Mostly black with most of the visible other colors being pastels. No one seemed to be inside.

It made her nervous.

Wiccans. They always seemed crafty, her mother's words. She could remember many instances in history books regarding them as the villains of the story, but that was simply because of just a few bad apples. To be honest, she had never met a necessarily "evil" Wiccan, and yet here was the shop falling apart because of some sort of overwhelming generalization.

She walked in, the sound of wind chimes above her head and a thick smell of ground herbs and flowers. The walls were lined with jutting shelfs holding bottles and jars with all sorts of things. Newts, eyes, cured garlic, snow rose seeds, ginger extract, the petals of a sunflower, redwood bark, bunches of soy drenched giant sticks, aged wool, and pallets among pallets of different magic looking herbs specifically marked as 'CHARMS'. All the walls looked cracked and rotting, wood from generations ago like it was built during the Revolutionary War. This place definitely couldn't have always been here then, it was most likely a bookstore for a few centuries probably, until around the time that more fantastical things began popping up. Then have a Magick store seemed a little more appropriate.

Kellie walked along the large brewing stands and hanging devil's ivy overhead, running her hand along it and smiling when it retracted at her touch.

"His name is Kurt."

The voice was gentle, Kellie looked and saw it belonged to who she could only assume to be Elle. A woman with a blue eye and an eye that was a thick white. A backdrop of an infinitely pocketed wall full of assortments.

"He can be a bit shy sometime, don't take it personal." The woman behind the counter said. She was leaning towards older in the world of middle aged, and had a lot of enthusiasm in her voice from Kellie's reaction. Kellie smiled again. "He's lovely."

She snickered. The woman looked like a typical fantasy book witch. She wore a long cardigan and a paddy cap, half a dozen necklaces hanging down over her bosom. She was half caked in darkness and in lantern light from the sources strung from the ceiling. None of them electrical, all lit with oil and fire. An absolute fire hazard if Kellie had ever seen one, but it was so fascinating to see. Childhood wonder of the neighbors down Blank Street came to her mind. "Miss?"

Kellie came back. "I'm sorry what?"

"What can I do you for at my little shop?" She sat down, being as careful as possible. Her elbows wobbled until she was snug in it. Wicker.

"Oh, um, I don't really know. I'm looking for something to, well, to have a rebalanced zen. It seems off. I've been told that places like this can help."

"Have you ever been to a Wiccan's shop?"

"No ma'am."

Her eyes lit up with stars. "Well well well, I'm glad to be your first! Have any experience with the weird?" She asked, pushing herself forward, the necklaces jingling. "Or am I your first Knack?"

Now that was a question Kellie didn't know how to answer. Did she count? It probably didn't matter, but she wanted to get it all down accurately.

"Um, no, I'm a knack."

And then her eyes lit up even more, and with a swift rush of wind following her, Kellie watched as the woman jumped up from the chair onto the counter, nearly knocking over a small quarter bottle of ink. The fabric on her sweater moving without gravity under it, like it was floating underwater around her. The lightness under her feet gracefully raising her, the lanterns swinging around her head. And a large beaming smile on her face. She raised her hand to her chin, letting Kellie see it for the first time. Rings with opal and amethyst covered her fingers. Images of oceans on her fingernails. "So, you're a knack? Isn't that just fascinating. Almost thought I was gonna have to act out of it back there."

Kellie didn't have words to give.

"So, zen? I have an entire shelf on zen products."

--

Kellie woke up to Cameron's quiet snoring, and Kurt's loud rustling. She look over at her lamp and groaned at the sight of her current to do list.

--

"How did it go?" Kellie asked, the morning dawn shooting through the window. With a snap of her fingers, she lit the stove. Cameron sat at the small thrift store metal table they had, dressed only in his underwear, drinking a cup of earl gray. "It was okay. Threatened me for asking him to pay. The usual. The shop beat you down?"

She scoffed with a smile, brushing her hair, and placing the pan above the fire. A few eggs were waiting on the sidelines. "Definitely. Kurt was starving when I got home."

"Our boy hungry?"

"I'm making him some tea."

A slight ruffling from the wooden support beams above made Cameron look up. Soaked in light was Kurt, hanging over, tangled up all over the ceiling, poking his end down at the mention of tea. Bright and green, both felt him smiling. "Well someone woke up happy."

"He threatened you for payment?"

"Big time, he would've stabbed me if he could."

The water trickled from the rusty kettle into the mug, drowning the tea bag. "Well why didn't he?" She walked across the room to the window. A few potted plants rested right next to the window. They weren't much, just simple orange clay things. Cameron had been meaning to buy some more recently, as had Kellie, but both kept forgetting and were just pedestrians to the sight of the slowly cracking dirt buckets. She poured the mug of tea into the large empty one, clicking her tongue.

Cameron furrowed his eyebrows at the question, but just sipped more tea, contemplating if he should make toast or just have paperwork for dinner like most mornings. "Beats me, but I'm glad he didn't."

With a smile she could only watch Kurt come down and stick himself in the soil. "He's hungry."

"You going into work early today?"

"Probably. Elle turned another customer into a toad."

Ah finally, a comment that nearly made Cameron choke on his tea as he sipped it, making him slap his naked chest and swallow an acidic tasting mouthful while trying to chuckle as much as he could. "Sounds about right."

Finally, Kellie herself sat down at the table.

For lack of a better term, she reminded Cameron of a morgue body. Like usual, a rose tank top was strung over her chest, matching her long red hair, and a pair of sweatpants on. Both of them were dressed like college students in the first period class, minus the shirt that Cameron would have been legally required to wear to this hypothetical class. She was almost dressed like the saxophone player. The one with pointy ears. The one playing to no-

"Cameron?"

He blinked.

"Cameron?"

He was back, immediately noticing how strained his eyes were. "I'm sorry what?" She laughed. "I said do you have any meetings today or are you just going to be in the library?"

It took him a minute to collect his thoughts back up again. For that moment, however long it was, he was stuck in that empty street hearing empty music echoing down the streets while a fat old man told him to bugger off. He felt the cold chill brushing over his body, giving him goosebumps, no matter how brightly the sun touched him. There was an interview he had in about an hour, but that was it, leading him to just have to answer with the obvious. "I'll be working a bit in the library probably, yeah. Martin misses you by the way."

"I bet he does." A sip of tea. "Him and Jon haven't come up to visit in awhile, are they just busy?"

"Not sure."

"Well, they need to come over. It's getting, unbelievably crowded in here."

Cameron scoffed with a smirk.

Kurt did the plant equivalent.

"See, Kurt gets it." Kellie couldn't help but laugh at them, and lean back over her chair, head hung backwards like she was trying to catch snowflakes with her tongue. "Wanna go see a movie tonight? It's getting kind of stale in here."

The last time they had gone out was around a month prior, off to see an opera in uptown Night. Someone at the Cupboard had traded them for a jar of frog eggs, and since Elle only left her little hidey hole once in a blue moon, she left them to Kellie. So, they decided to make a night of it, pun intended. Out of her closet, Kellie unsheathed her striped sweater dress, and from Cameron's closet came a brown fleece suit. The only one he owned. The Phantom of the Opera was playing, a classic, and the two of them enjoyed it thoroughly. While a movie may not have held the same class, it made him smile thinking about it. Whipping out the James Bond tux for a midnight showing of an old Henry Fonda movie may be a bit showy, but he was up for it if she was. "I'd absolutely love to. I don't have to be at the library until around ten."

She fist pumped. "I don't have to work until ten either." Her head craned up at him. "Want me to call and see what's playing?"

"Nah, I can do it."

I wonder if any old Cronenberg movies are playing?

--

Dressed, looking as dapper as he could, wearing a wool blazer over a short-sleeved dress shirt and his corduroy pants underneath, he could've pulled off being a dark academia character. And then some black converse. It couldn't be completely perfect, but hey the shoes still looked great regardless.

While he wasn't intending on going outside at all, he grabbed his coat before heading out downstairs. Working in the library usually meant sitting at a desk next to a glass door that would be opened and closed about a dozen times and hour, sometimes more. Martin liked to man the stern, shacked up in his glass and redwood office under the light of candles.

Martin was a Knacker, just like Kellie, and. . . Jon? He couldn't remember if Jon had been a knacker or not. It had been so long since he had seen them, and he was pretty out of it when they all went to have dinner at Hopo's.

He probably was.

For some reason he could recollect a story of Jon going to Night Park and moving the trees so that he had shade while he read a Joseph Heller book. Why so specific? Eh, who cared. Martin's knack was all about transportation. In other words, he kept the candles contained. It wasn't like Elle who simply strung up lanterns in her completely wooden place because it looked nice, simply dispelling anyone who came in to talk about how she was breaching fire codes.

"Fuck you!"

A huge gust of autumn wind hit Cameron as he came to the bottom of the stairs, the sight of an older man entering greeted him. A taxi was zooming out into the busy city streets, tires screeching. The man met eyes with the stunned Cameron. "Fucking cab drivers, I swear."

The clock read 9:01.

"Can I assume you're Zane?"

"You'd be fuckin' correct."

Can I get one more fuck?

He took a brief moment to breath, staring at him. The man had made a phone call, but now he was assuming that it had been after a few shots of Jack Daniels. Both of his eyes seemed like they were covered over in thin sheets of glass. "Well, would you like to sit down?" He motioned to the desk, covered in papers. The wicker chair on the other side of it being meant for Mr. Zane Keita. Zane just sighed and did so. The expression he wore already told that another red solo of whiskey would be helpful. "How do we start this?"

Still busy trying to remember what even Zane was coming in for, he didn't respond, and instead just moved all of his papers to one side of the desk and let himself down into his chair. His paddy cap was hanging from the top of it. Traffic was building up outside. An accident at the end of the road that was clogging up the streets.

Some idiot on a motorcycle.

"Now Mr. Keita, what can I help you with today?" Cameron asked. With clients, you have to have a certain mix of poise and confidence within your voice when addressing them. As to make it seem like you have the answers to all of their questions. Cameron was still mastering it. Simply put, Zane just sneered, crackling his knuckles. "I told you over the phone, I think my fucking wife hired someone to follow me. Everywhere I go, there's a blue Buick behind me."

"Uhuh."

"And I think it's another PI or something."

A quick note jotted down on his parchment. "What reason would your wife have for wanting to track you?"

"I don't fucking know. She probably thinks I'm sleeping with someone."

It took a lot for Cameron to not laugh, and simply take down more notes. He felt a chill breeze run over him, but his eyes said that the door was still closed. Which it was. "Okay Mr. Keita, I need you to be completely honest with me during this, okay?"

"I'm old not fucking disrespectful."

"Have you slept with anyone else other than your wife?"

"No!"

"Just getting the facts down. Have you done anything that could make your wife think this? Ala, staying out late or maybe even acting a little panicked." He thought for a minute, one of his hands pulling a pipe from his pocket. Cured ginger leaves seemed to be sticking from atop it. Wary, he stuck his finger to it and watched it light fire. Pillars of smoke began puffing out. He must be a first generation. "I fucking stay out late, yeah. Sometimes. My younger brother recently got a job at a bar and some nights I go there and hang out with him while he closes, to keep him company."

Cameron rubbed his nose and got deeper into his coat. "Do you drink a lot?"

"No no not ever. Shit, I'm ten years clean."

"You were an alcoholic?"

"No." He scoffed, taking a long draw from his pipe.

Noises of traffic worked as a nice backdrop, especially the loud slurs and threats of knack using. A woman with a long ponytail even turned someone cup of coffee into a pile of powder. Cameron just took notes as best he could.

--

His clientele was still at the desk when Kellie came downstairs, wearing a sweater with a fleece poncho and some snug jeans, on her way to work. It had completely slipped her mind to bring her coat, a mistake she regretted immediately. She didn't have the gall to go back up and get it, so she just kept on her way, joining the steady stream of pedestrian traffic in autumn chills toward the Cupboard. She waved and smiled at Cameron who kissed back.

The city of Night was a special one.

Because in it, existed Knacks.

Sure, they could move to other cities around the world, take refuge in suburban homes and start families, but only Knacks were born in Night. Nowhere else could they be born. And this wasn't due to special qualities in the air or the soil or the water, no medical tampering. Regular healthy women, would give birth and would later find that their children possessed special qualities. Sometimes they were born with the ability to control fire, and sometimes they'd be born with pointy ears and a body that could live for several generations. The cause, unknown. One day, someone was born being able to read minds. And then another, and then another. Not everyone born in Night has a knack, but most are. It's a special place for that reason alone. Everywhere you look, there's someone showing off their knack either in the workplace or for a lover. Surfers on the coast riding the waves that they make. The city was the birthplace of magic, whether it matters that it had barely been a century since the Knacks began existing, or that hot spots seemed to appear more and more with heavy Knack populations. It was the heart of it.

Kellie watched that phenomenon as she walked down the street, snuggled up as much as she could be in her clothes. Across 19th street she watched a man in a patched up rainbow suit and top hat doing magic tricks with his ability to manipulate what seemed like air. Able to control currents maybe. A small tornado of aces were floating in his hand until he plucked one out and handed it to the little girl watching.

A group of teenagers were hitting on an older woman, each of them lighting cigarettes with their hands.

She was able to see a little boy with large feline ears and a tail, holding hands with his mother.

Several people with ashen white skin, and glowing blue eyes.

Lots of people with the features of a story book elf.

Occasionally, she could witness someone with large horns.

The city was a melting pot of the enchantingly weird.

She kept on her way, walking block after block, watching the traffic in the road get somewhat better, but still quite standstill. The culprit was out of her view. She tried peering over, but could only see the blips of red and blue siren lights ahead of her. And before she was close enough, she found herself under the hanging wooden lantern to Elle's Cupboard Magick.

The lanterns inside were all dark.

She snapped her fingers once inside, and got ready for business.

It was comfortable being in the shop. Like the smell of herbs and flowers were hugging her. All the shelves looking just like they did when she walked in for the first time years before. Only now they were more organized.

"Elle!"

A rattle of bones and creaking wood above. "Shut it!" Came down, muffled and groggy.

"The shop is about to open!"

That time Elle just replied with a loud enough groan to go through the floor to reach her. The old hag sure liked to make a spectacle of her class status in the little shop. Although it would be quite nice for her to notice that both of them were broke as hell and stood on quite the same ground. "Elle, get your ass down here-"

"Jesus Christ, fine!" She murmured something else but Kellie couldn't here it.

Sounds of rattling glass and footsteps gave some comfort. Kellie took out the cardboard box from under the counter, being weary of the wall behind, and took out a few things. Elle was taking her time upstairs, murmuring to herself even more than before. Probably trying to find some stardust mousse for her rat's nest. The image made Kellie laugh, and then go back to being cold in the drafty wooden dungeon.

Finally a door squealed open.

And the stairs were met with quick heavy steps.

Eventually, Elle graced the wall, stepped on the platform, and watched her head from hitting the ceiling, and continued down the stairs. Her hair still a rats nest. All rings present. And both eyes blue as the sea. "Kellie I outta fire you."

"I'd like to see you try ol' Elle." She replied, turning the sign on the door.

"Yeah, yeah I bet you would."

"Has King called you yet?"

"No. The ass has been off on the Prairie Ship for the past week."

Giving a dramatic turn, Kellie swiped around, nearly knocking over the small jar of ink on the counter. "Are you kidding me? Still? That man has an addiction." Elle nodded and walked over, falling into the wicker chair behind the counter. "Try telling that to his face."

"If I can catch him, I will." A feeling of annoyance was starting to wash over, a professional attitude wasn't required yet. They still had about forty seconds before the door was open to the public.

"Just sick Kurt on them."

Kellie snickered. "You know better than anyone that he's a pacifist."

"No he isn't."

"Yes he is."

"Nope, he isn't."

"Yes he is."

"Nope he isn't."

This went on for several minutes, until Kellie gave her a bird with a shit eating grin and hopped the counter after noticing a few things were out of place. Elle just waved it off. "Who do you have working here tomorrow, Elle?"

"Some new guy. He came in last week asking for a job and I said he could work a few days." The wood screamed under her feet, and they heard the bell to the door ring as a young woman entered the store and started looking around. "Well make sure he doesn't steal anything, who was that one--"

"Gertrude the bookworm."

Wow, you really were able to pull that one out pretty quick. Whether it was names, or inventory, times and dates, or phone calls, Elle had a knack for remembering everything about everybody that entered her store. Her and the store were one, connected at the stem and rooted to each other. If there was a fire in the store, she felt hot and sick, and likewise, if she was ill then the whole store would feel thick and musty like a New Orleans street. Kellie lighting the lanterns usually helped her wake the woman up every so often, it was like poking her cheek with a thumbtack.

The young woman approached Kellie, who quickly put on a smile. "How can we help you?"

"I'm looking for ground antler."

"Oh, that will be in the back left corner. The WILD section."

She smiled. "Thank you." And made her way out behind the shelves.

"Okay Kell," Elle stepped closer, her face looking more awake now, "Gertrude did not give the slip. She just took her next four paychecks ahead of time."

"Is that why you turned her into a cat?"

"I'll have you know she is very happy as a cat."

At that moment in time, Gertrude the cat was currently asleep and purring upstairs in Elle's bed. A red collar with a bell around her neck.

Kellie furrowed her eyebrow. "She can't talk!"

"And?"

"How would you know if she's happy?"

"She's always purring." Elle had her eye on the woman in the back of the store the entire time. The rings around her fingers were spinning on their own. "That means that she's happy."

As the woman came back, she handed over the small glass jar, half full with ground antler. Kellie took the price, stamped the tag on the side of it, and sent her on her way with a smile. Once she was gone, it dropped back down to a stern frown at Elle who just kept to herself, checking to see if the shop was all to her liking.

3

Years before, on the 3rd of November, Cameron Heron was needing to find a book called the Juniper Guide to Criminal Profiling, and decided to go to a small library/bookstore in mid-town Night. A library because you could borrow them for a few days before they would magically appear back in the shop, and buying because, well, you could buy them if you wanted to.

The library was called The Treematorium.

He wanted to get up early to get there. Midtown always got busy around the afternoon, when he usually woke up from his slumber above the laundromat. A shaking of his small one-room apartment waking him up at the same time everyday. On the 3rd of November, he made sure to have an alarm set for himself. Since he didn't have a clock or a rooster, he set up a piece of glass to shine directly into his eyes once it was 8am. It worked like a charm, and woke up the beast with ease, his eyes burning. The single blazer he owned hung from the ceiling above his bed, along with all of his primmed and pressed clothes, so luckily he didn't need sight to get dressed.

Eyes adjusted, he donned his suit and hat and left through the back door of the Chip Chop Laundromat. Maya, Mila, and Jasmine all waved goodbye to him.

The early morning dawn crested over the towering homes. Some skyscrapers made from the trunks of ancient redwoods, others made of steel and concrete. But all of them were threatening. Cameron found some peace in the quiet streets that morning. The only loud confrontation was between a delivery driver and a pizza manager, one covered in grease and sporting a thick apron. The delivery driver couldn't have been less than eight feet tall, lanky and with dark skin. Neither of them took notice of Cameron.

Yellow and green taxis eventually began running through town, trolleys moving down their tracks with the sweet ting of a bell being hit.

At the time, he was contemplating whether or not he should just buy the book and leave, or head into work. His manager had been taking more and more hours away from him recently, and had kept him at working only around ten hours a week for the past month or so. If he didn't show up today, they'd fire him. But that wouldn't be so bad now would it. Just pick up the paycheck in a week, and never step foot inside the place again. It seemed like a good plan. And while he began thinking of life after, opportunities he could take up while he worked on getting his PI License, a strong smell of varnish hit him. It burned his nose, proving that he could ruin all of his senses in one day if you know how.

The smell of pipe smoke.

A thick noise of shuffling pages and jazz music.

Gazing up, he felt a relief. The swift breeze blew the jutting wooden sign back and forth above him:

THE TREEMATORIUM

LIBRARY & BOOKSTORE

KNACK OWNED AND OPERATED

ONLY TEA AND COOKIES ALLOWED

Cameron smiled and opened the door.

A broken bell chimed, a sense of wonder overtaking him.

The library was two stories tall with no ceiling to cut them off from each other, creating a very tall room. The front of it had a single dutch door, and two large bay windows that stretched the entire height of the buildings. The other three walls in the building were mostly comprised of bookshelves. A ladder leaned against one side. Reading nooks were tucked into a few places, lightbulbs hanging overhead.

A man in a sweater vest with the legs of a goat saw him as he entered. "Hello!"

Cameron smiled and gave a quick wave, not saying anything.

"Is there anything I can help you find? We have quite the selection here." It was hard not to notice the large book in his hands. A picture of a cross was on the front of it. The Exorcist by William Blatty. "Um, I'm looking for the Juniper Guide to Criminal Profiling."

The man giggled to himself, and threw the book down, quickly stepping up. "That'll be in our psychology section."

"You know where that section is?"

"I sure do. I own the place, don't I?

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you did."

The man gave him a smile and a handshake as he stepped out from behind the counter, in a much lazier and and relaxed way than the hyper Elle Abell. Martin was his name. "I sure do. The name is Martin Whitewood. What can I call you?"

"Cameron Heron."

"Like the bird?"

Cameron chuckled to himself. "Yes, like the bird."

"You know I absolutely love birds. Love love love them. They have such a sense of freedom to them." He pulled the ladder along with him across the bookshelves of multicolored spines, all made with different materials and different printed ink along the sides for author names. Bronte, Shelley, Fleming, St. John Mandel, etc. Cameron had never seen so many books in his life. "Do you have a freedom to you? I think you do kid. You have that twinkle in your eye."

He cringed at the word kid.

"I couldn't tell you sir."

The ladder stood still against the shelf as he brought it to a stop. "No sir, I'm Martin! If my name was Sir Whitewood, then I'd be a knight. Which I sure as hell am not." That joke made both of them chuckle. With a wink and a nod, Cameron watched him make his way up the ladder, climbing like he was crawling. Hooves clomping the whole way up. "Juniper right?" Cameron confirmed it. It took him a second to find his way around before he eventually lit up and leaned over past the ladder, hanging on to the ladder with just one leg. "Can you give me a push, lad?"

Cameron was too caught up in the knowledge that the smell of varnish had turned into a smell of cherry wine. "I'm sorry?"

"I can't quite reach."

"Oh, I'm sorry." In the most human way he could, he took the now rocking ladder and held it steady, moving it over until Martin stuck his finger into the shelf and took out a book. Dust lined the top of the pages. "Juniper!"

Once on the floor, slapping the book into Cameron's hands, a large cloud of dust and cobwebs spraying everywhere, Martin simply held up his hand for a high five. The tattoo of a broadsword lining the inside of his middle finger.

"I lied. I was a knight."

Cameron stuttered.

"Wh-"

"Nah, I'm just playing with you kid. Come on, I'll ring you up!"

--

Traffic bustled loudly outside.

"Martin!"

Cameron called into the office in the middle of the bookshelves, and the first response came to be a stumble and a tumble of things crashing and falling down, followed up by some heavy squeals of panic. "Yeah?!"

"I'm here!" He dropped his little medical looking satchel on the table near the office door. The bag wasn't filled with much, just some legal pads, pencils, and a few books he had borrowed from the ol' man himself, but a cloud of dust still bellowed out from the spot he dropped it in. Shagged carpet could be tasted in the dead skin cells. "Jesus Martin, I thought you cleaned up in here?"

Stacks of old crime novels took up one corner.

Old Knack dictionaries and anthropology textbooks another.

On one wall was a torn map of Night.

The room was covered in what was, what will be, and what is. What is, was referring to the goat man that was half way under his little wooden desk to the side, giving Cameron a nice view of his ass from under a cotton button up. He let out a raspy cry of pain as he banged his head on the desk. "Well, yes and no. I cleaned it, just a long time ago."

Cameron gazed, leaning against the door. "Yeah, I guess so. You looking for something?"

"One of my old maps fell. A faulty thumbtack."

"You need some help?"

"No, no, I've got it."

"Is Jon coming in to visit today?"

"Nope, not today. We're supposed to have dinner with his mother tonight, so he's spending the day getting it all ready for her." Another bump, and another yelp. Martin had a sort of raspy high pitched voice, so every time he yelped out, it was like a cartoon character getting hit with a hammer. "Oh okay, well Kellie was actually wondering-"

"Aha! Got it." He yelled out like he found gold. But to Martin, it was. His obsession with cartography was almost getting to intervention levels, but Cameron was never willing to be the one to say it to him. A thick layer of dust was covering his sweater vest when he emerged out, He brushed it off lightly. "Damn, maybe I should clean this place." Cameron grinned and stayed quiet.

Martin looked up from the ground. "Library open?"

"Yeah, yeah, I flipped the sign."

"Do you think we should update from a sign? Do you think it's too old fashioned?" Martin asked. He stood up and folded up the map in his hand. "Maybe I should get like something neon, you know? Something with a pull string. The Treematorium! Neon fire around it." Both his hands formed an invisible picture in front of him. "Hmm, do you think that would fit the atmosphere of this place?"

"Maybe not, but sometimes flashy works."

"Yeah, yeah I guess that can be true."

Martin gave a crinkled smile and paused a moment. "It's nice to see you Cameron. How'd that late night meeting go?"

Saxophone music was playing.

The map was now hanging from the wall, Martin staring at it proud. It looked like he used staples this time, right into the wooden wall. "Jesus, does everybody know about that meeting?"

Another cheeky smile, his round glasses shifting down his nose. Martin was an attractive little man, if Cameron could say that. When he first met him, there wasn't any gray in his hair, but now it was starting to pop up in the blond curls of his hair, giving it a golden hue to it, like the sun was always shining through. A perpetual five o'clock shadow on his face. There was always the vibe that he wasn't necessarily supposed to be a librarian, his Knack was just too well fit with the job. In fact, he was what the public called Jacks--as in a jack of all trades--due to him having two Knacks. Goat legs and the ability to teleport objects. Well, he was more able to bond and object to himself, and move to it to any object he pleased. Thus the library system.

The Treematorium worked in its unique and specific system. The door would open, and someone would come find a book in the room that if shaken would create a sinkhole of paper and binding. Once they found the book, whether it was Harriet's Guide to the Knack or just Grimm's Fairy Tales (found in the historical fiction section), they'd ring it up and be on their way. And once their limit is up on the book, it would immediately disappear and reappear back inside the library.

This system helped a lot, especially when things like stolen books and lost books were common, because just bloop it's back where it should be, in it's home of varnish smelling tables and jazz.

He took a lot of pride in it, to which he let Cameron know.

The store was his bread and butter.

A staple in the town of Night, his words.

Even if the customer count stayed only slightly above average for other libraries.

There was one moment, during the beginning of the library in the 90s, he talked about this large woman that came into the place spitting and screaming at his policies. She had been in the middle of reading a book on How to Garden on the Fourth Floor, and it disappeared. She had two large jutting fangs from her bottom jaw, and was around eight feet tall, and massive. He thought he was going to die right then. But then realized he was just able to bond her to somewhere else, and teleported her outside. No other details of the story were shared. But he seemed confident in it.

A stack of books in hand, he walked past Cameron out of his office, lines of dust still all over his clothes. A few patrons were already looking through the shelves that they could reach. A group of twins with wings were chuckling and reading through the adult romance section. "I told you about the case, didn't I?"

"You sure did kiddo."

"Yep sounds about right. I thought I was about to have to call up Kellie." He took some books from Martin, and started helping him put them on the shelf. "Oh damn, did you finally get the phone fixed?"

". . .no."

"Ah, damn, got my hopes up for a minute." He laughed and kept at it. A Don Delillo book, an old collection of newspaper shorts from a creative writing professor named Stephen King, and some other obscure works. "Hey, Kellie was wondering when we'd all get together for dinner next."

Another book logged. He wrote it down in his little directory journal. "When are you guys free?"

"She's always free."

"I don't live with you guys and even I know she's not always free. We'd love to see you guys but we all have busy lives kiddo. Hand me the old leather one." Cameron did so.

"Well, how does next Saturday sound for you and Jon?"

He took a minute to think in the way that he always did, silently, working on the outside and churning gears on the inside. He was like a clock tower that had an impeccable fashion sense. "It would have to be a little early. There's a drag show going on at around nine that we have tickets to. Maybe at like six we can go over to your place?

That sounded good.

Cameron couldn't place it, his head space that was. It seemed to be flying through the air, far from the ground and far from him, just floating. As much as he loved Martin, he hated that he said he loved seeing them, because then it was set in motion. Having dinner all together, the whole shebang. He decided right then that the rest of his day wasn't going to be, for lack of a better word, very neat. The customers were going to deal with Martin, and Martin only today. The traffic outside was keeping them pretty confined, so he didn't expect much back talk from the old man anyways. He'd never received any flack before, it wouldn't start now.

The traffic made him feel uneasy. Claustrophobic.

Smoking a pipe would be nice. Some smoked bone dust.

A married couple were bickering with each other on the street, looking down at the sirens as they began to disappear, the traffic starting to disappear with it.

--

Finding places to hide got easier the older Cameron got. Places to tune out the world, of arguments between strangers about Knacks, arguments between his parents, and anything else that just made him feel out of place.

His parents fought a lot, that was what started it.

Mama Heron was a Jack, horns and spell casting, and worked in a Ford factory for most of her life within the Knacker Division. That was her place for about fifty years. In a dank and red room, shifting nuts and bolts to pour into other baskets, so that others could do the same as her the next day for fifty-nine cents and hour.

He'd remember getting tucked in while she was still covered in oil, grease, dust, and wearing her blue denim overalls. She'd creep in, the Night in Night had already been on for a long time, and just tuck his small blanket in between the mattress and the floor. The skyline behind him. Memories like that he clung on to so that he didn't have to think about when she was sitting at the kitchen table arguing with his father, another Knack, as he spoke against his human son.

The fights would go on for a long time. Sometimes hours. Usually hours. Comics became a good escape. Colorful vinyl pages about superheroes taking on the evil baddies. They'd run across his fingers and transport his self to a world of BANGs and POWs, justice being served.

Captain Micro!

The Phantom Fist!

The Amazing Spider-Man!

It kept a smile on his face, even if it didn't last too long. He'd read them in the bathroom cabinet, scrunched up with a flashlight. In the wardrobe, he'd do the same. Places all over that could tune out the most noise. His favorite was the laundry room, since Mama Heron usually had to wash her clothes before work the next day. In present day, his laundry room was the tunnels underneath The Treematorium.

Old Bronte.

Old city land.

Sewers.

Whichever poison is yours, is yours.

Martin's little office in the library was more of a jacket to hide the real things that he kept up and clean. Under the map of Night in his office was a small keyhole, and when unlocked you'd be moved to the other side of the wall. Cameron always hated the feeling, blipping through the wood and plaster, but the view was pretty. A room about the size of the office he just came from, but with a longer size, with small study tables with green lamps and oak log stools, and a selection of old vintage books he'd refuse to give out to people. He once claimed to have the manuscript for Dracula, an outlawed book, to which he could never confirm nor deny. Martin would just smile with the corners of his mouth and say, "Maybe I'll show it to you one day."

Cameron stumbled a bit when he moved over, and walked across the room, his satchel in hand. At the very end of the room, there was a dutch door, with stairs leading down into the Tunnels below the city. Barely ever did Martin even look at the stairs, so that's where Cameron liked to do is bidding.

The broken phone hung next to the door. Bright green.

He sat down next to it.

Files with The Cottage Apartments written on them lay in his hand like a deck of cards ready to be bet on.

("Listen to your mother when she's talking to you, you carpet stain. Look her in the eyes! Look you ungrateful little shit!")

The papers bounced against the ground, his back against the wall and his butt on the ground, using his knees as a clipboard.

Catching his breath was a bit hard, but the incense burning helped a little bit, making his clothes smell like pumpkin spice. Kellie seemed to always be more in a kissing mood when he smelled like pumpkin, so he savored it, keeping his mind on something nice while doing paperwork for both a man that liked to smoke a pipe, and one that would kill Kellie on sight because her fingers were matches. He had a client that would kill his other client, how about that. Zane would probably set the fat man on fire and watch him burn, while the authorities made an 'example' of Zane by shooting him dead in the street. That was if Cameron hadn't gotten to her first.

--

At noon, Martin threw a pencil at Cameron, who had fallen asleep while trying to come up with a plan to give Zane. It was a dull pencil, but Martin still couldn't help but cringe when it poked him right below the eye, startling him awake, nearly making him topple down the stairs. "Sorry bud. Jon and I are going out for lunch, wanna come?"

"Don't you need someone to watch the shop?" He asked, rubbing his cheek. To him, he had no clue what had woken him up.

Martin shook his head and jumped back through the portal.

Cameron stuck all of the unorganized papers into a small drawer, and left the empty room, his footsteps echoing. Once back in the library, Martin was already outside, waiting in the cold with his thick wool coat on and earmuffs. What a brave little man, Cameron thought.

The sign on the door read BE BACK IN A JIFFY, as they walked out. Out into the day of Night

"I've been thinking Cameron, what if the library was just the first step to something bigger, you know? You can only have a baby for so long, until you need to move to more ventures. Stacking and stocking books is the job of a new knight, and I'm an old knight. What if I bought the office next door, and opened a small cafe? Sell tea. Biscuits. All of it. I think it could be a nice business. Kind of fits the environment and mood that I want to give the public. Jon has always had a thing for the leaf water business. Probably gets it from his mother. I guarantee you Cameron, when she gets to our house, she's going to mention how we got dimmer light-bulb for the couch side lamp. At least he didn't get that from her. Ears? Yes. But not snobbery. I don't know. Whatever, anyways, expanding the Treematorium is the only way to keep things going up. Being stuck in one place is lame as all hell Cam. I can't stand it. I need to always be moving. Maybe you can take over the shop more or something, if you want that is. I know you're busy with other stuff, but I love having you there." He smiled and punched his shoulder.

"Would you sell coffee?"

"Of course! Espresso, French, colonial, crate, barrel, plant, even Old Bronte."

"Old Bronte? Really?

"Yes! I think it'll fit magnificently."

"Do you have the money for all of this?"

Martin dodged a tall human man that gave him a funny look and kept going. "Let's just say I've got a hefty sum."

"A hefty sum, huh?" The notion made Cameron chuckle, even if it did take him a moment to hear him under the bustling crowd moving past them. Hundreds of people on the street off to get their lunch.

"A hefty sum."

"Does Jon know about this?"

"Oh you best watch that tone kiddo." A hearty chuckle from the gut. "He sure does."

"Well alright then."

They walked for a little longer, discussing aspects of the cafe. Ideas for what to do with the floor plan. Cameron suggested an old tavern design, with a different kind of wood than the library but still dark. A large entryway into the library directly. One of them even brought up the idea of having it be two floors. The first being the cafe, and the second one being another area to read their books. When they saw Jon waiting outside of the Ye Old Sandwich Estate, their conversation was too deep to notice right away. The man looked like a Nordic god. Long red hair and a beard, at about six feet tall.

Martin gave him a kiss and a hug, Cameron went inside to use the pay-phone.

--

Kellie locked up at 9pm. Cameron at 8:30.

Nighttime in night was let up with neon and lanterns.

4

When night falls in Night, the lights shine brightly.

Kellie contemplated wearing a dress with sequins, but decided against it when thinking about the idea that she'd just end up looking like a disco ball walking through the city. Eventually, as Kurt hung from the ceiling, she just decided to wear something that looked like a 40s heroine. A long hat, and a red pantsuit, with subtle makeup. Kurt gave a thumbs up, to which she gave him a high five.

She met Cameron outside, who was dressed in his brown fleece suit, and stuck out his hand. "My lady."

She giggled, "Ooh la la." And took it, nuzzling into his shoulder.

--

As stigmatizing as the city could be, you couldn't beat the view.

Once the sun set, all the weirdos emerged from their corners.

Their caves.

Their trash bins.

Nooks and crannies, record stores, barber shops, libraries, tenement houses, small brick apartments, beach front sand pits, magic shops, herb gardens. They'd all emerge at once, wearing bright clothes or dark clothes, and smile as they walked down the streets with more flaunt in their step than any other time of the day. Night brings it out of all the Knacks, that's for damn sure.

Almost the whole way there, Kellie was snuggled against Cameron's arm, smiling and watching as people walked by. A man doing aerial tricks. One summoning a rabbit from his pocket. Signs to every place were lit up brightly in neon glow, illuminating the streets where lamps didn't even need to be on. Just about everybody that shot them glances were smiling, to which the couple smiled back. A few bad eggs were thrown in, those that were just coming back from work or trying to get somewhere, but they were overshadowed heavily.

They stopped at a hot dog stand on 6th street, and watched as Alex, the man with the backwards hat that was in charged, made a few smaller hot dogs and then grew them into massive things to which he smothered with mustard and handed over. "Suits and hot dogs is probably the classiest you can be." Kellie said, mouth full.

"Oh absolutely." Cameron gave a smile full of bread and meat, making her chuckle and look away.

"Like fuck caviar, this is where it's at."

"All those rich bitches in their castles have never had such delicacies, because they're scared of what they may learn once they enter this city. That hot dogs are a religion."

"This is true."

"Could have used a little more mustard on mine though."

"What movie are we going to see?"

He smiled and kissed her.

When out at lunch with Jon and Martin, he made sure to make a quick phone call to out to see what movies were playing, and eventually decided upon the new Spielberg film King Lear.

King Lear, adapted from the famous Shakespeare play, had two reserved seats at the Eleventh Station Theater for them. The theater was one of the oldest places in the city when it came to either stage performances or film reels, both possible. There were eight separate rooms, and four of them had stages. When they wanted to use those rooms for films, they'd tighten the curtain on stage and project it on that. In fact, Cameron could recall a few months earlier reading in the newspaper that a traveling Shakespearean company was going to be stopping in Night for a little bit, and using the place to perform. Martin and Jon had ended up going, they absolutely adored things like that, and had told them all about it. In a row, they performed Hamlet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Othello. From 1880 onward, the theater was the place to go if you wanted to sit and enjoy the show, and probably the only Old Bronte relic you could visit and see in perfect glory.

Kellie couldn't have been more ecstatic.

Cameron was still upset that Cronenberg didn't have any movies playing.

Hi, are you playing any Cronenberg flicks?

Who?

David Cronenberg.

I'm sorry, we don't know who that is.

Only once in a blue moon did they play his movies, mostly in small indie houses, but it never hurt to see. I bet that Henry Fonda never went to some guys basement to watch a movie about mind readers that make brains explode. Zane was probably an advocate against violent movies, and preferred things like King Lear when he was looking for some entertainment that night.

"Cameron?"

He looked down. They were about a block away from the theater. Kellie looked up at him with a sort of amused confusion. "You gotta get work off the brain."

He snickered, and shyly looked forward. "You see the twinkle in my eye?"

"Yep."

"I'm just thinking about some things."

She hugged his arm closer jokingly. "Like what?"

"Well, the guy I talked to this morning says that his wife has hired another private eye to trace him. And all day I've just been trying to put him into other places, you know? See how he interacts with world himself. See if I can't find out who may be trailing him." She listened patiently and with great attention.

They stopped at a crosswalk, a woman with a large mass of children was next to them, wings sprouted from their backs. And loud, much to Kellie's dismay. "Are you even able to do that?"

"Probably not." He snickered.

The light turned green.

And down the street, as they crossed it with ease as one does, Cameron stared out and saw a blue Oldmobile, parked. He couldn't tell if there was still someone inside. And then tried to continue explaining his reasoning as best he could without sounding like a complete psycho. Kellie gave reassuring nods.

--

When Kellie was about eight, a time when she still lived with her father, she woke up late one night to her father. The man had never really been one to wake her up when it was late, especially when she had school the next morning, so she heard him out. Even if the brandy on his breath was a little overwhelming. He didn't say much, but just handed her a coat and put a fat finger to his lips, only saying, "Meet me by the door."

He had her light his cigarette when she met him. A spark of joy lit up inside her, and a smile appeared, as she snapped a flame onto his candlestick.

This was before a time when knacks in the street was a thing that people let happen without yelling, "Dirty Mag!" or spitting on them. So their late night walk was only accompanied by those in suits and hats, hiding their faces under fedoras, and people that lived on the street. Plastic bags of cans and newspaper hung next to them, their socks looking like swiss cheese. Kellie's father forbade her from talking to them. He said they were scum, people that made horrific mistakes that cannot be redeemed. Later, she'd find out that in his last days on Earth, he lived behind a dumpster next to the Night and Day Asylum on the outskirts of town. The police found him with a bottle of pills in his hand, and a picture of Kellie, her mother scratched out.

They rounded a corner, a small petrol station lit it up, and she could see off in the distance, and hear, classical violin music. It moved through her ears with harmony. She gazed upon it with as much childhood wonder she was able to muster, a commodity that was starting to become rare in her household. She looked up to her father, a 6ft tall man, and he was smiling through his beard, eyes half open, staring ahead. She looked back down with a brighter smile, and saw as the Arrow and Glass band entered the Eleventh Station theater.

Five of them meant that there were five top hats.

Five sets of fantastical clothes.

Five pipes hanging from their bottom lips.

But only two of them were holding knacks on themselves.

The one that was taking the large cello out of the long black Chrysler had a long furry tail coming from their pants, and large fox ears coming from out of their hat. Another had four arms, and was holding a large drum. The sight shocked Kellie. A knack in public was something that usually meant hate or fear, and yet they showed neither. And when her father kept guiding her closer, she felt herself shaking. "Dad, where are we going?"

He whispered, "We're going to see a show at the theater."

"Are they the ones performing?"

"We'll have to see, now won't we kiddo?"

"Uhuh." She gulped, and tightened her grip with her father.

The band had entered, leaving the street with a smell of fresh bread and mud, up until they arrived at the ticket booth and got a few small stubs to go in. Fuzzy pin pricks covered her arms and chest, her breathing a little panicked. The sudden sight of a crowd coming up as he led them into a large auditorium, a stairway leading down to a large stage, red velvet chairs everywhere. And people of all races, genders, shapes, and colors resided inside, talking with brandy glasses like they had just gotten back from the Academy Awards. Most were in their fanciest and most prestigious clothes, and some were dressed in the best they had.

Kellie felt like she was about to cry, trying to hide her face from the crowd. Her father barely noticed, he just led them to their seats.

"Is mom going to meet us here?" She asked.

He sat down in a seat, right in the middle. "No, no not this time teddy bear. Sit down." She did.

"I haven't been to a show in a long time. What movie are we seeing?"

"We aren't seeing a movie."

"What play are we seeing?"

He chuckled. "We aren't seeing a play either."

"What are we seeing?"

A couple wearing matching blue dresses sat down. One of them had very sharp features, long pointed ears and dark gray eyes. Her hair silver with streaks of dark purple. The other had large round glasses and large fangs. "We're seeing a concert. The stuff you saw the people bringing in, we're seeing them."

Her eyes lit up, making the couple smile. "So they were the ones performing!"

She laughed as he rustled her hair, the couple still laughing, and as Kellie noticed them, her smile dropped and she just stared. The one with fangs smiled at her cheerfully. Kellie didn't know if she was scared or in awe.

"Whoa. Are you guys knacks? That's so cool!"

The one with fangs chuckled. "Yes we sure are sweetie. I'm a vampire. My honey is a magician."

"I can. . .I can control fire." Kellie said, making all of them laugh. Her father especially, who rustled her hair some more.

"That's lovely. Can I see?"

It felt unreal, to say the least. Kellie retreated a little bit, chuckling to herself, but unsure what to do, except look to her father. "You can show them teddy." A joyous grin, before she stuck out her hand, and a tiny pyre emerged from her palm, lighting their faces with an orange hue. An usher called down to her to put the flame, and she did, all of them giggling. "You're very talented. What's your name?"

"Kellie. What's yours?"

"Neil."

"That's such a pretty name. But, isn't that a boy name?"

Neil smiled at her, giving the kind of expression a cartoon mother would give to her young ones for comfort. An eyebrow raised, her voice mellowed to a whisper."Who says?"

The curtains on stage drew, and the show started.

--

Kellie watched children play on the sidewalk near the ticket booth with a large smile.

Cameron watched her watch, and felt selfish.

The alcove the held the tall sign reading 11TH STATION stood high and mighty, a large collection of bright bulbs surrounding the sharp and rusted metal architecture around the front. The bright red and purple lights felt nostalgic.

They bought some stubs and walked in, Kellie's attention elsewhere at the time. Cameron knew why, and helped to comfort her the best he could, buying her some popcorn and listening as she talked about the night of the concert. Each time she told it, that newfound sense of life seemed to poke out a little bit more, and he couldn't help but smile wider each time.

She talked for the thirty minutes they waited, his ear on her. Other people had ears on their own partner. While the theater had once been a place that would home knacks that needed a night of entertainment, a night of pure community and safety from the hateful world outside, now it was less so. Humans and knacks alike sat next to each other, chatting it up about politics and things in the newspaper. Quite a few were still talking about the traffic build up that had lasted a few hours that day, but none of them knew the source really. Some said it was from a car accident, a man in a truck wasn't paying attention, fiddling with his FM radio and ran right into a small Ford. Others believed that someone had died while walking the crosswalk, croaked from a heart attack or stroke. One person, a teenager named Wade that had tried convincing his friends that their math teacher gave him a hickey, was currently trying to spread the rumor that the traffic had stopped because a Knack was threatening to blow up the Melchor School of Music on the corner unless he got $500 thousand dollars. No one listened. The girl he had brought to the King Lear performance was forced to, since the ticket was free and she had been dying to see it. It almost didn't seem worth it. Her name was Abigail Dixon.

The projector started right on the marker, the lights going dim and the film in beautiful Technicolor fluttered onto the white curtain.

Cameron and Kellie felt nothing but relief.

Having a night to themselves for the first time in a long time.

Even if he was going back to scout the next day.

And she'd be stuck with Elle, just the same.

So both of them savored it. And any other audience member in a similar predicament.

Butter coated fingers, and drinks spilled down chins. Hands were held, and spit was swapped, but most of all, a movie was enjoyed. Spielberg's latest, and probably his most well done. The cinematography making the titular character glossy but imperfect, real to the audience and someone they could relate to. The performance by C. Thomas Howell a masterwork of the arts, Each inflection of voice, each expression, took the audience by storm as they stared. Even Wade began to forget about possibly getting to get head from Abigail, and stared at the screen and shut his trap, much to her pleasure.

While Cameron's mind may have still been on what he was doing the next day with Zane, it felt comforting.

Kellie couldn't deny that even if she was thinking about Neil and Sophie, the couple, her mind was clouded with ideas on how to make the herb box shelves more customer friendly in the Cupboard.

That dark room, like all rooms in both the Eleventh Station, and any other theater, was a quiet room for those two hours.

Neither restless nor raunchy.

And in the front row, only two seats were filled. One in white. One in dark. Blood dripped from one, as the other held a hand to their mouth and smelled their essence as they died. Screams were impossible to get out, and no one was down there to notice. Those sitting in balconies, the ones that drank champagne and smoked goat fur and lavender wool, didn't notice either.

It soaked the victims handmade dress shirt, his last choking breaths muffled heavily through the hands of the person next to him.

C. Thomas Howell spoke on screen:

"Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?"

Seasoned age made his throat raspy, but demanding, and the man felt like he was calling out to him.

The man in the custom shirt died, the booming voice of the actor echoing through his ears, ringing. He tried to claw. He tried to fight the coming death like he was simply lost in a hedge maze, the light that shrouded him in safety disappearing and dispersing, the sound of a detuned violin screeching in his ears, blood trickling down. But that wasn't true. Blood was trickling down his mouth, and his neck, and his arms, but not his ears. The mind was just playing tricks on him. He never knew he died, he just simply did, his life flashing before his eyes for an eternity, almost like he was just reliving it all over again. The custom made shirt now solid red. Luckily, there was no chance it would stain the chairs.

No one noticed.

The night simply continued, and the killer left without a trace, no sighting of him. People on the aisles looked at them with fleeting thoughts, and just assumed they were using the bathroom or that Spielberg just wasn't their cup of tea.

A smile was glued to their face like a mask.

When the movie ended, people dispersed. Lights came back on. Balcony viewers didn't look down, they just walked out. The man stay there, still.

Cameron looked down at the front row, wiping tears from his eyes at the climax of the movie, and saw the man, a large coat around him, his head snug against the chair. He chuckled and nudged Kellie.

"You think he got a blowjob?"

"Oh absolutely."

5

In exchange for working Christmas week, Martin let Cameron borrow his 1977 Volvo 240 for a few hours a day when he needed it. Neither him nor Jon used it that much anyways, only pulling out of the garage when they decided to go to the coast. Cameron sat in the driver's seat, parked right outside of Zane's duplex, and waited for the time alloted.

He was to leave for work at just about six a.m. In their meeting, Zane was very precise about that detail. It seemed that he left at the same time every single day, precisely on the dot, to which Cameron wrote down with extra checks.

The window was cracked, the breeze caking him.

And he waited.

The previous night had ended with Kellie writing in bed after they had sex, and John Lennon playing a song on their small portable radio next to the bed. He laid in bed, looking at their ceiling and the water stain that was creeping out of the corner towards them, and thought about Kellie staring at the kids playing, making him both feel anxious as well as smile. The stain looking darker and more dank. Would the woman with the saxophone have felt this worried if she were in a similar spot? She had no care in the world, just a saxophone. That's the kind of life that should be lived, shouldn't it?

The voice of Grant Parkinson statically talked through the small AM Radio in Martin's car.

Cameron turned it up, his eyes still on the duplex, with his peripherals on the prowl.

And wouldn't you know it, when the Casio read six, Zane walked out of the door. The early morning breeze hitting him, his business clothes, and his suitcase all with a gentle touch. Immediately, they looked eyes with the kind of look that said: Don't fuck up the plan. Stay with me. The Buick will show up. Don't you worry. Cameron gave a salute, and Zane stayed motionless. For an old fart, he sure seemed spry.

Zane got in his car, took a minute, and then backed out of his driveway slowly, being careful not to turn his head towards Cameron.

He was off.

And the clock started.

Parkinson had made sure to tell him the good news before getting into the topic of the baseball scores from last night's playoffs game. The Red Sox were the visitors. But for weather, it was to be chilly, and a little windy. The sun hidden by clouds.

And then he saw the blue Buick. As clear as day.

It rolled out from an alleyway, and kept on him, making Cameron smile, as he did the same, the coins jingling in his pocket as he felt the engine rev under his feet.

--

Early morning traffic was minimal.

Cameron new right away that the Buick was driven by another PI. They drove the exact same way as him. Both kept their distance from the target, keeping the plate in view but their head slightly out of it.

Parkinson: "Guys, gals, and enby pals, the sky is so pretty and the clouds just feels so nice, doesn't it? Even though we still have two weeks until Thanksgiving, it's almost like we're already getting April showers. I'm looking forward to that quite a bit, I don't know about all of you. Traffic update, it's gonna be steady all morning, and pick back up at around five, per usual, and during all of this, I will be making sure that you have all the groovy tunes you need to make the wait so much better. Coming up next, a few more songs, and then we have your favorite early morning program, The Bright Dusk Talk Show, where we take your calls and talk with our fans. . ."

A few songs by Chuck Berry and Nina Simone played, the car moving slowly, two taxi cabs behind the Buick. Losing the car didn't worry him. It was just going to follow him to his work, and probably stand on guard for a few hours, make sure he wasn't going anything scandalous. And if he did, Zane's wife got a good chunk of money and a house from some small thing the court liked to call a 'prenuptial agreement'.

Like he expected, the Buick turned off a street, keeping it inconspicuous, and disappeared with the traffic.

He watched him go.

And vanish into Night.

There'd be no worries there, he'd just show up.

Kellie would tell him that this was something that could upset Zane, since he isn't doing what he told him he would do. The deal was to track the Buick. But Cameron was confident, and just stayed on the trail that was dotted against his mental map of the city. Maybe the man would light his coat on fire. And then Kellie would tell him that he shouldn't say things like that.

It didn't take long for Cameron to be on the outskirts of town, crossing the bridge over Lake River, shimmering waters lined with red and orange oak trees. A long stretch of water that ended at the giant pool of water about fifty miles past the city's borders, in a small town called Maltese. But from the bridge, you could see it almost curve around the world. The Dawn suburbs on one side for miles, and the city on the other. You could still smell the rancid rotten smell of the tenement houses when you crossed the bridge, even if it had been nearly four decades since the last one was taken down. Each and every house that was no in it's place holding someone's ghost. Cameron wasn't alive when any of it looked like that, he barely remembered when the neighborhoods were still being built, but the memory stuck out like a sore thumb.

Looking out the car at them still felt a little odd deep down.

Where was the Buick going?

His first thought was that it was taking the other bridge on the other end of town. The one that led straight into the industrial, if you could call it that, district of the suburbs. In other words, the led right into the long street of ma and pa shops--video stores, bakeries, cobblers, etc--and only reached the suburbs a minute later.

But he couldn't be sure. Before he knew it, Zane was at his first house.

For the hour he stayed inside, Cameron kept his eyes all around road for the Buick, keeping the Volvo parked in the lot belonging to a house that was still up for sale and would be for another ten years before being bought out by a group of businessmen that needed a house to sell their nose candy. But for the moment, it was covered in moss.

Zane made sure to give him that stern look, and yadda yadda yadda, the day continued like that for a little bit. Jobs like this made him tired quickly, and deep down he was waiting for something exciting to happen. Maybe while Zane was inside one of those pastel one-story homes, a .45 would go off and someone that wasn't Zane would run out and down the street. That could fill up his day. But at the same time, it meant no payment and the death of an innocent man. As innocent as he knew, but death nonetheless. He didn't want any of that. Maybe cruising between neighborhoods, watching a salesman do his work for a few hours was better than that one bit of excitement. It didn't help but make him feel uneasy though when that old man scolded him from across the street like you just broke their window.

The life of a PI is never easy, that was a tattoo that Kellie thought he should get inked across his ass cheeks. To which he had to give a hard no to.

When Kellie met Cameron, or when Cameron met Kellie--that all depended on who they told the story to--he was only just starting out as a private eye. There was no building with an apartment on top and an office on the bottom. There were no aspirations for what lay ahead of them at that point. Now he had a car. . .that he borrowed from time to time to keep their rent paid to the centaur that owned the building.

They never knew his name.

His eyes gazed often that day. They didn't gaze in a way that there was something too interesting to not find your mind drifting towards it, but in the exact opposite sense.

Cameron met him once, in the beginning, but he asked to only be called Stein. Their funds were usually wired over after that. The thought of the man came to him when Zane stopped off at a place that made Cameron uneasy. A place in the suburbs that could be compared to the dank pits of a strip club dumpster.

It sat atop a hill near the shore, leading Cameron to drive in an escalating circle for a few minutes, before a gap in the massive oak and ceder trees gave him sight to an old church estate. The kind that probably didn't welcome Knacks. Making it even more curious to why one was making his way there so easily. If there was anything his parents taught him, it was that a Christian would treat a Knack with as much respect as a Muslim.

Cameron turned down the radio as a woman was describing to Parkinson about her awful date the night before.

Apparently he showed her card tricks.

But there was another fact on his mind.

The church was never mentioned.

So, Cameron kept his eyes open.

--

The Buick appeared an hour later.

It was silent, and moving slowly, and made sure to park in the bushes behind the church, giving the driver a view of the city across the water.

Considering the only cars you really saw in Night were taxis, Volvo rip-offs, Volvos, or Chryslers, there wasn't any way it was a coincidence to just see it there. Plus, it wasn't like anyone was coming to this unnamed church of Jesus Christ for worship. Let alone one that was empty, on a Saturday afternoon in Night. He played it cool though, just listening to the radio like he was a patron waiting to give his confession. Seeing if the Buick would do anything. But no, it sat still, giving Cameron the perfect opportunity.

To preface, Cameron wasn't a gun toting ninja.

So when he turned off the FM, and clicked the door open, the man in the Buick could've seen him quite easily if he had been looking that way, but his eyes were glued to the door where Zane had entered for some unknown reason.

The church was almost completely surrounded in shrubs, all green and yellow, meshing well with the autumn season. They nearly gave Cameron away as he got closer. His coat was hung over the passenger's seat, so he was left just wearing a his dress shirt, giving the cool breeze something to torture. A few scratches from the branches and he was regretting his decision to sneak up. What was the Buick going to do if he just walked right up to it, drive off? Amateur.

The Buick got closer, he was starting to be able to smell the diesel.

It reeked of the city, a smell he thought he was getting a break from in the suburbs, a place that smelled like sap trees and moss. Cameron dropped still, and stared at the car.

The man inside hadn't seen him yet, but he was now close enough to look at him, and from what he saw, this man was not a PI that he knew. He wore a worn down newsboy hat and had shaggy blond hair, his beard short, but his mustache thick, it looked itchy. And his eyes were just on the door. He didn't look to stressed or uncomfortable though, he actually looked quite relaxed. Cameron walked closer, his pocket knife in his hand just in case the man tried to pull a fast one once he got to the window. He looked like a rugby player, so it was entirely possible that it wouldn't matter.

Taking a deep breath, Cameron stood up and walked in, curving around to walk up from behind the car, and knocked on the window of the Buick.

The man nearly shit himself.

"Um, hello?" Cameron asked politely.

Hand shaking, the man manually rolled down the window, and poked his head out, letting him hear just how heavily the man was breathing. "Jesus kid you scared the hell out of me. Nearly shit myself."

He couldn't help but snicker. "Sorry about that sir. I was wondering if you were a member of our fine church establishment."

"Um, what? No, no. I'm just waiting on someone."

"A member of the church?"

"I guess. Don't think so though. He comes here. . ." He gazed up at Cameron, sticking his head out the door more. Cameron's posture had become more relaxed, but he was stood up and held his hands together like a Jehovah's Witness member. The shirt helped. "I'm sorry are you a member?"

"Yes sir, I sure am. I'm a pastor here. Although, I prefer the term conduit of God."

"Uhuh."

His voice was a little more nasal filled than he would've thought.

"Who are you waiting on?"

"You wanna smoke a pipe?"

His comment nearly shook his fake character away, one that he was planning on giving the name Brandon Sanders, a man that served a mission in Columbia for three years before returning to Night to spread the word of Christ. It was the most sickening, and plausible, story he could think of at the moment. "A pipe?"

The man pulled out a corncob pipe, varnished brown. "Yes, a pipe. I'm in the mood to smoke. Just because you're a man of God doesn't mean you can't smoke, does it?"

He just shook his head. "I don't smoke."

"Well, I do. We can keep talking while I do. There's a balcony over there that we can lounge in. I'm feeling a little cooped up in this car."

The door clicked, and Cameron took a step back, letting the seven foot man exit the car, unfurling like a line of rope it seemed, and standing tall above him. His legs must've been cramped to hell. The feeling of the breeze soothed him, making him feel snug, and the smell of autumn made it even better. He looked to Cameron with a smile and motioned toward the balcony.

"Don't worry. I'm tall but I don't bite."

He smiled and walked off.

--

"You're a private eye, aren't you?"

The two were leaned over a railing that overlooked the lake, the hillside stretching down underneath them to the shore, sprinkles of people walking dogs and skipping stones far underneath. There was even a kid flying around, with the same kinds of wings that the one at the crosswalk had. They looked like ants.

Cameron shuddered and looked over, trying to be coy with his question. "What makes you think that?"

"The gears turning in your head show when you're looking at someone. Plus, No pastor would ever wear tennis shoes in this city." Cameron looked down at his running shoes and went stiff. "Well shit."

He snickered. "Wow, that was just a hunch, thanks for the confirmation pal."

"Zane's wife hire you?"

"Mrs. Keita? No, the mister in that church is currently under surveillance for a business investment scam, and I am the detective working the case."

"Detective?"

"Detective."

"As in you're a cop?" Half of Cameron was feeling intrigued, the idea of a cop being on the case of somebody that he was working for and that Zane was probably some scum, but he was also under an assumption that both this man was working under a cloak of racism, as well stopping Cameron from being paid. He stayed still, a good few feet away. The man might have even had a revolver tucked into his pants.

He took a long hit of his pipe, and let out a cloud of smoke. "Yes, as in I'm a cop."

Cameron's breath came out, the cold air imprinting it like it was smoke. "What did Zane do exactly?"

"Can't tell you that. But assure me when I tell you, he's just using you to get out of something."

"Well, once you told me you were a cop, I assumed."

"At least you didn't work for very long."

The door to the church rattled a little bit, making the two of them turn around to stare at it. A few more rattles, and a woman without a top came stumbling out, sweating and dazed it seemed. A smile was on her face, and she tried to act casual as she messed with her hair and kept walking. The look on the detective's face was annoyance. The look on Cameron's face was confusion. "Um, do you know who that was?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Zane has been seeing someone on the side."

"Wh-"

"He wasn't paying you to prove his wife right. Just to find me, right?"

He took a moment to clear his head. Too many things were going on. Focusing on the kids skipping stones helped. "Right."

"You sure are quite the talker." Another big hit, this time, he shot out rings. Cameron looked up at them as they floated outward like a floating ship. "It's very relaxing."

Cameron ironically didn't know how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry you're not going to be getting paid."

"It's fine. I didn't use too much gas."

"Still sucks. Financially, being a private eye sucks butt."

He laughed to himself, his chapped lips cracking. "You're telling me."

"Do you primarily work stuff like this? The jobs that require a tall tree and some binoculars." His glare comforted Cameron, understanding was shining from them. He could feel his posture calm, relaxed. The same as his sitting in the car. "Most of my jobs are like that yeah. Taking pictures, tailing cars, trying to get dirt, you know. It's gritty stuff sometimes but it pays okay."

Another hit of the pipe. The smell of lavender wool hit his nose, and felt warm. "The nitty gritty is what pays the best. Hit and runs. Kidnappings. All of that. If you want I could get a word in for you at the station. Maybe you could help on the killings."

The breeze gently pushed Cameron, and he paused still. The smell of lavender, the cool autumn wind, the colors of the trees, all went stagnant, his words hanging there. He saw Kellie looking at him with a concerned expression, and then he saw the long line of traffic, an unexplained accident up ahead that strangers around were discussing in a crowded theater room. "What killings?"

The detective looked at him, and blew the smoke from his mouth's corner. "Just some killings. There was one last night at the Eleventh Station. They found this guy's body this morning."

A ghost reached in and squeezed his lungs.

He continued: "He bled out. A few cut marks all over him, deep ones. I could put in a word for you if you'd like."

"No. . .no I'm okay."

"If you say so."

"You wanna take a drag?"

He shook his head again.

"Your loss."

"So Zane can't see you, or else you're screwed, I assume."

"We have some evidence already, we were just trying to see if we could get some truly hard hitting hitting shit. If he sees me, so be it, he's already going away for about a decade for fraud."

A man with that much free money must have some to give up.

"Well, I might as well just head home now, there's nothing else for me on this case."

"What about the girl?"

"I'll make sure to fax his wife!" Cameron called back, already making a B line for the Volvo, still parked on the side of the road, while Zane was still inside doing God knows what. Hell, why would he care. There were probably a dozen people in there giving him the no-pants dance.

Before going home, he drove around the neighborhoods, looking at houses that Kellie might have liked to look at herself. Maybe they could take a day to do it together.

And using the car to his advantage, he stopped by The Cottage to pick up the money from Mr. Grubby Hands himself. He wasn't home. One of the neighbors said he'd be back later that night.

The longer he drove, the longer his to-do list got.

6

Cameron rolled scissors, and was tasked with cleaning the apartment up before Jon and Martin knocked at their door with a bottle of wine in hand, looking dapper as ever. Kellie made the point that their primmed shirts and pants probably wouldn't mesh well within a place that had cobwebs in the corners, a table covered in the stains of coffee and candied drinks, and a fridge that couldn't be open without opening up a window. They had gotten a complaint from the family across the street that ran the newspaper stand about the wafting smell that would frequently hit them, and would have to pay a fine if it happened again. They simply opened another window that just led into the store beside it, Kerry's Medicinal Shop for the Dead and the Living. It was a little wordy, but at least they had never complained.

Kellie was off to the markets of downtown to search for some ingredients. The Cupboard was a place that held ingredients for things like rituals and sicknesses, not for a fancy dinner in a not-so-fancy apartment.

She wasn't very familiar with the place, and it took her a minute to find her footing, but by the end she felt pleased, a paperbag of assorted veggies and meat snug in her arm.

Meanwhile, Cameron dealt with their apartment.

When they bought it, the place seemed like one that would be $1300 a month. It was basically two apartments in downtown, and they considered that an absolute steal. But within the lease, they also signed off on the very common spider occurrence, occasionally breaking heater and air conditioner, brown water, spots on the ceiling that could've been mistaken for concrete freckles, and a lingering taste in the air that made coffee taste like cocoa powder in hot water.

"Kurt, grab the broom for me, will you buddy?" He did so, swinging from the support beams in the ceiling, and throwing it back his way. For devil's ivy, he sure was a saint sometimes.

The man swept, cleaned the fridge and sink, a bandanna tied securely around his nose, and listened to Parkinson's talk-radio show more and more. He was starting to kind of get into it, suffice to say.

The table was wiped down.

The cobwebs were shredded.

Kurt was dressed in his top hat and given a hair cut.

And the two lovely people dressed in the same outfits they wore to the theater, a place that Cameron now only associated with the death of a man during the final act of King Lear. It was knowledge he had shared with Kellie, shocking her of course, but didn't seem to be weighing her down as much. Cameron didn't know what it was that was making him feel like someone dropped an anvil on his head.

Kellie snapped, and lit the pilot light.

Then she shot a flame in front of Cameron, knocking him on his ass. She was the only one that found it funny, but he was coming around to it.

By 5:30, she had dinner prepped to be ready at exactly six o'clock. In the oven was mixed veggies and pot roast, steam cooking in seasonings, oil, and fresh garlic which filled the apartment with a smell that almost made them pass out from the sudden shock.

Man, we should cook more often.

My lord, we need to cook more often.

"Kellie! It's so good to see you, you precious thing!" She leaned down so Martin could kiss her cheeks and give a large hug. "It's been too long Martin." The two stood in the doorway, both wearing dark maroon suits. Jon didn't have a jacket, just a vest over his shirt.

"Too long? It's been too too long! I'm upset we haven't had this planned sooner. I blame Cameron for waiting to long. I kid, I kid." Cameron chuckled, his hands in mitts, taking the large ceramic pot from the oven. "Yeah, well blame Elle too while you're at it."

Jon walked in, still having said nothing, and moved the wind to shut the door for him. It made them laugh, and made Cameron think, okay so yes, he is a Knack.

"I brought wine." He said. His voice sounded like someone through the worlds rarest gemstones into a blender, creating the deepest most satisfying voice. No wonder Martin loved hearing him talk so much.

The table was already set, a spotless wooden dining table that neither of them could even remember getting. There was even a good chance that they just found it still here when moving in a few years ago. None of them could keep on a single train of thought, Cameron and Kellie felt that panicked host feeling. The four of them chatted a little bit, drinking the wine that Jon had brought from the winery, and laughing it up. The guests seemed to be wearing clothes half for a dinner party and half for the drag show in a few hours. It also explained why they didn't drink much.

About half way through, Martin pulled a pocket watch out of his pocket and smiled gleefully. "You guys wanna see a trick?"

Right away, Cameron looked at it, a little clouded over from the blueberry wine, and scoffed. "Martin, come on, you did this last time."

"Did I?"

Kellie looked like a kid at a magic show, on her fourth glass of peppermint schnapps. The brandy glass in her hand glued there for now. "I don't remember it, let's see it."

Cameron took another sip, Jon was sitting on the sidelines laughing to himself. He couldn't even count how many times he must've seen him do it. "Kellie, just wait, Martin nails this trick. It's like magic is actually real." She snickered, and so did Cameron.

Slowly, the three watched as Martin opened his mouth and started running the gold chain down his throat.

Kellie's jaw was on the ground.

Jon's was wrapped around his glass.

And Cameron was using it to give a fake yawn, laughing,

Once it was fully in his mouth, he closed it, shook his head a minute, and then opened it up, sticking out his tongue. The pocket watch was gone. "Kellie check your pocket, please."

The sudden addition of weight to it made her chuckle to herself, and when she pulled out the spit covered pocket watch her mouth was agape. "That was incredible, Martin!"

"God it's covered in your spit."

"Yeah, I'm trying to find a way to do it without that happening."

"You're swallowing a pocket watch." Cameron said with a chuckle, taking another big gulp of the wine.

"I never swallow it."

"Okay, you give the illusion that you do. Regardless, it's gonna be in your spit filled mouth Martin."

"I mean I could take some dry mouth medicine."

Jon couldn't stop laughing, him and Cameron just making eye contact and giggling like a couple of kids in their basement, looking through an old Playboy magazine.

Kellie put her drink down, shockingly. "I have seen it!"

"Man you are hammered, hon."

She looked at Cameron with a smirk and punched his shoulder.

"Why would you even be practicing that, Martin?"

Jon looked over smug. "Yeah babe, why?"

He gave Jon a sarcastic face, making him laugh, and then leaned forward onto the table in the way an upset professor would. By then, Night had turned Night, a starry sky backdropping the apartment. Twinkling like a switchboard. Soon the streets would be pump full of late night lovers.

"Well, I mean, Jon and I want to travel quite a bit. Magic isn't as common outside of Night, so I could get away with that kind of thing out there. More so than in here. Although Kellie confirmed that." She raised a drink to him, and Cameron got up to get a glass of water as Martin continued talking. "If we do end up opening the cafe, expanding the Treematorium into something much bigger, we won't have a lot of time to explore, you know? We want to see the world. New Zealand. Paraguay. Egypt. Afghanistan. Places that we can't explore stuck here. Not that we're stuck." Jon gave him a kiss. The subject seemed awkward for Martin. "It would just be nice to go out and see some things before the rest of our lives are spent here is all. And hey, magic tricks could be pretty fun to show everyone else. Convince those people that we're pretty chill already."

"It'd be pretty hard for them to think otherwise."

"Watch your tongue kiddo." He chortled.

"That was a compliment old man."

"Who are you calling old? I'll have you know, sir, I was still in college when Reese disease became common."

As they bickered, back and forth like a couple of brothers, or a married couple, she couldn't be sure, Kellie stared at the image and took a snapshot. Her mind was drifting just a little bit, the peppermint making her body feel like it was already Christmas, but the lack of snow helped keep things in check. When winter came in Night, it came hard, usually caking the streets in the white powder and the lights that were strung up at the time made the city look like a winter wonderland for sure. She kissed Cameron on the cheek, he gave one back with a smile, and went back to bickering. She stood up and went out to the window with her glass of water, and sipped it slowly while watching the streets begin to fill up. It was already eight o'clock, they'd both be leaving soon. Then her and Cameron would spend the night cuddling in the dark, possibly with talk radio on or an old movie, and then work the next day. It would be fine. She still smiled about the first part though.

When they left, she was still at the window, giving them hugs as she sat down, and leaving her glance out. Cameron noticed the tears in her eyes, but didn't want to bring attention to it. He walked them to the door and gave them a farewell and good night.

But before they left, Jon going to start the Volvo parked out front, Martin stopped and gave a Cameron a hug, to which he easily gave back. "Have fun at the drag show."

"Oh wait, I have something to give you." He reached into his back pocket and outstretched his hand.

In his palm lay a business card. A rainbow cutting one of the corners.

"Found this in the driver's seat. I think you may have left it when you borrowed it."

DETECTIVE WATANABE KENJI

(811)-922-8008

Nothing else. The notion made Cameron smile though, and he gave Martin another hug before he left. He'd look at the card and think about it another time.

--

Her head in his lap, she talked, the half full bottle of wine on the window sill. The window was cracked just slightly, a chill breeze moved in.

"I wanna travel Cameron."

"I do too sweetie."

"Why does life have to be so fucking hard on us all the time? I feel like we never get to rest as much as we should. When we went on our date, god it felt like the first time in forever. I hadn't been so happy in such a long time. I love you, but I want to love life too." He combed her hair. "I think you should take up the job at the Treematorium full time. Bookstore manager. We could get a house in Dawn. Get married. Move on from the city. Just because I'm a Knack doesn't mean you have to suffer too."

He simply listened. He deeply listened.

"I wanna travel and I wanna live."

She felt herself fading a little bit. It tended to happen when people played with her hair. It wasn't as if he wanted her to fall asleep, it just helped to sooth some of his anxiety. "Cameron, where do you see us in ten years?"

It took him a second. "In a house, with a little tyke, happy."

Her smile was wide, and her words quiet. "Me too."

7

After the dinner party, Cameron did work downstairs until he fell asleep at his desk, looking over possible legal strategies he could take against the man in The Cottage, as well as other old past cases that were long gone but he hadn't filed yet.

Kellie slept.

And when she woke up, she felt the need to go visit her mother in Chicane, a city on the coast. It wasn't a fleeting thought, and they made sure to wait a day to see how she felt after work, and the thoughts were the same. The two left the wine by the window to chill for the night, but forgot to grab it, and just talked about it for a little bit while eating their usual grab-and-go dinner. The next morning, she'd discuss buying a ticket from her travel agent, a serpent woman named Mandy that was probably the sweetest person you could meet. The travel agency, Angel's Flight, was not a place you'd expect to find her. The place resembled a 50s hair salon but with more computers and typewriters on each desk, making Kellie feel a little odd, but she was able to smile her way through and have her ticket by the end of the day to leave the following morning.

The two of them only owned one suitcase, a hefty yellow one with fading daisy stickers on the side, and it didn't take long to pack. Elle was able to take the news easily, since the new guy seemed to be doing good and could take her place for a bit.

Cameron made a similar call, but to take up more hours in this next week. Martin was more than happy to give him some.

It was dawn.

Early dawn.

Cameron hadn't slept, and neither had Kellie.

They listened to jazz play over the radio. Parkinson wasn't on, for obvious reasons. Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, and anyone else that graced their ears. New good jazz was hard to come by.

Both of them laid in each other's arms until time came for her to leave, which happened with the lights still turned off. The silent streets were back, no one was up around this time, and no should be. As much as he wanted to walk her to the station, she made him stay since he hadn't slept and needed to head over to work in only a few hours.

Instead, he gave her his paddy cap for luck.

--

The two were on the beach, Kellie and her mother, drinking cups of hot tea while watching the waves crash. To her surprise, she didn't hear any gulls up ahead. Whenever she'd call her mother from the Cupboard, the only place where she didn't have to pay a quarter to make a call, she'd go on and on about how loud the birds were in Chicane. One time she even described them as, screaming children. To be fair, she was also the one that spat out slurs when Kellie told her that Elle was Wiccan.

Her mother had barely said a word since she arrived, except for the 'hello darling' she liked to pretend to add flair to. They were both sweating, in tank tops and bikini bottoms, deep in the summer heat wave.

Kellie didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything.

She simply drank her earl gray, and sat in the wicker chair on her mother's porch, thinking about what they were going to eat for dinner.

"What should we eat?"

Kellie looked to her mother, her silver fox hair starting to shimmer in the light. "I don't know. Any good restaurants around here?"

"No."

"I guess we could cook."

"Have you been cooking?"

"I guess you could cook."

Mama Wood chuckled, wheezing a little bit, making Kellie smile. The smell of smoked wool was still on her breath. When they were inside, she smoked almost three handfuls of the stuff, her pipe smoking like a gas fire. She asked Kellie to light it each time, to which she politely refused. Then she pulled out some Blue Diamonds from her bra and began puffing.

Kellie took a sip of the tea, slowly. "Do you still like casserole? Maybe that and some blackberry pie."

"Would you bake the casserole?"

"Would you bake the pie?"

"Sure."

"Then sure."

"How's the Mag?" Kellie stuttered at her mother's question, chuckling a little bit in disbelief. Her words were to stay brief. "Elle is doing good."

Over yonder, closer to the docks, a huge part of Chicane's economy, a steamboat honked loudly. Kellie noticed her hands were shaking a little bit, and tucked her shoulder length red hair over her ear.

Her mother scoffed, and drank her tea, her face looking more scrunched up. Wrinkles under her eyes felt like caverns to Kellie, sinking deeper and deeper the more sour she became. The last time they had been together, her hair was completely dark, and her face flat and covered in spots. "Ships."

Kellie's focus was still on her shaking hands, grasped firmly around her cup.

"Kellie, I'd like you to stop working for that Mag, come here, work at the restaurant with me."

"I can't, my lease doesn't end until February."

"Then after that."

Her breathing felt sickly, the sweat matting hair to her forehead and neck. "I can't."

"Why not?" She still wasn't giving her daughter a glance at the time.

"It's a good job. It pays well."

Another scoff, this time with another horn in the background.

"You're too tied to that city, you should lo--"

--

She woke up groggy and bloated, the country side outside the window. Another man in the seat across from her was dead asleep, a large coat over him, his mouth wide open. A lady behind her was drinking peppermint schnapps, a smell that was making her gag. They were talking about Night, a place that they seemed to have only been visiting. Tourists, clearly. When she saw them get on, wearing large hats and their ironed scarves, she thought the same thing.

Once a waiter came by, she asked for a cup of water and some gum. The gum was chewed first, and then turned to ice with the cold water.

There was some peace in her stomach while looking at the window that she didn't get while listening to the numerous conversations amongst the train. The track was smooth, valleys that cut between industry and the sea lined most of the way. It reminded her of Romania. Pictures of Romania actually.

A smell of winter was starting to move in.

The red leaves were starting to fall.

Above the train car door was a sign that had since been removed, but still was faded into the door. NO KNACKS. It made her chuckle to herself, and want to tell Cameron, but she'd just tell him once she arrived and made her phone call telling him she made it there safe. He'd be late into his shift at the bookstore, Martin probably on his tenth cup of chamomile. She was missing Night already. And mid-day was taunting her.

The waiter brought her another cup of water, this time in a bottle. After that, she went to use the uncomfortably small lavatory, and then sat back down in her seat, atop the numerous stains and small tears in the red leather, exposing the pink fluff to the world.

Hello mother, how are you?

I'm doing good you dirty ol' Mag. How's the man?

He's good.

At least he's normal.

"Maybe then we'll get some earl gray and yell a little bit more." The man in front of her shifted in his seat.

She knew they were close to Chicane when she started seeing the shore take over the rolling, perfectly-green, hills and endless forests. The ocean would become more and more visible, and then eventually the green would turn to sand, and you could see it getting washed away. The best view of the ocean from the train was when it passed over the Miles Valley, a huge gash between two mountains. Back in the 1920s they had built the railway, and with it, they filled the gap with a ninety foot support system to hold up a train. Kellie didn't dare look down as they passed over, she just stared at the ocean ahead of her, tasting tea in her mouth already. And the smell of smoked wool.

"Hey miss."

Kellie didn't look.

"Hey miss."

She turned to the voice. The man with the coat over him was talking in his sleep. Flem filled his throat, and he turned over to his side. A horsehair tie poked out from his coat.

Right on schedule, as the clock struck 12pm at town square from atop the large tower made of brick and plaster, the train came to a slow stop in front of a a large wooden platform with the next group of people waiting and a wooden shack with only a few benches and a water fountain.

Kellie slowly left the train, the man still sleeping in the seat, snoring away. She could leave the job of waking him up to the waiters.

--

Martin's favorite food was swordfish, straight from the dock. Cameron was telling her one time when he came into work, a large uncut fish over his shoulder, giving all of the customers a cut clean sight of what the manager of a bookstore looked like. She wondered if there was anyone in Chicane as eccentric and special as Martin running a store. Maybe there was a hat maker that preferred to smoke cured ginger while drinking a cup of brandy on the rocks. Hell, she was wondering if there was even another Knack in town. She was lucky to not have a physical Knack trait.

But the looks were still felt.

Her hands stayed tucked in her coat. Not even when the newspaper jockeys or the teen boys outside, calling out about their 'AMAZING DEALS' to some store that only sold cardboard packages of rice and canned peaches, waved at her. She just gave a smile and kept walking on the icy sidewalk, paddy cap tight.

It felt like a ghost town almost.

And that all of the people were still trapped in another time.

Each person she saw as she made that quick walk through town square and eventually the business center of the small fishing town, wore one of two things. A 50s suit, drenched and cologne and pin striped, or a summer shirt tucked into khakis and a belt. Not a woman in sight. Just tall white men. It made her snicker. Maybe that's why they were so eager to talk to her.

Another stick of gum touched her tongue. The air that had been drying up her face made it taste ice cold.

The clock tower chimed again. 12:30pm.

Her mother chose to live in a town that was still stuck in 1936. There was some comfort in that. It meant she wouldn't leave it.

--

"Kellie Wood, it's your turn to present."

She gulped, shaking, and walked to the front of the class. Mama Wood helped her pick out a nice dress to wear, a yellow sun-dress with white polka dots. She herself was in the back with the other parents.

"Um, hi, my name is Kellie. For my history project, I decided to research the Night and Day Article 30 Treaty of 1936."

Mama Wood motioned her to raise her chin. She had dark hair then.

Kellie raised her chin. "The Treaty of 1936 was a monumental moment for both civil rights and for knacks specifically. It um-it was when Knacks were finally allowed to leave the city of Night. Harris Folio, a Knack himself, started a movement in the year 1930 that led to this moment, beginning to begin raids and finding ways to let Knacks out of the city."

A girl with pigtails in the front row was grimacing.

"He signed the treaty for all Knacks, and is still the acting president of the Night Knack Council. Um, the treaty was enacted a month before The Great War ended, and helped to meed-mediate several problems that had arisen in the world. . ."

--

Waves crashed, her hand knocked, and she made a mental list of things to tell Cameron once she called him. One of which was about how a homeless man catcalled her as she walked. Once she made eye contact, he sprinkled snowflakes from his fingers and chuckled to himself, before covering his hands.

That made. . . Four subject of interest to share.

Once she realized that a minute has passed and not a soul made a noise, and she was still listening to the barren frigid ocean, she knocked again, louder.

The house seemed to have dropped significantly in quality. It had been about a half a decade since the last time she had been there, so it made sense. The wooden porch was splintered, chipping paint. Sprinklings of pipe mush all over. Some old and mossy, some more new and still hot.

"Yeah?!"

"Mama?"

She stuttered.

A rumble and a tumble of locks later, the wood was thrown open. Kellie looked down at her mother, a pipe hanging for her look. It was clear she was painting, blotches of white covered her clothes, a black shirt and shorts. Iron colored hair cascaded down. And she smiled, pipe smiling with her. "My darling."

Fuck, why did I come.

--

"How do you like it outside of Night?"

"Boring."

She filled the kettle with water and pulled out a few mugs from the dishwasher. The pipe was sending pillars of smoke up into the stained ceiling. Kellie stared at the half painted kitchen. "Why are you here?"

That quick, huh?

"Let's wait for tea until we get into that conversation."

"There isn't much else to talk about. You're still with what's his face, you still work at what is it, and you're still a proud Mag. Why are you here Kellie?"

In the back of her mind, she saw her mother as a younger woman, staring at her as she rode a bike along the sidewalks in Night, staring with a sort of content mood, and a half-smile. There was no pipe because she hadn't started dressing as a chimney yet. The memory was in black and white, and backdropped with a crowd of people that wore smiles. Not a single person in Chicane was giving a real smile. Maybe the world really had died outside of Night. "I'm here to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Things. I had a dream about you."

"You had a dream about your mama and decided to ride a train for four hours just to get here."

"I see you still remember the distance."

She snickered, a mug in her hand. "I don't stay here consistently."

"You still visit Night?"

"Occasionally."

"No phone calls?"

"You don't."

"I don't visit Chicane. The place is a ghost town with people in it." Her mother chuckled, and the kettle whistled. She was having fun with her. It was removed quickly, and poured into the mugs. Boiling hot water that already smelled of green. "Darling, if that's not a way to put it."

"How would you put it?" She grabbed a mug from her mother. "Old fashioned?"

"Is death so old fashioned?"

"I wouldn't say that."

A curious sip. It didn't even seem to burn Mama Wood's lips. "I wouldn't say it's old fashioned. Seems like quite the trend in Night. That guy Parkinson talks a lot about that. That woman that was killed in the street. Another Mag dead. Happens quite often, right in the middle of the public eye. Here, you don't have it, you get smoke in your eyes. Blissfully ignorant."

Maybe that's why it didn't burn her, she was already scolding hot with motherly anger for the world. Her mind drifted over the last part, and just grabbed onto the first part. She listened to Parkinson. Thanks mama, now I can't listen to talk-radio without thinking of you and your paint covered garden clothes. People die in the city, so be it. More people die outside of Night. "Smoke in your eyes." Kellie mimicked.

"Exactly. You're thirty-two Kellie, you ought to go out and do something. You went to school, and yet you spend your time in a shop of things I smoke."

That made her actually laugh, but she kept it contained.

Her breathing was feeling stiff and pushing up into her chest. "Tell me about your dream."

"I saw you hanging by the neck from a tree."

"That it?"

"That's it."

"I've had those dreams once a week for the past decade darling, nothing new. Bad omens. Nothing to worry about."

"You're not worried?" No more tea remained in her cup. "Not even a little bit?"

"Do I look like I am?"

"You should be afraid, or careful for fuck's sake."

"I'll live how I live. And I'll die how I die. How much was your train ticket?" Peculiarly, her face had dropped. She was just a woman with a mug of tea now. Kellie searched for words, and found them once she looked away, now examining the knots in her table. The same one that used to be on the third floor of an apartment complex in the Eyre corner of Night, the Dawn before there was Dawn. "A hundred bucks."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'll pay you back for it. Can't blame you for being silly, all that Mag juice clouding your brain."

Kellie got up from the table, and walked over to the kettle, feeling her mother watch the whole time like a curious cat. It was still steaming hot. Another cup was poured, same tea bag. "By Mag juice, do you mean tea?"

She scoffed. "Don't play dumb."

"I'm not."

"It's that shit that runs throughout Night, dammit I can't remember the name."

"You're really not going to pay attention to that dream? If I were you I'd be checking over my shoulder everywhere I go."

The frosted window above them made the air stagnant. "You get that trait from your father. Nasty drunk."

"Yeah. . .yeah I know that."

"You still love him?"

"I think I'm gonna go stay at a motel tonight. Where's a good one?"

"Nonsense, you'll stay right here tonight, and I'll drive you back to the train station in the morning. Out of the question."

She paused, examining her mug.

"Okay."

She didn't want to argue anymore. It felt like just taking in her words got rid of them faster."Why don't you go pick us up some food? There's a diner by the beach, well half a diner and half a cheap knick knack store. Good sandwiches though."

--

A phone booth was outside the diner, a dinky place surrounded in trees, and that dipped into the beach on the backside, held up with support beams that dug into the sand. She pulled out a quarter and popped it in.

She let him talk first. "Hello?"

"Hey hon, it's me."

"Ah hello, Kellie Z. Wood!"

She snickered. "How's the shop?" It took a lot to not start tearing up. Listening to his voice made her remember that she was still alive. He made sounds looking around and replied, "Pretty empty right now. It was pretty packed around opening. That new Fred Astaire Jr. book came out. How's the trip?"

Her eyes gazed upon the diner, watching as the first girl she had seen in town entered with her hubby, a bell dinging, and their bodies suddenly coated in the place's lamplight. What year did they live in? "It's okay. She didn't listen, but that's okay. I'm coming back tomorrow afternoon."

His voice came in fuzzy. "I thought you were coming back on Friday?"

"I can get them to push me up further, it's fine. At least I'll be home for thanksgiving."

He snickered, and paused for a moment, probably talking with Martin for a moment. She knew she wanted to end the call soon, and would just tell him everything when she got back home. There was no reason to stay any longer. "I can talk to-FUCK!"

The sound was too familiar, his outburst partnered with the sound of an electric surge. "You burn yourself again?"

"Yeah, yeah this fuckin phone needs to be fixed soon."

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay? I'll make sure to stop by the Treematorium on my way home."

"You're cute."

"You're cuter, no take backs."

"Fuckin god dammit, you can't do that to me."

Kellie snickered.

--

The diner was called The Sea Captain's Bounty, and she bought two number fours. A Reuben with fries and a small drink. For herself, she got water, and for her mother, she got Pepsi. The man at the counter had a pin on his hat that said, 'RETREAT THE TREATY', and two less teeth than a normal person. He asked her out, she gave the finger, and left with food in hand. A lady standing up for herself in that town was probably quite the sight to him.

--

Her and Mama Wood ate their sandwiches.

Kellie was silent, her mother talked about her job at the department store in town. The clock chimed four times while they ate, and she talked. And while she slept, she thought about if that man knew she was from Night. Maybe he was getting tired of the dull life here and wanted some outside meat. Did they all know from her clothes? The bed wasn't the softest, but it let her dreams and thoughts go uninterrupted, much to her dismay. She thought a lot about Cameron. His sandy hair, streaks of white already appearing. Hazel eyes. What a catch.

8

Martin handed Cameron the long hunk of metal, and simply waited. Martin's mother had always told him that when handing over a gift to someone, to always let them speak next, because you have already said what you needed to with such an object. In this case, a short sword straight out of a King Arthur story. One that could be used to decapitate Medusa. To tear out Odin's eye.

Cameron wasn't thinking of politeness, just about the sword itself. "Um, you're giving me a sword."

"Yes!"

"May I ask why?"

"Well, when we visited, I realized that you didn't seem to have any protection in your house. I've always had a stash of swords, so I thought you could use one."

The word stash made him think that he was smuggling them like cocaine. A substance that he had probably only read about in books, or heard about in small talk along the pier when buying his swordfish. Cameron held it out, pretending to inspect it. "You are aware that Kellie can light someone on fire if they break in."

Shrugging it off, he picked up a book and propped it up on the counter. Fred K. Astaire Jr. had recently come out with a new book. It was called The Garden of Swellness. Cameron hated his work, reading it was like being laughed at.

--

Curfew was put into effect the day Kellie arrived, which was the best case scenario for the worst case scenario for them. She stopped by the Treematorium like she said she would, but not for long, bags under her eyes that could have been her carry-ons. It worried Cameron when she left, wondering if she would get home safe.

She did.

At around ten when he got home, she was fast asleep, naked and sprawled out over the entire bed, snoring loudly.

The night in Night, when she was in Chicane, thinking of any place else, another murder occurred in uptown. A body found in the middle of Settlers Park, the large thirty acre stretch of land in the rich bitch district, spotted with trees, streams, boulders, and statues of those the town wanted to immortalize. The body was found perched up next to the statue of Harris Folio, eye gouged out and arms all sliced open. Blood was purposely smeared over Harris's stiff stone face. Jon was the first one to hear about it in the small band of misfits, telling it to Martin before it became big news on the radio. His winery was one the edge of the park, and he eavesdropped on a few suits that were talking about the sight.

A few hours later, both the city council and the Night Knack Council decided it would be good to initiate a curfew of ten o'clock out on the city.

Since Kellie wasn't scheduled to work until Friday, she took it with a grain of salt.

And since Cameron didn't have to walk the streets after work, it didn't go to him as much either.

Although, it meant he probably wouldn't be getting his money from the Cottage man anytime soon, at least until the murders stopped.

The nights got quieter, no more Knacks and Jacks walking the street, lights flashing. It was quieter.

Kellie was quieter too.

She didn't tell him much about what happened at her mother's, only that a guy hit on her, and that she felt dead there. In her sleep she murmured something about a classroom, but everything else was hard to understand.

"Hey honey?"

He rolled over, the clock read 3:21 am.

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared to leave."

She didn't say anything more. She was talking in her sleep. Cameron could see her eyes shut tightly, and a frown on her face. He kept her close the rest of the night. Kurt stayed guard by the window, a place he wasn't seeming to want to leave ever since the curfew had been enacted. It worried the plant.

--

It snowed on Thanksgiving.

A breeze blew in during the night, bringing with it ice and water, mixing the two at some point and sprinkling itself over the city, coating the concrete and sharp metal buildings in white powder. The crime scene that was still in the park, surrounded in yellow tape, slowly became covered too.

By the time morning came around, Knacks and Jacks, humans alike, were walking the streets with their best snow umbrellas and fleece caps on.

Cameron stared out he window, gave Kurt some wine while Kellie wasn't looking, and drank tea as the snow fell outside their window. It felt soothing. Kellie would've called it a 'sprinkling of Zeus's dandruff'. That morning she slept in, and when she woke up, Kurt was still waiting by the window, and Cameron was at work.

Work was steady. Martin put out a mat for snow, and had the cold dust trapped in the fur of his legs for most of the day, having to go out every so often.

A man came up to the counter, wearing a thick coat, and holding a large stack of Mark Twain novels. His beard was thicker than his gut. "It's a cold one out there."

"It sure is." He scanned a book.

"It won't slow down those deaths. No no no, they'll keep happening, just you wait and see."

Kill me Martin. Use one of your swords and slit my throat.

Cameron smiled. "Is that so?"

"You know, I don't even think they're gonna catch anyone. I say the government is doing it. Human cops trying to start a race war with the Knacks. You know everyone that's been killed has been a human. That's just the start."

He scanned his copy of Huckleberry Finn, and suddenly preferred an alternate history where the man he was talking to was just racist. A vein was starting to grow in Cameron's forehead. He felt his fingers grow hot at the tips. "Uhuh sir." He leaned down to grab a bag from under the register.

"What do you think sunny jim?"

"I think," He said, putting them all together, "that you should stop spouting such stupid fucking nonsense to people. You'll scare them off."

Martin and another customer had to keep him from eating Cameron alive, and were able to push him out, watching him tumble onto the snowy sidewalk and quickly storm off with steam pouring from his ears and his nose. A paper-bag of Mark Twain books slew on the floor. The book store in a stunned silence for a good little bit. Cameron sat in Martin's office, staring at the floor quietly, bouncing his knee.

"Hey Cameron."

He looked up. It was dark out all of the sudden. He had heard Martin's hooves before he even arrived, and didn't bother looking up. "Hey Martin."

He pulled out a chair and sat down, it creaked. "You wanna tell me about what happened back there."

"I didn't mean to snap at him."

"I know you didn't Cameron. He was a hot head anyways."

"I didn't mean-"

He felt an arm around his shoulder. "It's okay kiddo. Things happen. It's been a weird week." Cameron looked up to see his smile, and couldn't help but give one back. "Yeah. Yeah."

"I can close up tonight, you should get home to Kellie. It's Thanksgiving after all." He felt cold, stiff and stuck in that stuffy office tucked into the store. Maybe a walk would be good, and so would a dinner.

"Okay old man."

"Old man, huh?" He laughed, and slapped him upside the head. They hugged, and for a minute, Cameron thought he was hugging his father.

--

He walked home in the snow. Half way home, he started to smile, and then began thinking about Zane and what he was up to around this time. If his wife had kicked him out yet. Or vice versa.

--

"You're home early."

Kellie was sitting by the window, curled up next to Kurt, reading an R. W. Emerson book. She was still wearing her pajamas as Cameron came in, dropping off his satchel with a similar expression of slight grief coating his face. He gave her a kiss, her mouth tasting like peppermint tea. "Yeah, we had a little incident at the store. Martin said I could come home early, cool down."

"Oh no, what happened?"

"I got a little snippy at a customer." He hung his thick wool coat on the coat rack next to Kellie's denim and fleece jacket. His paddy cap and her ushanka. "Had to sit it out for a little bit." He said that, but still felt like he could've sat for a little longer. His arms shaking.

Kellie got up, her legs seeming stiff from sitting there all day, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Geez, you're getting a little fat."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep." She bit her lip.

"You wanna get some food first?"

"What place is open on Thanksgiving?"

"Honey we live in the city."

Kurt ruffled, and slapped Cameron on the head with a vine. While he was distracted, Kellie threw Cameron to the bed with the most strength she had shown in a little bit.

They had sex, fast but sweet, and laid naked on the bed. Neither of them were too in the mood for it, but they believed that the other one wanted it. The ceiling's spots of plaster looked like stars in the fluorescent moonlight of the streets. He felt uncomfortable in the silence. Not hearing the liveliness of the city. His eyes were glued out the window, the lights in the apartment off. It was only 8pm.

And when he remembered having to go get food. They might as well have gotten at least pizza, anything that could fit the occasion of giving thanks, or whatever the holiday was all about. They just used it as an excuse to go into food comas.

He felt fine.

He felt fine. His hands still shook.

Before he left, he grabbed the radio.

--

". . .I know it's a little scary out there folks, I'm scared too thinking about the recent events in our downtown city, but rest assured, things will look up. They always do in Night. And on his beautiful holiday, one that I am spending with my family right now as this recording goes out to you, I wish you. . ."

No one was on the streets.

Cameron didn't like it.

He could see the shapes of people in warm light through windows thirty stories up, carving turkeys and eating yams, cars driving quickly down the street to get home before the curfew started, but that was it. He was the only one out on the city.

His feet and hands were cold, snow crunching under his feet. Someone was out in the city, doing things, and he had the license to stop it if he saw it but not if he was the one it was being done to.

It just didn't make sense.

Human cops tying to start a race war with the Knacks.

There wasn't any way he could make sense of it.

The theater was what he thought would make the most sense to him. He was there when it happened. And he was pretty positive that he saw the man. The body at the bottom of the auditorium that he made a joke about, while it sat there lifelessly. And now he found himself outside, for no reason but for tradition. Windows stretching down the street, with lights on. People in them. Blocks were crossed, and the same image was there. Coins jingled in his pocket. And jazz and rock music played from the radio.

It came to him about halfway down third street, he didn't know what place he was going to. For about half an hour he was just walking aimlessly, wearing a dark red trench coat just waiting to be noticed by some man brandishing a long switchblade. Assessing his location, he decided to head to Heb's.

Better sooner, rather than later.

He was a hot-head anyways.

A headache was starting to form in the front of his head. He could hear Kellie telling him to take some aspirin, lie down and drink some water. But he just wanted donuts. Little rings of dough slathered in a sugary icing, sometimes chocolate, and sometimes apple. Then while in a state of uphoria, he'd remember how his mother would bring home a box of apple fritters, and watch with a smile as he ate up.

Heb's Donut Hole.

--

No one was in the store except for the old woman at the register, reading a Playgirl lackadaisically. Even when he entered, and she shot him a side glare, she kept reading. "You here for a dozen or more, kid?"

He looked at the menu. The place was slick and angular, kind of like a restaurant in Tomorrowland. All the colors light pastels, the lady's uniform completely white with a long pink stripe going along the left side of each part of the costume. It smelled of diabetes, his father's words once upon a time. In other words, it was sweet.

"Two dozen."

He choose a dozen glazed, three chocolate, three apple fritters, three blueberry cake, and three maple bars. His eyes stayed on the windows. The lights made it hard to see out onto the streets. Anytime a car drove by, he felt himself jump.

Once he payed, he watched the woman sit back down on her invisible chair and go back to reading her magazine. "Are you uh- going back home tonight?"

She flipped a page. "Nah, it's all nonsense anyways."

The bell rang as he went back out into the dark.

He was gonna go straight home. He was man enough to admit that he was terrified to be out in such an empty city, but then he heard a noise.

--

On a Wednesday in a previous year from the present one, The Treematorium's door rang it's rusted bell, soon to be fixed, and in came a woman that was just starting her second year working for a Jack selling eyes of newt as well as sticks of gum in the same shop. The smell of an antique leather book hit her, a slick shine of varnish burning her nostrils next.

Kellie dropped off her books at the register. Elle had been pestering her for months to read some things, anything, and today was a to-do list day. The only day in the past month that she had decided to take work off. Her hair probably looked like a mess, her makeup probably smeared, but her hands looked pretty that day in her eyes.

The man at the register scanned them through, and bagged them, smiling at her. "You know, we have quite a few philosophy books better than this that I'd recommend if you ever want to check some stuff out."

"Yeah? My boss recommend these to me, said they were pretty good."

"Everyone has their taste I guess." He said, relaxed.

He handed the back out to her, and she gave a silent, thank you.

Then she hesitated. Maybe it was the smell of varnish making her lightheaded. It had been a hot spring day, and she had already been feeling the early stages of heat stroke. A thick layer of sweat on her forehead and in her long red hair. "I mean you could still show me those books, if you'd like to."

The man's face lit up.

He must've really liked books.

She held out her hand, a ring was on half her fingers. "Kellie."

He forced himself to exit the trance she had put him in and chuckled, shaking her hand. "Cameron."

--

Parkinson's station shut off at curfew that night, and a cold sense of dread washed over the man that was holding two boxes of donuts in his hands and walking by the large Birthday Jamboree building, as quiet as it had ever been. It didn't seem like much time had passed, he had left at around 8pm, but now it seemed that the world decided it was already ten.

He switched the station on the radio, and was met with static on each one available. It made him uneasy. He ate a glazed donut to soothe the nerves.

It melted in his mouth. He looked around for people.

Last Thanksgiving, the two had spent it with Elle and Gertrude, eating a ham and steamed potatoes out on the buildings backyard balcony, surrounded by her other plants. Richard, Shiloh, Bella, her umbrella plant, Phil, Connor and Terry and Chad and Brad, Steve, Cassie, Bobby, Janet, and Baby Kurt that hung around the cabinets where she kept her herbal teas. It was nice, nicer than they expected. When Cameron was told that they were invited, he felt uneasy about it, but had a good time. No drinking required. No donuts required. He ate another, feeling his knuckles get dry.

He heard another tune and kept walking.

The theater would be a nice place to go, wouldn't it Cameron?

He stopped, his feet on the corner of Valarie Avenue.

On his hip hung the radio, under his trench coat, and over his faded jeans. And over in the city, he heard the saxophone playing.

Thanksgiving smells, and jazzy noises.

His face was frozen. It felt like his heart had stopped, and he started running fast, the donuts in his hands tight against his side. The radio smacking into his thigh. He didn't think. Just ran. Like a dog after a rabbit.

It got louder.

He turned a corner as it turned, he sped up as it slowed down, he sped up when it sped up, he smiled when a note was raised and he kept his feet smacking the asphalt. He wasn't even worried about cars anymore, running right in the middle of the road. He smiled. Cameron smiled loud.

Elsewhere in the city, Zane ate turkey from a can in a motel room.

Martin and Jon had a late-night feast of meats and cheeses, breads and veggies, sitting around lit candles.

Elle watered her plants and ate a bag of rye chips.

Cameron ran with donuts in his hand and smiled.

He turned another corner. His tennis shoes squeaked.

The saxophone music, the half elf Knack playing it with so much passion nearing. Alleys surrounded and towered over him as he ran through, dodging bags of trash and puddles, trying his best not to slip on the ice or piles of snow everywhere. The lack of homeless was both good, but unnerving. The thought came and went.

A young couple walked along the side of Settlers Park, holding hands, coming back from dinner at Gino's Italian Bar.

A man brandishing a switchblade and a crowbar walked the street, and stopped once he saw the opaque door with a heron on the front of it.

Time passed like an hourglass.

Meanwhile in Settlers Park, as that young couple walked by, keeping their distance, Watanabi and three other detectives sat under the white tent, looking at the statue that was completely cleaned off of any snow. They all had celebrated the holiday early in the day. Now they were standing in a spot where a Night Knack Council member took their last breath. Watanabi took a drag from his tobacco stick, one talked with a forensic expert, and the other read the forensic experts minds slowly to make sure they weren't unsure or lying about any of the info they were sharing. All three of them were nervous, seeing the fourth murder in the past month, and kept silent as much as possible. Watanabi had recently broke his pipe, and was having to resort to archaic methods of relief. The forensic expert finished giving info, and they all corresponded right after. Something was amuck out in the city, they all felt it in their chalky old bones.

Up in east end, near the shore and near the bridge's to Dawn, where Watanabi had been stationed ever since the second death in the movie theater, people had begin talking about what it was all about, and with more passion than usual. When there was traffic, people would lean out of their cars or taxis and scream 'Do we have another Knack dead ladies and gentlemen?' There'd be clapping, chanting, the stomping of feet as dozens of Night citizens spoke in unison against something they didn't know.

Watanabi heard it, but he knew just as much.

They stared out the tent through the trees and trails at the lit up buildings, and for a moment their eyes crossed paths with the shape of Cameron as he hopped from sidewalk to sidewalk, after the music.

He ran until it stopped.

Which it did.

Abruptly and loudly.

Cameron was panting, chocolate and glazed smeared all about on the sides of the boxes, squished and nearly destroyed. But all accounted for. He leaned to catch his breath and swore to himself. He had run in basically a large circle, and was just a block down from where he had first heard the music. Am I being messed with? This the Mark Twain guy?

It didn't matter. He threw up the donut he ate on the side of a tree, it looked like rice, stringy and orange. No more music was playing. He'd lost her again. All over again.

He kicked the tree and reeled back in pain.

What is wrong with me?

--

Shattered glass.

A broken bird.

And the light of a lamppost.

Cameron came limping toward his apartment, and stopped at that exact sight. The door to his office completely broken, smacked and shattered, glass all over the ground. It crunched underneath his feet. Almost immediately, he ran inside, and threw the donuts onto his desk, pulling out the pocket knife from his pocket. There weren't any foot prints, and there wasn't any noise. The stairway up to the apartment was silent, and dark, the door slightly open, with still no light escaping.

Either the man upstairs was someone using the curfew to their advantage, going into try and steal from a place that you couldn't really steal from, or a person he knew.

Zane.

Mark Twain guy.

Cottage Apartments guy.

Zane's wife.

Both of his shoes came off quietly, and he inched himself up the stairs softly, making as little noise as possible.

Along the walls, he looked for scratch marks, or mud that had tracked in, or water from the snow, and it was all completely clear of anything. The person knew what they were doing, which scared him even more. The door at the top of the stairs getting closer, and the sound of breathing hitting his ears. Whether it was his or someone else's, he did not know.

("Why are you calling around here? Didn't you get the message when we kicked your lazy ass out of the house? You're fucking lucky we let you take anything with you, retard.")

The door creaked. In the back of his mind, he thought about how much he wished he had fixed it, but on the outside the noise meant action, so he jumped in quickly, and was met with. . .

A dirty apartment.

The mattress was half off the bed, glass and dishes were on the floor in pieces, and wine was spilled by the window. Kurt was above it, holding in his vines a man that looked unconscious. The window behind had a spiderweb crack in it, but it wasn't broken.

Kellie was sitting in a chair by the fridge, drinking a cup of water, and shaking. A flame was shooting from her finger.

--

"I was lying in bed when I heard some glass downstairs break. I immediately thought something bad had happened, and got out of bed slowly. I'm uh-I'm a Knack, I can control fire, so I held out my hand and was going to use it to threaten someone. My first thought was that someone had broken in. Yet, I, I didn't even think about locking the door, and then the man came in. Shock got the better of me, and he smacked my arm with the crowbar he had, knocking me to the bed and onto the ground. I knew right away my arm was broken. I tried to get up, and I saw him coming towards me, he threw up the dining room table, and was coming towards me. And then, well, Kurt grabbed him and threw him to the ground. He was out instantly. I laid there for a little bit, and then well, my boyfriend Cameron came. . ."

An ambulance and cop car came right away. Watanabi had heard the call and headed over, taking the opportunity to get away from the heavy work, and work on something else for the rest of the night. No major injuries except for a broken wrist for Kellie and a heavy dose of shock.

Cameron and Watanabi traded eye contact, but didn't say anything. It made Cameron jump though.

The lovely couple stayed with each other in the back of the ambulance all the way to the hospital, eating the smeared donuts that neither of them even noticed. Eating almost all of the glazed, Cameron commented and they had the first laugh of the night.

"You're fingers are so sticky."

"You're the one who got donuts."

"It was the closest place."

"Hey you're the one complaining." She snickered and laid her head on his shoulder. "What should we do about the door?"

"Well considering I'm probably no longer a PI, we can just get a glass one, use the office for storage or something."

She looked up, puzzled, eating another donut. "What do you mean?"

"Try being a PI at place that's been robbed."

"Nah, it'll be fine. And the guy didn't rob us. He attempted to, but that's it." He combed her hair, and looked at her quietly. A trembling wave was moving over her body. Even her words seemed out of sync. The cold air chapping her lips, as siren lights hit her with no effect. One of the paramedics came around to say they were going to head to the hospital, and shut the door, Cameron was to ride with them. None of them even mentioned him being out after curfew.

The empty streets helped out. And Cameron kept staring out the small back door windows. He marked it off as just nerves. The kind you got from going swimming at an unpopulated beach.

"How's your arm, hon?"

"Hurts like a bitch."

He chuckled, the night starting to take a toll on him. "You've had such a shitty week. Wanna do something tomorrow?"

"I mean I've gotta work tomorrow and Saturday."

The notion that Elle would still make her work fresh out of the hospital wasn't surprising, but it was still annoying. "Well I'll still be thinking of things we can do, I mean--"

Up front in the ambulance, the two medics drove in silence, listening in on the two in the back and smiling to themselves. The drive was smooth sailing, but Night was complicated at night, when people tried to mess with how it worked. So, as they crossed 18th street, the one behind the wheel slammed on the breaks, at the sight of a body in the road, right in their headlights. The van swerved, everyone inside gripping hard onto something stationary. And then they were still. The air outside was mute and uncolored, and the body was right there, mangled and torn open.

A shiny, and large, object by their side.

One ear, round. The other ear, long and pointed.

Part 2: Apple Cider

9

On the other side of town, an alarm rang in the form of a phone, and Martin was up quickly to answer it. He was quite a light sleeper but was always excellently rested when he went to work. Jon was on his side behind him, only half covered in the lamp light, half-awake. Martin kept his words down to whispers.

"Hello?" He wiped his face. The clock read 3:21 am.

Someone spoke on the other end. Jon turned over in a daze, listening to Martin as he responded. His face slowly dropping more and more. He asked if the curfew would affect him, and the voice on the other end said it wouldn't. No one would be after them. He ended with, "I'll see you in twenty", and the phone clicked. And like that, he was up, nearly knocking his copy of Dune off the nightstand, and grabbing a flannel off of their reading nook. It was a set of chairs that resided against a large bay window that looked into the courtyard of their apartment complex. All they really saw were clotheslines and small gardens a few stories below.

Jon wiped his face next. "Who was it?"

"It was Cameron. Something happened. They need someone to pick them up."

"When you say them, I assume you mean Kellie was involved."

"Yeah. She was involved."

"I'll go get the keys." His beard was in tangles, so he smoothed out as best he could. Under his lamp was a small travel comb he always kept, but he forgot he had it in that moment.

Martin didn't say anything, he kept getting dressed. Jon just stayed in his pajamas, a tank-top and sweats.

Keys jingled in his hand while he went down to the garage.

They sounded like coins. A half dollar and dime to be exact.

--

People were too afraid to come outside and see what the screams were, let alone when the police had finally shown up. The ambulance was long gone, already at the hospital and beyond. No one was on balconies in robes, looking down on the spectacle. No one was peaking outside their doors. A curfew meant you do not leave your home, no matter what. If there was a fire, put ice in your tea. Only clean up crews allowed.

All three detectives inspecting the statue were there for that too. Standing around it like the killers of Caesar, only with clean hands. Clean shaking hands.

Five kills meant that they could check off a few more boxes.

None of them wanted to, but they did.

Watanabi left first, taking his Buick back to the station without a word. The detective that could read minds knew that he was wanting to go home and hire a prostitute. Watanabi knew he saw that, but didn't care.

The drive back to the station was painful, Frank Sinatra played on the radio through static. His mouth felt dry, his missing pipe making a clear mark on his mind. Maybe he was an addict, maybe the smoked wool he would buy was full of trace chemicals, and maybe, just maybe, it was the only thing that soothed his tense muscles. The neon sign to the police department came peeking up around the corner, and made him remember that wasn't allowed to be calm, and turned the Sinatra off, just listening to the tires run through the slush, and his engine purr. The neon got brighter, and his shoulders got more stiff.

Five kills, how's that Chief?

Not good, not good. You okay to work for the next two days straight?

On the murders?

No, on some old Knack that fucks altar girls.

A heavy sigh, it tasted like copper.

Pulling into the parking lot took a lot of force, staring at the only cruiser left, the red and blue glass catching his headlights. The chief was already inside behind his big wooden behemoth of a desk, probably eating some peppermint sticks, and watching the Phantom Fist TV show. Watanabi could smell the room, and feel the energy. He was going to be taken off the case, he knew it was coming. A Knack war could come, his words. If the seven-foot two detective was on the case, then letters would be sent, people would be suspicious, or some phony bullshit.

The door clicked, and he slung his feet out, his knees touching his chin. The cold bit at everything that his mustache didn't touch on his face. A furry caterpillar, according to a child he once met at the park while eating lunch.

A dirty Sanchez to some around the office.

And a hot slug to his wife, whatever that meant.

Across the street, a bright neon sign screaming, THE DREAMS CLUB, looked at him and outstretched a finger for him to come indulge. A little Knack action.

A Knack war could come.

"What the fuck does he know?"

Slowly, Watanabi got up and went to face his fate with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Would that PI have taken such a task with this much enthusiasm? Well, that guy didn't have a .38 on his waist to blow his brains out if the going got rough.

--

Jon turned on the radio, their cassette of David Bowie played quietly under the noise of the Volvo driving slowly through the empty city. While they knew they were okay, Cameron confirming so, he still took the back roads that lined behind buildings and along parking lots and fences. No one was out, not even the police, the curfew seeming to only be a threat but there they still were. Martin was breathing lightly in the seat, Jon could see he was upset, fiddling with his fingers, but they stayed quiet. No topic of conversation was needed just yet.

The car drove past Night's Baseball Stadium.

They passed Opal's Book Store, a competitor.

Night Middle School, three blocks from the park.

The old hospital that was shut down due to fraud.

And then they arrived at the new hospital, bright and shining. Unlike the other one that was slimy and covered in muck. Vines protruding from windows and coating it like clothes. A place full of essential workers, how quaint. They parked the car in the back and waited, neither knew why.

"Are they hurt?"

"Kellie is, but not bad."

"How much did they tell you?"

He watched his boyfriend of ten years wipe his face, and look at the dashboard with an empty expression. "Nothing Thanksgiving related, that's for sure."

He snickered.

"When should we go in?"

"At any point. I just need to stretch my jaw muscles real quick before putting on grandpa face." He looked over at Jon with a smile, and started doing just that, as the cassette kept playing. The cop cars outside the EMERGENCY door somehow made Jon feel more at ease. He started a current of the heater, and started counting down from five minutes in his head.

Neither of them wanted to have a reason to go in.

--

"You're off the case, Junji."

"Is Holland off of it too?"

"Yep." He took a sip of his black coffee, holding it with both hands close. He had bony fingers.

"What about Quinn?"

"Everyone in your squad is off the case. I told you before, having any Knacks at all on the case could make it bigger than what it should be." The sound of the TV made Watanabi take his words less seriously. Inside, he felt a bonfire fuming, and on the outside he stayed, his neck craned down so he could fit in the room.

"Mhmm."

"I'd really rather not, but you know the drill."

"Who's going to be on the case?"

"Stone and Silver."

The names made him cringe. He could picture both of them boozed out of their minds, sitting in a car behind a billboard on the outskirts of town, pretending to watch the streets as they just listened to the radio and slept. The chief ironically picked at his teeth with his dirty fingernails, the polka dot tie not helping the image at all. It was like he wanted to be noticed. "Okay."

He cleared his throat, and pulled out a folder from his desk's drawer. One of about fifteen. "I'm gonna be putting you on the Sabbath case. I've been told the mob isn't too happy about the curfew so they're a little rowdy." Maybe I should've gone to Dreams instead of this pony show. He nodded and let him keep talking, a crick forming in his neck.

"Dismissed detective."

Scratch that.

Back in the parking lot, he stared at nothing and seethed. Christmas was soon to come, and with that, more travelers. More people with red targets on their back. Cold temperatures meant slower movement from both cars and people, tenser souls. It wasn't the fact that he was kicked off the case; if that was what happened he would've gotten Quinn or Holland to help him out with sending over information. It was that they were all off.

He needed a drink.

Not a bourbon, not rum, but a glass of pure cured bean juice.

Coffee.

Watanabi was already half way home, tasting the black drink running down his throat when he got a call over the radio, the screeching static cleaning itself and morphing into York, the mind-reader, saying, "We've got a witness at the hospital. An old homeless guy. He saw this one. Get your ass down here mustache."

Might as well finish up the night before leaving the case.

--

While Elle didn't get a call, she still woke up from a dream, that turned into a stranger dream half way through, to the realization that something had happened to her.

She was in her bed, surrounded by trinkets and bottled herbs, snug in her two quilts, dreaming of a Sunday afternoon.

This Sunday afternoon was in 1973, in the town of Chichester, England. Heat was booming down. Pedestrians walked by with it seeming not to effect them at all. Maybe she had been to used to it being at least a little cold in August when still living in Night. At that time in her life, she was running a flower stand in the town square, her hair a big curly mess, usually held back with a band, and that was about it. The person that hired her didn't know she was a Knack, nor a Jack, and she used that to her advantage. The dream was all about that normal day in time, during the year she spent in Europe, exploring it as much as she could before going back to the Cupboard, her mother's shop, in the city. It made her laugh how she had spent her vacation, a time to get away from work, working. Gertrude heard as she chuckled lightly in her sleep.

The stranger dream was right after that, and could even be considered the same dream. She was still at the flower stand, sitting on a stool behind an array of orchids and daisies, and in front of a cobblestone building in Market Cross. Night was starting to fall, most people going home, but she still had another hour left on her "shift", so she stayed, bored, thankful of the heat having left. Since she looked sound asleep, Gertrude got up and crawled onto Elle's chest, laying down to sleep. She conjured up an apple and laid there relaxed, waiting for something to happen. And then she did see someone.

Off in the distance, shoes clicked.

The cobblestone echoing the sound.

She finished her apple quickly, nearly choking, and then got rid of the evidence, seeing as the figure emerged from the shadows. The figure waved at her, and said, hello, to which she responded back. She had no recollection of this ever having happened in real life. When she went to ask the figure if they wanted any flowers, they were suddenly gone, and she found herself staring at a body in the middle of Market Cross, torn and stretched out. Blood coated their face, their hair, their clothes. It was a person she didn't know yet. Her mind was still trapped in the past, but it was someone that she was going to meet. Her hair long and red. And on her neck, she saw two gaping holes, oozing blood.

And then she woke up.

Gertrude flew off in a hurry as Elle jumped up from the bed, panting, and immediately pushing herself out of the sheets. Her plants all looked in confusion. The old woman usually had spunk, but this was unbelievable.

On the wall, her cuckoo clock read 3:21 am.

Somewhere a phone was ringing, as she stood on the other end, impatient. There was a buzzing in her bones. Across the room, the woman with the holes in her neck stared at her with a smile, motioning for her to come her way. The swede chair she sat in slowly soaking up the blood.

No one answered, so she called again. Five of her rings glistened, and a monsoon appeared in her irises. The woman stayed put in the chair, contemplating if she should start making some tea for herself. Baby Kurt stayed watching her in case she decided to.

--

The saxophone came to a screeching stop, and Dustin O'Sullivan woke up suddenly, the thermos of once hot coffee stumbling out of his jacket and falling to the cement, splashing all over the ground and the newspapers he had kept over him. The makeshift pillow he had was made out of the crossword sections from the last fifty or so issues of The City Times, the sports and real estate sections were his blankets. His mother had drilled into his head as a child, that if he slept around books that he'd absorb their knowledge better if he slept on them. It had been a long time since she had said that.

He barely noticed the spill, and instead jumped in surprise, hearing a muffled scream follow.

In the years, his vision had mostly gone. He always contemplated going full out beggar, holding a sign on his chest that said BLIND, and seeing how much extra coin he'd get. His beard was long and gray, and he lived in the alley beside an apartment building. It seemed fitting. At first he thought the scuffle happening was an instance of sexual assault, something he'd seen one too many times. So he tucked himself deeper against the brick wall behind him, as to not be seen. It would only mean trouble. The minute the police found out there was a black man, let alone a Knack, on the streets, he wouldn't be able to walk them ever again in his life. There were only noises, he didn't listen. But then they kept going, and hers stopped. He didn't dare look down the alley to see what was happening. But the killer did. They looked right at Dustin. His dirty shape.

Then they were in front of him.

And whispered something.

Something devious, their mouth still dripping blood.

--

Jon and Martin came through the double doors, one of them regretting not wearing anything but his tank top but just ignoring it and immediately looking around the waiting room for the two people that had called them over for a ride. It took them a minute, but they found them in the back.

Next to a few bright vending machines that needed to be restocked.

Kellie was wearing a brace on her rest, and Cameron was hunched over with his trench coat balled up in his lap, listening to the saxophone music in his head.

Both of his eyes were swollen.

And both of them were quiet, still taking in the view from the road.

"You guys okay?"

Kellie looked up, Cameron didn't.

"You look tired." She said with a half smile.

He gave a full one. "I am. You look beat to hell."

"We got robbed and saw a dead body, I really am."

Cameron still stayed quiet.

--

In shotgun, sat Kellie. In the driver's seat, was Jon. And in the back seat, was Martin and Cameron. One more talkative than the other. But they still all drove in silence, blue grass playing over the radio.

To Cameron, the road was always going to be unsafe to him now, so he stayed looking at the floor, still clutching his coat. He felt sick. Not a sickness coating his stomach trying to escape, but a sickness that would poke his back from the desk behind him in the classroom. And the girl poking his back was the half-elf, covered in blood, her saxophone slung over her back. He just wanted some peace and quiet, and yet she remained, more than she had for the weeks in between her existence to him and her death. When they were in the back of the ambulance, he felt himself inside of the theater. He was watching C. Thomas Howell perform, and no one else was in the audience. All the velvet cushioned seats empty, still smelling of corn syrup and buttered popcorn. The man in the custom shirt, however, was sat right next to him, eating licorice and laughing at the screen. The same feeling of helplessness washed over him. His hands didn't feel clean. Was this why the music stopped? He had heard it, her saxophone, her joyous music, and couldn't reach her in time to stop what had happened. He was too slow. His feet too raw and soft. And he wasn't at the apartment to stop Kellie from getting hurt either.

The car stopped.

Gas guzzled, and painted itself into the air. They were all quiet, Martin had given his flannel to Jon, which barely fit, and the broken glass to the office crunched under their tires.

Such quiet contemplation.

"Shit kiddo, why don't you stay at our place tonight? Can't have you sleeping in a place without a door."

"It's okay, we have another one, Martin." Kellie replied. Her words were breathy, exhausted.

Jon looked at Cameron with worried eyes.

"We've got a guest room-"

His hair flew back as he reentered the world of the living, his eyes still red and sore. "You should go back with them Kellie. Stay there the night. It's closer to the Cupboard anyway. I can make some phone calls and stuff, handle all the stuff that's happening here."

She looked at him, the same eyes as Jon, but yellow.

"You'd have to come with, hon."

"I'll be there in a jiffy." He gave a smile, one Kellie didn't like to see, but she understood it. A smile that held back words. She leaned over the seat and kissed him. "I'm gonna grab my toothbrush and some other crap."

She did.

And Cameron watched from the curb as she left, the wind biting his arms, as they stared at each other, before the Volvo puttered off. Somewhere into the dark, turning a corner, and once again leaving him in the dark under nothing but one lamp post, the steel frame of it able to keep his tongue stuck cold.

Piles of snow on the street, illuminated.

"Hey, father."

Whether it was the killer, a voice in his head, or an old friend, he didn't react. Cameron stayed still, looking at where the car once was. So, the person continued talking, and walked closer. Their shadow was tall. "How many cases do you have open?"

10

No one saw the tall detective as he entered the hospital. Cameron and Kellie were looking at the ground, and the woman in overalls behind the counter had her eyes glued to a book all about shoe design. Her father was a cobbler and it seemed that she was going to have to take over the shop instead of being a receptionist, to her dismay. As she flipped a page, Watanabi threw his cured sunflower cigarette into a metal bin near the leaky water fountain in the waiting area.

His eyes caught onto some wet tracks, and followed them to the third floor, and down a hall, two police officers standing guard in the dimly lit hall, while voices left the door.

If it were a cartoon, smoke clouds would be leaving the door.

"We can act like carpenters if you'd like." He heard a voice say. Followed up quickly by, "Watanabi is here." Holland, once again, killing it in the field of disrespecting privacy.

He waved his badge and walked in.

"You know Holland, I don't appreciate you reading my mind."

"Can't help it."

"We all know you can."

Quinn snickered. "Missed you, mustache."

"It's been an hour."

The two of them were standing on opposite sides of a bed, both holding ashes in their hands from cigarettes that had died and been forgotten like all others. A single lamp was on with orange light. On the bed was a man in rags, layers of winter coats, all of his hair gray and patchy. A common city beggar for sure. Watanabi stood at the end, grateful that the ceiling was tall, letting him stand straight. "Who's this?"

The man didn't say anything,

"Dustin O'Sullivan, he saw the woman's death." Quinn said.

Laughing, York leaned down to the man. "You wanna tell the man what they told you?"

The man didn't say anything, making the two smile.

"Hear that, the old man is quite the talker. A black Knack in the streets." They gave gross chuckles, Watanabi stayed standing. "Can you not read his mind?"

"I can."

"And?"

"It's a heavy load bud." He patted his shoulder.

Once again, there was that coffee craving, burning his tongue in a satisfying manner. The man looked parched, hungry, tired, all of the above. He looked up at the tall detective, a sort of child like look in his eyes.

--

Mr. Coffee was picked up from the floor, and Cameron placed a large bowl underneath. The pot had broken, its pieces still on the floor upstairs. Kurt had begun sweeping up a little bit, but only as much as he could with the range of a plant. Deep down he genuinely appreciated it, but on the outside he just showed it by giving him some coffee once it was done. Lots of cream, lots of sugar.

Walking downstairs was slower for him, his knees felt heavy.

The detective was looking through the files on his desk, all the random newspaper clippings and photographs he had taken over the months. Running his hands along the some cabinets. Laughing to himself at the shabby little set up a small time private eye had. "I like your place."

Cameron sighed. "I brought coffee." Two Big Hug mugs were in his hand, steaming. "You take it black?"

"I'd take it dry at this point." It was then that he noticed how truly massive the man was, as his entire hand wrapped around the cup, taking it close to his face with both and taking in the smell. It made Cameron want to chuckle, but he instead just went and sat down at his desk, keeping his clothes tight. The broken window was priority number one.

"I've got some apple pie upstairs if you're hungry."

"Allergic."

"That's a shame."

"You wanna go get a coat?"

"No, no, it's covered in icing." Cameron sipped his coffee and fell into his chair, hunched over and out of breath. "What-um, what did you want to talk about?"

"I saw you earlier tonight."

"You did, I saw you too."

"Is your girlfriend upstairs sleeping? I know you went to the hospital." He laid the empty mug on the desk with a clink. That actually did make Cameron smile. "No, no she's staying at a close friend's home tonight. I'm only here to make a few calls, clean up, get everything ready, stupid stuff like that." Furrowing his eyebrow, Watanabi leaned forward. "How much do you know about the killings?"

In the doorway, Cameron saw the man in the custom shirt, he could've sworn his coffee was boiling in front of him still. And yet he took a sip, shivering. Words still hung in the air ungracefully. "Um, as much as the next guy."

"Well I do, I was the head detective on it."

"That so?"

"The mustache almost scared them off, but it's fine. The case has been somewhat of a clusterfuck, as talk radio tells. We had our fifth kill tonight-"

(John Coltrane's "Good Bait" was the last thing I heard her sing actually. Did you know that detective?)

"-and it was a doozy."

"Five kills means they're now a serial killer."

"Yep."

"How do you know that it's all from the same person."

"Same marks. Cuts along the arms and legs, the neck."

Another sip, his body heat was coming back, warming back as the hot joe washed down his body. "Can I ask what this has to do with me?"

The expression on Watanabe's face went from old detective, to excited father, like one that found out his kid wanted to pursue playing in the Red Sox one day. Cameron felt a cold tingle run up his neck. Watanabi fell back into the chair, his back straight, and smiled. "You're our best shot my friend." Pause. "Is there more coffee?"

"Yeah, upstairs. Why am I your best shot?"

"Cause you're in it."

"In what?"

"Enforcement, the realm of legality. I'm not allowed to work the case, but you are. Knacks can't work the case. You're not a knack, you're private enterprise."

The words bounced over him, and when they eventually hit the wall and came back to him, Cameron felt sick. His stomach retching again. "Wait, what?"

"You ever read Juniper's books?"

He had, but he didn't remember a single thing. The last time he read a page about criminal justice, Martin still had more dark hair than silver fox threads. What did this man want from him? There wasn't a reason to drag him into it. All they did was have a conversation in front of a church.

"Okay, Watanabi," he placed his mug on the desk, "You want to hire me? To, to track this case legally for you."

He gave him a curled smile. "You've got it. It wasn't too hard to decipher, but yes--"

"I'm in."

Who knows what to say after a deal is made?

In the end of the Great War, the agreement with the treaty took weeks, nearly months, of planning and discussing before coming down to a single thing. But the less people involved in a discussion, the quicker a compromise was found. Less muck and overgrowth covered it.

When those words were said, neither of them knew what to really do next. Cameron was mentally kicking himself already, his conscience kicking him for blurting out something so serious with no context. Watanabi laughed to himself, interested in the eagerness of the man. Maybe not the best detective, but at least he was determined. "That easy, huh?"

Cameron bit his tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cut you off."

"It's okay, but I think I ought to tell you what exactly we know first."

So he told him.

And he listened, while Watanabi let himself upstairs and fended off Kurt while getting his coffee.

Then they were back to sitting, in silent shared solitude.

Steam fogged up his glasses while he took a sip of his second cup of hot joe, and the man without a plan took in what he said.

The story of the homeless man that had talked face to face with the killer who told him to pass on a message to either the police or the press, whichever one came first. To a detective or Parkinson Talk Radio. To The City Newspaper or a man with an open carry license for his snub-nose. And then the message itself, which he told from a hospital bed to a seven foot detective.

And now to a six foot private eye, still on his first cup of coffee in a room with three walls.

One bit of information stuck out amongst the rest.

Vampire.

"He said that the killer was a vampire?"

"Yep. He saw the fangs, but then they doubled down when telling him that that was indeed what they were."

"Well, that definitely makes it easier. Not many vampires to interview."

"You'd be surprised."

"It's not a common knack."

"What knack is?"

He didn't respond to that, and just let Watanabi continue. "Regardless, we have that lead at least. And hey, you could be the face for all knacks in helping solve this string of murders. The one who provided safety to the city."

That was a joke that made him laugh out loud, rubbing his red nose. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm not saying that you have to, I just--"

"Bud, I already said I was in. I want to help you. I want--" to be helpful. But those words couldn't come out, and he just fell back into his chair and gave a smile. That was enough to get the message across for him. He finally finished his coffee after, and shook the man's hand. And deep down, regardless of any laws or precautions that are needed to make anything legal, he knew he'd be searching for them one way or another.

11

Parkinson started the morning with the news.

A serial killer had emerged.

Nothing else was said, the three men that interviewed Dustin had kept that news to themselves, and with the new man on the case. The man that listened to talk radio next to Kellie, in the guest room of Martin and Jon's home, hearing the details and feeling himself falling endlessly back into that deep dark pit he created the night before.

Kellie woke up and got a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and drank it in bed, still reeling a bit from the previous night. Jon and Martin had already gone to their respective jobs. It was only 8am.

They didn't say much.

He had a lot on his mind clearly, and felt that sharing it would be selfish. And in all honesty, he still didn't think she deserved to be next to him, still enjoying his shirtless company. The winter's cloudy sky out the window, twinkling dim sunlight onto the people below. Onto the city's gothic towers and cobblestone sidewalks. Somewhere, Cameron thought, a patch of blood was being power washed off of the road. Down on 18th street.

The bed had sheets with monkeys in cars on them.

Kellie thought about what sheets their kids would have.

Cameron thought about John Coltrane and blood.

"You okay honey?"

He sat up, hearing people on the sidewalk argue over who ordered an early morning pizza and who was going to pay for it. "No, not really."

She got closer to him, and handed him her cup, to which he took a sip, thinking back to Watanabi. "We need a new coffee pot at the apartment."

"It break?"

"Yeah."

She chuckled. "Well how about that. Notice anything else?"

The list they came down to for things that insurance could pay for, but probably wouldn't was: four ceramic plates, a Mr. Coffee machine, broken bay window, dented dining room table, and a few other things. He was tired when looking through it all, and only made one phone call to his lawyer, Dr. Robert Wordsworth in uptown Night. They were going to see if they could get the guy to pay for most of it. That notary was still pending. He eventually remembered that their quilt was torn, but by then, she had been off to work, leaving him only a kiss in her absence while he laid still.

--

As Kellie walked, she shook, keeping her eyes away from anyone else's until she reached the Cupboard. Snow was melting from the streets slowly, dripping into the gutter. The world seemed more dim to her, and she couldn't tell why. Christmas lights had already begun being strung up on buildings, trees were propped up, and Billie Holiday's Christmas album was already blasting from most car and hand-held radios.

Elle was nervously waiting at the counter, tapping her foot.

--

On the bar in Martin and Jon's kitchen, the one designed to look like a 1920s Italian Bistro, Cameron left a small note before leaving, going through their winter clothes for a minute before leaving, sliding the spare key into his pocket.

The note read:

Gonna borrow the car for the day.

As well as a coat. My trench coat isn't the best.

Thank you for everything.

-Cam

He stepped outside into the courtyard and took in the smell of the numerous gardens set up. A few men and women were tending to them, rusted trowels and hoes, planting primrose and pansies. All wearing coats and wool hats. Cameron waved at them as he passed, not really saying anything past, "Good morning", before turning back to the ground. I get to be helpful tonight.

The Volvo was parked in their paid garage, and sounded just like it always did, if not for a little delay, when Cameron started it up. Even inside, his breath was fogging up his view, and he wrapped himself tighter in the coat he borrowed, a denim fleece. Kellie owned one similar, which might have been why he took it, but at the time it just seemed to be the most warm.

Looking both ways, still a little shaky, he pulled out the car a few feet and then stopped. Sounds of the city got louder. He did it again, a few feet, and then stopped. And then harshly, he began slamming on the wheel and screaming out.

His hands mashed the horn, honking it ingloriously.

The car shook with his fast movements.

And snot ran from his nose, as he cried out, muffled screams stretching down the small side street.

When it seemed to have left his system, he pulled out all the way and started driving.

--

Outside the tall apartment building, once a factory that made bibles on one side and ballpoint pens on the other, Cameron parked the car and went to a door inside, and knocked lightly. The halls to the building all had faded and torn velvet carpets, and sconces made of copper. Most of the lights were barely on. It didn't seem like the most well to do place.

No one answered on the first knock, so he repeated.

And again.

Until he heard a flem filled voice yell out, "I'm fucking coming!"

He took a step back, and kept examining the halls, stains and marks alike, until the tumble was moved, and the door was pulled open, getting snagged on the metal chain. A woman peered out, her cigarette peered out further, and Cameron realized from the look of her face and outfit that she probably wasn't smoking wool or tobacco. Maybe he should've started with talking to the brother of the man in the custom shirt from the theater. Watanabi had brought him quite a few files to help get him jump started, and with everything new, it meant a lot more than just ink on paper. Although it did confuse Cameron why he said he wouldn't break the law, yet gave him documents that he probably wouldn't be allowed to have. Did that matter?

"Hi ma'am, I'm Cameron Heron, I'm an investigator looking into the death of your daughter." He said.

"Huh, like every other asshole in this town. I already gave my statement."

"Yes ma'am, you did, but--"

"Just ask the newspaper. They got every last drop of my caring out of me." She went to shut the door.

"Ma'am wait, please."

And then it was shut.

The mother of the first victim; not interested in talking. Noted. As were the details of her living situation. It was jotted down on his notepad, and tucked into his pocket, and he left feeling like a Jehovah's Witness in worse clothing. The itchy must inside the building gave his walk more speed.

Coins jingled like the season's bells.

While he was inside, a Salvation Army Santa Claus came out and was now holding a bell and a bucket outside the building. Cameron dug into his pocket of coins and dropped a dollar bill. "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas sunny boy!" Was the Santa's reply. He quickly started the car once he was inside, anxious for the heat. Up next was going to be the theater man's brother, the third victim. In the book of files came a somewhat laid out map. Names and roads to go with those names. He found the name, so he found the road, and knew exactly where to go. The Volvo was able to run perfectly fine once he was out, snowplows being the only thing that really slowed him down. Most people were at work or just staying inside, scared. Cameron half wanted to join them, listening to old 50s Christmas music on the radio, tinged with jazz and classical styles. Music his father would play when building wood sculptures in the dining room, or that Martin would be playing at the store up until the first flower bloomed. It gave him that sweet nostalgic feeling, making the Christmas season have much more life in it than most parts of the year did. It almost made the day seem a little bit better, less queasy, when he could realize that it was was the Long Winter.

He thought of Kellie almost the entire time.

Her sprained wrist.

The lack of control the robber brought her.

He slammed the break, almost hitting a messenger on a bicycle in front of him. A little too much time inside of his head other than on the road. When the light turned green, the bicycle moved, and then so did Cameron, heart racing.

Before he knew it, he saw houses and lawns, sprinklers and shiny cars, and was slowly breaking at the sight of a large tudor cottage covered in moss and surrounded in oak trees.

--

Kellie held Elle close, who decided to greet her with teary eyes once she walked inside, wrapping her brace over her shoulder and hugging tighter than she intended.

Once Elle calmed down, seeming broken down, Kellie made some tea and helped calm her down.

And then the Jack told the Knack about her dream.

Even the details that didn't come until hours later.

Kellie drank Earl Grey, and Elle had peppermint.

And then the second snow of the season start falling slowly outside in fat flakes.

--

"My brother?"

"Yes sir, Hunter T. Thompson."

"What about him?" The man's brother walked out of the kitchen where they had been standing, and took a sip of his Manhattan on the rocks. The house definitely seemed much more rustic from the outside. The walls were lined with wall lights and movie posters. A few of them signed. "Well, we found more evidence on the person that killed him, and just wanted to ask some follow up questions."

"Like?"

"Like, well," Stray away from topics. "Did he go to any shady places? I know he was a filmmaker. Were their times where maybe he partook in things?"

The brother laughed and fell onto his leather couch. A fireplace was crackling on the other side of the room, blocked in with cobblestone. "He never did drugs, that I knew of. Wasted? Sure. The man was basically a functioning alcoholic. A lot of people he liked did drugs. That counter top that you're leaning on has held more lines of cocaine than a Columbian's mustache." The remark made the brother laugh, while Cameron didn't react, and just looked at the granite top and then back to him. He was a strange man, he assumed he was buzzed. It was early, but a Manhattan was already in his hand when he knocked on the door, so it wouldn't be unsafe to assume.

Writing a note mentally, he followed him into the living room, a wall of glass behind the couch showing a lake. "He had a lot of people over?"

"Oh, always."

"Did he know the people?"

"Not always. Sometimes people would bring dates, friends, colleagues, it would usually depend. You want a drink?"

Cameron said no.

"Well, it was hard to know in all honesty. He knew a lot of people before he well, croaked. So, I wouldn't put it past him. Did you ever see that Cronenberg movie with Ingrid Bergman?"

Something about the way he rambled made Cameron uneasy, but he stayed listening, just looking around the house. "Yeah."

"Well, the producer for that movie he came over here all the time. I feel like he spent more time at that man's place than anywhere else. Some grape orchard on the other side of the lake. He didn't even live here, this is my place. But he likes to hang out here. It's quiet, away from people. Goes to show the connections you make, I guess."

"Apparently."

The brother took a sip of his Manhattan, more like a gulp.

Cameron was holding a Golden Globe in his hand when he asked him, "Did anything weird happen to him in the days leading up to his death?" He was okay with using such a strong word considering the man didn't seem to hold any deep emotions towards it. Odd. The place reeked of vinyl.

It took him a minute to think about it.

"He said he had a stalker."

And that was it.

Flipping through the files in his head, there wasn't a single mention of it, and yet the man seemed to just drop it on him like a sports highlight. He took another sip of his drink, and then it was empty, ice rocking at the bottom. Slowly, loudly. Clinking the new age glass. Cameron watched in a trance. "Stalker?"

"Oh yeah. He's had a ton over the years."

"Any worse than others?"

"I mean, it's not a lot to expect. Most go a little too far, and get arrested, that kind of thing."

"You ever see any?"

Like an open book, he talked about that easily.

Cameron didn't bother asking why he didn't tell the police that detail, because he assumed it didn't matter, or that he simply didn't care. His posture was too relaxed to talk to a detective investigating his brother's death. When they talked about the stalkers, he started at the beginning, in the 80s when he had his first big break in a Great War film, playing the guy that killed the Queen of England. A man saw him and was convinced he was his late grandfather reincarnated and would send him letters and eventually follow him to coffee shops and record stores that he'd frequently visit, until Hunter eventually contacted some people and got him treated. There were around three others, but the details were all about the same. They thought he was cute, and wanted to make babies with him, or adopt babies with him. By the time he was done, Cameron could see about an inch or two of snow outside, up against the windows on the flower boxes. The lake looked frigid, gray and lifeless.

". . .and then this one was about the same as all the others. He didn't talk about it much. He never saw who it was. He told me that most people in his line of work kind of gain a sixth sense with that kind of thing, that somebody is following you, and that's what he felt. A person in a hoodie was always behind him on the streets, that kind of thing. He never saw their face, never received any letters, he was just followed, until about a day before he died, when he noticed that a few days had gone by and there wasn't anybody." On the table beside the couch was a tray of assorted glass bottles of alcohol, he grabbed the rum.

Cameron refused a second time when he offered him a drink.

"So the stalker never did anything wild?"

"Stalking is wild, but no. They um, they just followed him."

"Is there anything else you think could help?"

"No sir."

"Positive?"

"Did I stutter?" He took another sip of his drink.

The book was now shut. A story book of some sensual fairy tale he didn't like reading about. Cameron found that to be a good place to stop the conversation. He wouldn't get anything else from him for now.

When he was back in his car, brushing snow off of Martin's coat, he took out his notepad and started writing down as much as he could remember. When working in the field, that was one thing Kellie suggested, to not ask anything when talking with the person directly. It would take away from the connection you want to build up for that twenty minute period. And he wanted to have some things to show Watanabi Junji, his new partner it seemed.

("First of all, don't call me Junji. The only person that calls me by my first name is my wife. Second of all, in terms of just what I want, I'd like to know as much as you know by the end of it. I understand if maybe something isn't fully fleshed out yet, but I've got your back. Any help. . .")

The tip of the pencil broke, he swore.

"Dammit." Like that.

He grabbed a pen and finished it.

And then drove, a location in mind.

Was this how the next few weeks or months would be?

--

After a long talk, the Cupboard opened up about two hours later than usual. While Kellie flipped the sign, her hands shook and she could hear the snoring of Elle upstairs. It had taken her a long time to get to sleep.

She thought about her dream.

The faceless killer.

A facade of darkness and blood.

A thought like that just made her feel cold, want to crawl into a quilt and snuggle with an angel until it all went away.

Luckily, no body came into the store that day except for someone that thought it was a tourist destination. They wore a hat that said I <3 NIGHT asked about t-shirts like they forgot they were in a city of people. She waved and drank another cup of tea, thinking about getting back home, and when they'd be able to join the apartment's walls again.

Then she thought about the dream again, and sat against the counter on the floor, counting the flower stems in the store.

--

Four months and two weeks from that day, the grape orchard would open back up for production. Most of the grapes produced were used in wine production, a lot helping Jon in his line of work, and a lot helping other people in their own places. Or just selling the grapes as their own. Ripe and sweet.

For now, it was a wasteland of snow.

Just for a few months though.

Cameron stood outside the rusted gate that led in, anyone from afar probably assuming that he was smoking with how much fog moved from his mouth. He despised the idea of smoking a pipe, or tobacco sticks, or anything in that realm of addiction through plant. So he hoped no one was looking at him for that reason, and several others. The old Victorian estate was far off into the property, past the gate, maybe after half a mile of the farmland which seemed to stretch over hills and small valleys for miles. Sticks outstretched with dead vines hung over them like old west barbed wire fences. Snow coated everything around. If he didn't know any better, Cameron would've thought it was a graveyard.

There was some life still, in that house across the acres, the color of a redwood and with patches of firelight coming through windows. He took his time getting there, opening the gate slowly, look around lackadaisically, and he drove with just enough force to get through the snow. Before he made it there, when in the driveway of Hunter S. Thompson's brother, chains were applied, just in case the roads were paved and icy. Luckily they were not.

Frank Sinatra tunes played over the radio.

It seemed that Parkinson had taken most of the day off.

The closer he got, the more he could smell the theater popcorn, and wondered in here were going to be a little bit more thoughtful than the man's brother.

Before he could think about the possibility that the people inside could be drunk or high or anything in between, a shotgun blast rang out in front of him, nearly making him swerve off the road, and he slammed his foot into the break at the sight of a woman with short hair and a ushanka holding a 12 gauge shotgun, pointed directly at the car. "Stop the car!"

I don't want to be here.

No arguments there. The chains screamed with the tires, and snow blew out and he came to a stop in the middle of the snow, the house still a good bit away. Did they hear the shotgun too? Would they be coming to check up?

She didn't even budge. And she didn't look like someone that Hunter's brother described, but who was he to say. Her hands were encased in fingerless gloves, and a scoped revolver hung from her hip, looking older than she did, which wasn't very. Cameron felt dumb for not thinking that at least someone would be a little suspicious of him showing up without at least a phone call.

Raising his hands, he motioned if he could step out of the car.

She nodded, stoic.

"Hey! My name is Cameron Heron, I'm an investigator. I just came to ask some questions."

"Do you know who owns this house?"

"No ma'am." It wasn't her.

She pushed the shotgun into her shoulder more and aimed. "Yeah, well we're gonna keep it that way. Private property bud."

Once upon a time, Cameron had a gun pointed at him in a similar manner. With the intent of killing if push came to shove. It was a big man holding a colt against his chest, one night when he was exploring the docks for evidence of fraud. They apparently didn't like that, and sent out a member from the mob to teach him what that meant. No harm was done, but it was talked about. He raised up his hands above his head. "I'm not here to cause trouble, I'm not armed."

She sneered. "Get off his property." His?

"Can I please just ask the owner some questions? I promise I won't be long."

"Give him a call and then maybe, but for now, it isn't happening." A fat snowflake landed on her eyelash, which she blinked off.

"Who would I call?"

"When you find out, I'll make sure he's listening."

"And who are you?"

"The one with the shotgun."

And that was that, he dropped his hands and she looked at him like he hit a baseball through her window. It seemed like a good place to end the day. A detective shouldn't be shaking on the job. He wanted tea.

--

He tried calling Watanabi and his wife answered. She sounded sweet and asked how his day was, which helped somewhat in getting the weight of the idea that someone pointed a shotgun at him. Apparently he'd be working on scouting jobs in Dawn most of the time. Cameron must have been mentioned to her considering it didn't take long for her understand their relationship. She told him that he was to come over the night after for dinner.

In the phone booth, he looked through the phone book for the name connected to the vineyard, and it wasn't listed. No ripped page. It didn't smell like gunpowder. It felt wrong to hit a dead end so quick, because he hadn't even hit one, he just found one on his way through examining a whole line of roads. There were still a few left. He kept forgetting, he had a detail above almost all. The killer was a vampire.

When would that be relevant?

Who knows? He put the book back on the stand and stared out, wondering if he could get lucky and just watch them kill somebody right then and there in front of him. He didn't want anyone to die, but at least then he'd know how many more were going to die.

Die, die, die.

Board game players are the only ones that should enjoy that word. A screw flew into the glass when he slammed the phone down, immediately feeling regret. She was a nice lady. He was just too angry.

The sun had set by the time he came home.

Martin and Jon were inside, making dinner.

Kellie had a lot to tell him. He wanted to listen. Forget about the later half of the day. He wasn't able to.

Outside, someone smoked a sunflower pipe, and watched the lights to the apartment turn off.

12

That night, four dreams were had in the loft with a French Bistro style bar. Two sets of two people, both in their respective beds.

In the bed that was overlooking the courtyard, where Mr. Miguel was smoking a cigarette so his wife wouldn't see, took place two dreams that both had to do with recent events in their lives. For Martin, his dream was a classic. He was in the wilderness, pine trees soaring up a few stories on his sides, while he drove down a dirt path in a Roadster, and listened to jazz music on the radio. Dirt flew up from the tires, but he still kept the windows open and felt that cool winter breeze hit him. The radio was on in the real world, and the window was cracked, but he sure wasn't in a car. The dream went on for days it seemed, his beard growing out to his chest, and the songs never repeating. Eventually, the Roadster ran out of gas, and he realized that he had been driving for months, and it only just then ran out. He got out and decided to walk the rest of the way, and saw a gas station, a Tom Thumb, poking out from the trees. There was a bicycle next to a pump being filled up. No cars. He went inside, and then woke up to the sound of gunfire.

Jon's mind had been on paprika, an ingredient he used too much of in dinner, and the winery. In his dream, he found himself in 1930s Italy, eating cured meats and white wine with an artist that was on the front lines of The Great War, but was discharged after losing his foot. Bombs exploded all around the city they were in, but they just talked about everything they could think of and enjoyed it. When the conversation drifted to the topic of the Reese disease, he woke up to the sound of gunfire.

Across the apartment, through the bathroom and office, there was the guest room: Kellie and Cameron slept in that one. The sheets had monkeys on them.

Their dreams weren't as complex.

Kellie dreamt of the robbery.

Cameron dreamt of the woman with the saxophone.

There was nothing else to them that they weren't already aware of.

And then they woke up to the sound of gunfire.

--

People piled out onto the sidewalks, in their pajamas and robes, and looked around for the gunfire, which they couldn't find. Cameron woke up in a cold sweat to the noise, and immediately made sure Kellie was okay, before meeting up with the other two in the hall and looking out.

Over the buildings, they could see flashes of light hitting the sky and then leaving.

For a moment, everyone forgot that a curfew was in effect.

An old man with four arms ate a bowl of popcorn. Cameron asked if he could some and he happily obliged.

The gunfire went on for about an hour, and by then, the sun was already starting to rise, and the police had been making their own noise over yonder.

--

"How does this look?"

Kellie was standing next to a wooden table, attracting Cameron's view as he was looking over used coffee machines. Most of them were sticky and a gross velvet color. The table looked just as archaic, and seemed to match the color scheme to the second hand store almost perfectly. He said it looked good, and she marked it off in her notebook. It was only twenty-five bucks, which was pretty good for now. The window was where most of their money had to go. Insurance would only pay for half.

"How's the case going?"

Watanabi said not to tell anyone, but she asked.

"It's going okay. Don't really know what to do next though. My head Is kind of fuzzy."

"Have you talked to any secret lovers yet?" She ran her hands through a wall of curtains and watched as dust flew off. "Any eye witnesses?"

"No one saw any of the killings. The closest lead was in the theater, but not a single person saw anyone leave or anything." He eyed the small rack of books that weren't even organized at the front of the store, and started wondering if maybe they could get a new bedframe here too. The shopping cart he was pushing already had some new mugs and glasses and plates. All of them needed to be wash, but they were also fifty cents a piece. "Think I've already hit a dead end?"

"Doubt it."

"You think the protests are gonna subside?"

"Doubt that too."

"How's Elle?"

She sighed. "Better. Still a little shaky."

Then he paused, and stared at one of the mugs in the cart. It had Bugs Bunny on it. "And you?"

She turned, dazed. "What?"

"How are you?"

"Oh. I'm peachy." She gave a half smile and kept walking. Cameron stared at her brace and moved the cart, being as quiet as possible.

--

They missed each other deeply.

But Cameron sat in Watanabi's kitchen.

And Kellie was in Elle's.

"No, no don't fucking get Quinn he's off. Just call in Stone, get him and his buddy down there. . ." The words were coming from behind two walls, but Cameron heard them perfectly. He sat quietly at the table with a small glass of coffee, pure black. He came early, and his wife let him inside with a big hug. At that moment, the tall detective was on the phone with someone at the station over the gunfire and riots that had begun sparking up in town over the curfew. It was like watching a school textbook acted out in the streets. Flashbacks to the images taken during the 20s and 30s, before the treaty.

He came out sweating, in a white t-shirt and basketball shorts, both custom made, and stared at him. "You're early."

"I was afraid I'd get lost."

He took the cup of coffee and gulped it all down. "Well, seems like you didn't. What have you found out so far?"

He told him everything from the vineyard to the drug den.

"So nothing."

"Do you know anything about the vineyard?"

"Nope. They're private enterprise. They pay their taxes. Nothing against the law."

"Do you know who lives there?"

"Not my department."

"How do you know they haven't done anything then?"

"Cause they haven't done anything." Cameron saw that he had another cup of coffee in his hand, but didn't see where it came from. A sewing machine rattled in a back room, his wife was whistling. The house they lived in was right near the bridge in Dawn, out of the city, and he could see city lights from the living room, making it all feel like a cartoon he'd watch. A book he'd read. But there was a man in front of him discussing. . . something. "Excuse me what?"

Watanabi sighed. "We need to work faster."

"It's only been a day."

A scoff. It sounded raspy. "I'd rather it have been done in an hour. A day is fine. But I just want you to know--"

"I don't want it going on longer than it needs to. I live in the city. I have friends in the city."

There was a sort of look of despair on his face when he said that, and then he eyed the pipe on the table, stuck in the handle of a tea kettle. "Yeah. Me too. I trust you Cam, don't worry. I know it's hard."

"The killer just seems to kill."

"Sadly, that's most of them. You think The Great War's spark knew he was gonna start everything he did? I don't think so. The Queen just looked like a fun target."

Cameron wanted to take a minute to make sure his next question actually did something to further the conversation and get it over with quicker. Watanabi looked so tired.

"Why'd you want me to come over?"

"Rendezvous. And to let you in on something." He pulled the pipe out, and start lighting the end with a match he had on his ear. "When you called yesterday, my wife told me what you said, and I said for you to come over. I want to let you in on this. Everybody is listening. I'm not saying all of that was revealing or anything, but just be weary. You'd be surprised what they want to keep under wraps in this city. Just be a little bit more careful with what you say to people. Don't mention why you're asking them questions."

A long pause. A long silent pause.

"What should I do next?"

The tall detective smiled, and sipped from his seemingly infinite cup of coffee, and blew smoke from his nose, a pipe hanging from his other hand. The sewing machine went quiet, and they were the only ones there."I don't know bud. If I do though, I'll let you know."

And then they ate dinner. Pot roast.

--

Cameron dropped off the car at Martin and Jon's house, and then decided to walk to the apartment instead of driving, feeling he could use the air.

Half way there, he reached the Eleventh Station Theater and stared at it, wondering if there was still blood in the velvet cushions that just hadn't been seen yet.

He stared for a long while.

His hand itched. He heard jazz. And blue grass.

When his nose started hurting, he kept walking

--

While Kellie was starting to go to sleep, Cameron kept the lamp on and began writing down everything he had learned, and what a possible next step could be.

I'm a shitty detective.

"Hey Cameron?"

He looked over, and dropped his pen next to him, hoping she'd ask him to spoon her. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry if I was a little bitchy today." She turned over toward him still tucked in the sheets and resting on her pillow with the face of a tired woman, a beautiful one at that. He smiled like a teenager and kissed her. "It's okay. I can say the same."

She smiled. So gentle.

"Wanna spoon me?"

While they laid there in the dark, she smiled, and he put on a mostly fake one. The brace rubbed against his hand.

--

It was night in Night, and Watanabi decided to smoke a cigar instead of his pipe, since his wife was using it for something.

He was on the porch.

Quietly tearing up, he watched the city and thanked god he wasn't inside it.

13

"Cameron, you've got a phone call!"

His eyes opened slowly, and the gray sky looked at him while the sun rose behind the winter clouds. Kellie was still dead asleep. It would be best to let her sleep, so he rolled out from beside her and achingly walked into the kitchen. Jon and Martin were both in their pajamas drinking coffee, a phone was resting on top of the machine. "When you coming back to work, Cam?"

He smiled and yawned. "Give me a date and I'll come back."

When he put the phone to his ear, the other two left back to their room and he was left alone, leaning against the island, seeing the two cups of tea that they had left for him and his lovely missus. "Hello?"

"Cameron Jinx Vale Heron."

Alone. He was alone.

The voice boomed in his ear, seeming to go on forever before he realized that he had just been sitting in silence for a while, staring at the floor and smelling the freshly ground coffee.

Cameron looked around the empty apartment, and heard car horns outside and jazz playing from the garden below. The voice spoke to him again. "Cameron Jinx Vale Heron, am I correct?"

He contemplated not answering. But something told him he knew. He knew everything about him.

"Y-yes. This is him."

"I heard you came to my estate yesterday. Sorry about Nell. She can be a bit protective. I've been awaiting your call and got antsy, so I decided to be proactive and do it myself."

"I couldn't find your number."

"You didn't look hard enough."

There was a gold touch to his voice, like he had been touched by Midas drinking a margarita with a cherry. It was either soothing and generous or unforgiving. "Apparently not."

"I hear you want to talk with me about Hunter."

I never told her that.

"I do."

"About what?"

"His death."

"You're an investigator."

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Five years."

"You like it?"

"It um-it pays."

"My brother was a private eye. Killed himself. Have you ever felt at such odds in your career? Or is that only for the worst."

He didn't know how to respond, and luckily didn't have to.

"Jinx, Have you ever been to the Ruby Tuesday Club?"

"I live in downtown." Lived.

"I'll take that as a no. I'm setting up a table under your name for twelve pm sharp. I want to answer some of those questions of yours. I'm curious."

Over the phone, he heard the man take a sip, and could feel the cold air pushing against the massive windows of his estate. Fire crackling. He never got close enough to confirm it, but there was a high chance. "Want me to bring anything?"

He paused. "Your questions. And a bottle of apple cider."

And then the phone clicked, and he heard Kellie yawn.

--

Once upon a time, Kellie's father died from hypothermia.

It wasn't pleasant, like most deaths, but it was less pleasant for him as he froze to death behind a dumpster, behind an asylum, behind a bottle of liquor. All of which seemed to be symbols of what he saw the city as in his dreams that he rarely had, during sleep that he less likely received. A coat can only do so much.

When he died, he held those pills, and that bottle, and that picture of his daughter in his hand, dreaming for the last time, wondering what exactly got him to this point, and if there had been an escape before he took the plunge into the endless sleep. People screamed and cried in the cement building behind him. Maybe he could have committed himself, gotten food and warmth. Maybe he could have gone to celebrate Christmas with Kellie one last time. Maybe he could have looked at the stars more often then he had. Maybe he could have brought his daughter to the theater more often. To see the world and the people. The image of that woman laughing next to her as she showed her Knack would always be making him smile, and so he decided that that would be a good memory to die to. One of his happy daughter, discovering that hiding herself will only make the world more dim.

Kellie's mother got the call a few days later.

She was still listed as his emergency contact on any situation.

For this one, it was death.

Both of them came to examine the body, and confirm that it was him. Kellie stared at his hand, pale and frozen, and didn't say anything the whole time, clinging to her mother.

"He was a coward, up until his death."

The windshield wipers blew back and forth, Kellie watched as an arcade passed by them, lit up in an array of bright beautiful colors. Her eyes traced it as it left by. Her mother kept speaking, She didn't know if she was talking to herself or not.

"People like that deserve the pain they put on others. Coward. Leaving us here to fend for ourselves because he couldn't face the music. Coward, a coward. You can't leave someone like that. Are you listening, Kellie?"

She said she was.

"Good. Don't remember your father for your own sake. You have enough to worry about. We both do."

She blindly agreed, again.

The car turned down alongside Settler's Park, making it's way down town.

"What do you want for dinner?"

She answered. Her eyes watched the park.

--

Kellie was teleported into the store, per request. The streets were chalk full of protesters and rioters, as well as full traffic and a symphony of car horns, and Martin was more than happy to make it a quick and easy trip. It wouldn't be any trouble, he said.

Now she was at work feeling queasy.

His knack sucked.

It felt lively, oddly enough. Lanterns were already lit, not all but most, and the sign was flipped. At the desk she heard Parkinson talking for a little bit, something about the protests against curfew, and then it switched over to Jo Stafford singing about how it's beginning to look like Christmas. Kellie agreed with her. And with the way Elle moved her head along with the music, it was safe to assume that she did too.

"How are you feeling?" She asked.

Elle looked up. "Martin teleport you in?"

"Yeah, sadly."

"Apartment not safe yet?"

"No, sadly."

"I'm good. About to kill one of those bullshitters outside." The register closed. Apparently she was counting the week's earnings. It seemed to already be that time of the month. "King called, by the way. Took him a month, but he called."

"No he didn't."

"Didn't I just say he did."

"I'm being dumb."

"Yeah. He's at the docks, go meet him."

"Why me?" Kellie asked, getting a quick scoff and glare. For some reason, her boss's eyes looked especially blue today. "Cause I need to watch the store."

"King knows you better."

She laughed. "Exactly why you should go, get to know him."

Missing the farmer's market, Kellie said 'screw it' and headed over wearing just a fleece cardigan and the hoodie she wore to work underneath. The docks could wait. King wasn't known for being poignant, so he was probably passed out drunk below deck of the Prairie Ship. It felt like she walked in a freezer outside, with just as much meat, but still living meat. The store wasn't very full and it probably wouldn't be. If something was stolen, she'd pay, but she flipped the sign so it wouldn't be on her if anything happened. Plus, Gertrude was messing around downstairs.

It took a minute to remember where it was, whether she had to take 4th or 5th street to get to the tarp covered place, but she made it there.

Work was slow, why not give up on everything entirely?

She bumped through the protesters to the luckily calm market.

They were selling much more than what she last time, seeing them already quickly getting into the holiday spirit by selling sticks of cinnamon and candied apples, and even having a tree right in the middle of all the markets.

The markets were at the end of downtown, on the edge of the rich bitch district at the end of fourth street. It sat under old tenement houses from before the treaty, now just converted to tall houses. Clothes lines stayed hung up far up. And considering the season, so did Christmas lights and cranberries and mistletoe. She wanted to put up the tree in the apartment, but it wasn't an apartment. Just a 'room with three walls' according to Cameron. A laugh escaped her chapped lips.

She bought a few things and bagged it, a few perishables.

There was an old lady selling gloves, and she bought those. They were orange with blue red stripes. She was able to wear one of them, but not the other. A few of her fingers were still purple and bruised, the touch of the gloves on her missing nails hurt like hell.

"Slam it in a door?"

"Basically."

Her identity was starting to become her clothes. When noticing the nice homemade winter wear the people behind the stands were wearing, she realized that clothes could really determine the emperor.

When it was four, at about the same time Cameron left the club, she stopped for some coffee in a Romanian cafe.

It seemed nice.

It would've been a place, once upon a time, that she would've wrote stories of kings and queens of horses and knights of true love and death, fortune and forgiveness. A clunky laptop where she'd write everything she could think of. There was someone doing that, a young boy in a parka with a basketball jersey underneath, writing out possibly a term paper. There was a family eating toast and poached eggs, a salesman taking a break, and a woman with a long silk scarf drinking tea.

She looked familiar.

Like she liked concerts.

And white wine.

Kellie ordered another cup of tea, and watched as the woman turned towards her, not seeming to have aged a day since she had seen her last. She only knew her as Neil, no last names were exchanged as far as she could remember. And like a glistening star waving back, Neil turned toward her and stared at the girl staring at her. An awkward wave, and awkward smile, and then a confident wave and a sharp-toothed smile. Snow was stuck in her hair. Her skin was still flawless. Kellie waved again, and Neil smiled as she waved back again. Then she tapped her chair next to her.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Trying her best, Kellie laid her cup down on the table without spilling it, and looked for an answer. Neil's words were soft. Her hair was now short and shaped around her head, a 50s haircut that looked dashing on her. "Y-yeah. I'm Kellie Zara Wood."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm Neil Dodge Springer." And then a sip of her tea.

"What does Zara come from?"

"It's Arabic."

"You ever been?"

"Where?" She sat down, and chuckled along as Neil started laughing. "To Arabia."

"Oh! Oh, no no. I've been on the East coast all my life."

"You should visit when you can, it's a beautiful place. Culture outside of this country is just. . . lovely." She made sure to raise her hands in emphasis, as if she could see it, during that last word. The tea was sipped quietly, while she looked with curious intent. "So, Kellie Zara Wood, where have we met?"

She stuttered. "I was a kid. It was the Eleventh Station."

"I haven't been in there in years." She smiled, and leaned back, nearly hitting a kid in a top hat holding a rabbit in a cage, taking it God knows where. "The last time I went was with--"

Say it was with your honey, the magician.

"My honey."

She leaned forward, and her eyes began to gloss over as she stared deeply into Kellie who was about to do the same. "The little pyro."

"That's me."

"That's you."

They hugged, one giving more enthusiasm than the other. When they had finished, a building was set ablaze in the rich bitch district, and the fire department was called into action. Neither of them knew until Jon told them all over Chinese takeout. Neil didn't have anywhere to go, and Kellie wanted to catch up.

--

Dutch's Home-brewed Apple Cider.

Per request. It was a champagne bottle, with a large red sticker, and a cork covered with a muselet. Seemed classy enough. Only a few coins in price.

Now he had completed the list: apple cider and questions.

Both were on his person.

Triplets, all with shiny blond hair and scales, held signs that read different versions of the phrase: FUCK CURFEW. They marched with moxie and spirit down Yellow Brick street.

The city was bustling and booming once again, smelling of people and sounding like a circus trapped in a ventilation shaft.

He got to the club early, and waited.

He wanted to think, but realized he was thinking too hard, and just relaxed, until it was almost twelve and he rushed in, afraid he would wind up late. Some people you could be late for. Family members or friends that you're meeting for brunch, or colleagues that want to just chat, but not leads. Not men from other worlds.

The city was starting to smell like burnt peanut butter, stuck against the walls. Most of the smells of the city were like the holidays, and the cold kept it from sticking to their noses. Cameron showed the bouncer his ID, and sure enough, his name was on the list of entries that were allowed.

He hung up his red trench coat on the wall of black suit jackets and went in with the cider still in hand.

People sat at bars, fancy or disgusting.

Chairs were wrapped in velvet.

Lights were dim, only in specific spots of the club, all red.

And at the far end of the bar, Cameron was able to see a long platform with a woman in a dress, on a stool, singing out with a high pitch perfect voice. A chandelier hung above her, all the glass crystals made of ruby. She had long sierra colored hair cascading down her back, large white heels on her feet.

"Mr. Heron?"

A man in a dress shirt and vest led him to his table, where he sat waiting, and listening to the woman sing while he bounced his knee, picked at his nails, and waited to get rid of the apple cider.

The singer sang Billie Holiday.

She sang Bernadette Bergman.

She sang every top forty hit that Parkinson liked to kiss and put on the record player to put Cameron and Kellie to sleep.

Ten minutes passed. He ordered a cold glass of water.

Twenty minutes passed. It was an empty glass, he chewed on the ice.

When it was finally half an hour later, he was out of his coat and keeping himself calm with the music that was playing. People in the back kept the booths filled up, shuffling cards and screaming spades and clubs, drinking straight from the dripping bottles of whiskey, and eating from their bowls of food. Cameron was feeling impatient, like a fool.

He looked over at the singer, she smiled gracefully as the crowd, Cameron included, clapped as she finished her crescendo.

"She's lovely, isn't she?"

Cameron looked back across the booth, and saw a fat man with two cigarettes on his person. One in his mouth, one in his ear under long silky locks. Smoke exited one corner of his unshaven face. He looked at Cameron and smiled. "I know you like her. Do you want her?"

He shook his head.

"You're the private eye."

"You're the vineyard man."

He chuckled, straightening his suit vest. It seemed that he left his coat at the door too. Afraid to forget, Cameron slid the cider across the table toward him, making the fat man's face light up. "Aw, thank you Jinx."

He twiddled his fingers. "You can just call me Cameron."

"Jinx has so much mystery to it though. Cameron just sounds like the name of a man that doesn't know where his life is going."

"I know where it's going."

"I don't. That's why my name is Cameron."

He outstretched his hand, his fingers looked abnormally skinny and long for his size. Grasping it, it felt slick and slimy. "The name is Cameron, nothing more, nothing less."

"I'm Cameron Heron."

"Like the bird?"

"Like the bird."

"Classy." A hearty chuckle. The cider was already open and being poured into a pair of glasses that were on the table before Cameron had arrived. It bubbled and looked crisp. "Apple cider is the drink of champions. Gives you more of a connection to the Earth without compromising any values. Wine has the same qualities, except my wife is trying to keep me from drinking for a little bit. I tend to hit the bottle more often than not." He smiled, and slid a glass to Cameron, it was ice cold in his hand. Then the other Cameron continued.

"When Suzanne saw you, and told me of the incident, I couldn't help but laugh. You came to my property not even knowing that I was the one that owned it. It's a cute trait."

"What?"

"Determination, moxie, whatever you'd like to call it."

"My girlfriend says the same." He sipped the drink.

"Now, what questions did you have for me? I'm curious as all hell, Jinx."

It was hard to know where to start.

Cameron asked if they could order bread first since he didn't have breakfast, and he obliged, agreeing that he was a bit peckish too. One some bread and jam was in front of them, the lady singing, and the bottle half empty, Cameron ran through his questions.

1. What was your relationship with Hunter S, Thompson?

2. Did Hunter seem off in the days leading up to his death?

3. Do you know of any people that may be out to get him?

4. Why him?

All of them were answered with a pirate's smile, which Cameron was too afraid to compare the big man too. He had the look and the energy, the tone and the attitude. The man knew Hunter in mainly a professional sense, he was a producer for Universal Pictures, and would usually finance the things he decided to make or give it at least a little push. He liked the kid, his words, and wanted to give him the right motivation with things. They had the same friends, the same taste, the same style. His wife was actually a tailor and would make most of the clothes he wore. In a sense, Hunter was more like a son than a colleague for him.

"You work with the cops?"

Cameron went stone.

"Don't worry, I won't be mad."

"I know some cops."

"Okay, great." A large gulp, the big man finishing his last cup of cider, seeming much softer and golden than when he had arrived. "Cops are pigs."

Cameron felt his hands shake.

"I don't like them at all. They've killed some of my best friends, but they can help me and you here, both of us. You want what I have, I want to get some connection from it. Who do you know in the department?"

"A detective." Naming him is out of the question.

The big man laughed, looking giddy and took a second to fall back into his chair. "Hunter was on a date the night he was murdered. Some woman he met at a blood bar. When he came over that night, he wouldn't stop talking about it. Wouldn't describe her though. She didn't give him a name or anything."

Blood bar?

"Blood bar?"

"Think of them as speakeasies for bloodsuckers."

The cigarette hanging from his lip was ash all the way to the filter, and he threw it in an ashtray on the table, and grabbed the one from his ear to keep puffing. Everybody in that city had to smoke something it seemed, poisons came in all shapes and sizes. For the big Cameron it was cigarettes, for the tall detective it was smoked wool, and for Hunter it was nose candy.

A date.

That may have been his second poison.

In terms of what his brother had told him, it made sense, a man with exquisite taste wanting to get a cheap fuck. Going to see King Lear with his pants off.

He took a drag, tapping the ash off of this cigarette. "Your questions were good, thank you for being interested in my answers."

"Of course." He was barely paying attention to him anymore.

The waiter came by and asked if they wanted anything, and the big man asked him to bring a bottle of King's Red Wine on the rocks with five olives in it. It was quite the jump over from drinking some apple cider. "You haven't been writing anything down." He said, breaking bread.

Twiddling his fingers, he told him why.

"Well, you don't have to worry about my attention. You have it. You've had it. It's all yours. Now, would it be okay if I asked for yours? I'd like something to have myself."

It took a lot to not make his voice tremble. He didn't understand why he sounded as such. He seemed more casual than when they talked on the phone. But his voice was still razor sharp, boiling in his throat as he spoke. "You can have mine."

"Good."

And then he talked for a long time about something that Cameron didn't fully understand. To repeat it here would be a disservice to the man. But the end of it was clear however. And that entire time, Cameron made sure to never take his eyes off of him, in the case he came after him with the knife in the bread basket that was now the only item within it other than crumbs and some loose ash.

He listened.

He thought of Watanabi, if he was safe.

The singer left the stage, and the big man said his punchline to whatever story he was telling. "I just want you to grant me a favor when I ask. That's all."

His fingers stopped. They were going numb. His thumb torn open and throbbing. "What kind of favor?"

"That isn't for you to know, Jinx."

Across the room, the men playing poker screamed out in glee, one of them stepping away from the table, furious, to grab another large drink and inevitably go back to bet another paycheck. "So is it a deal?" Pulling Cameron's attention away from the spectacle.

The man was eager to make the deal, he thought, meaning whatever favor he wanted had to have been urgent and be played quickly, making it either dangerous or stupid. Hell, maybe both. It wouldn't surprise him if the man was a mob boss wanting to get pardoned for whacking a politician and throwing him over the Isakov Bridge. The man let him take his time, and spent his own time in the backroom, the Ruby Room he called it as he left, leaving Cameron to sit in silence, sipping his drink. Blood was dripping from his thumb, and his breathing stiff like the cider.

Eventually, he just left a note at the table along with a tip for the waiter, and left, nearly forgetting his trench coat on the way out.

--

It took about a week before the big Cameron called him for his answer, apparently it wasn't urgent.

He said yes, with Watanabi listening to the phone call with him. Luckily they were at his home when it happened.

Four more people died that week.

And not a single one of them was from the killer.

14

Midnight came and went.

When it came, the Eleventh Station Theater was covered in darkness, and when it was left, it was a massive pyre of flame and ash, a modern day Pompeii for the city of Night, that could only watch as the curfew kept them inside or kept them marching. The deli right next to it caught the flames and the second floor was taken down, but the fire department took it down before it could spread anymore. For a few weeks, the street smelled of bacon and salami.

As the fire was being extinguished, Cameron received an envelope from a man that was not the usual mailman. He wore a top hat and wore a thick coat. His smile seemed thick, if that make sense.

The envelope held a security deposit key, and an address on it.

93 2nd Street. Sewer Hatch that says 'Negative'.

No letter, no returning address.

Kellie wasn't in bed when he woke up, so he didn't have to say goodbye to anyone.

--

Kellie wasn't in bed because she didn't want Cameron to see her smoking.

It was a bad habit that seemed to have resurfaced.

When she saw Neil, they ended up stopping by the apartment so that Kellie could water Kurt who was simply making the place his own, and Neil pulled out a pack of smoked wool rolls. She felt bad refusing one, so she took it and then another and another before they got back to Martin's.

Before she knew it, she got up early and got a pack from the Cupboard, before sitting on the steps outside, listening to the people cry out. She smelt the bacon down the street, still unsure how to react, but instead focused on puffing away.

Elle called her back inside, and she worked the day into the night.

At the end of the day, she met up with Neil and they got late night tea at the donut shop that Cameron had visited the night of the break in, and they stayed until curfew was almost in effect. Neil lived on the other side of town, and they waved goodbye. Somewhere, she was going to be sleeping alone, and that almost made her cry as she stood at a crossroads.

The days were feeling worse and worse.

The streets were crowded and full of trash.

She smoked a roll.

A ten year old girl held a sign that read: FUCK THE MEN IN THE TOP, PRAISE THE KNACKS AT THE BOTTOM. The cardigan she wore had ducks on the back, and looked second-hand. When her and Kellie locked eyes, she snapped up a flame and they both smiled, before she used the flame to light another roll and keep walking. She almost forgot that it was Christmas until she spotted the massive tree put up in Settler's Park.

--

Officers Stone and Silver had their cruiser parked behind a massive billboard advertising a Knack preacher that wanted to let the world that he both knew attractive women and could show them the light. His church was on a hill in Dawn, overlooking the town.

In the car, the two officers listened to Parkinson sign off and smoked with the windows down, laughing at stupid jokes and about their third wives. Their assignment for the night: keep a look out for suspicious activity. If they did, then they had to report it.

"What do you think of Cronenberg?"

"Megan loves his crap. It makes me piss oil. It's pointless. Boring as all hell. I don't get how she can be entertained by that shit, it doesn't make any sense."

"Cindy thinks the same."

"It's stupid."

"As all hell."

"You get fucked recently?"

"No, she's been leaving me dry for months." He spit a sunflower seed out the window that he had been gnawing on for a few minutes.

There was a ruffling in the bushes not too far away from them. Silver spit another sunflower seed and yelled toward the noise. "Hey you! Leave or we'll open fire."

The two laughed to themselves and continued talking, the ruffling stopped as soon as they spoke and never resurfaced. They assumed that it was a bum walking into the neighborhoods to rummage through trash. A common little thing in the city. Both of the police officers were humans, and were hoping to find a knack to throw their sunflower seeds at for a little party game. It was getting boring out in the dark.

While there was no ruffling, they did hear breaths. Raspy breaths. Grasping for more air. It didn't sound like that to them, they just heard the raspy breaths, and felt cold chills run down their spines.

After a game of quartz parchment shears, Stone exited the car into the cold night. It was pitch black. Spots of lit windows on tall buildings and lanterns in the street were all that gave them any semblance.

It was quiet.

Even the cruiser's motor was silent. Stone walked slowly, not admitting his fear to himself, circling around the car into even more darkness. The cold wrapped around him in a thick suffocating fashion. The bushes where it all came from were more like hedges, almost his height, over-brush created from months of neglect. He watched it for awhile, Silver was completely silent in the car, his hand shaking. All of Stone was shaking. He said nothing, chewing on a seed and keeping a firm distance before unholstering his .38 Special and using it spread the brush.

"Help." Was all the person, he saw, could say.

Two gaping holes in their neck.

--

Watanabi was at his desk when they called in over the main radio in the office. He had been there just to pick up some paperwork from the evidence room after Cameron had called him about the address book and was seeing if he was able to find anything, receipts or notes, in the coat he died in. But when he was there, the chief asked if he could do some paperwork on a few protesters that were taken in.

One was an eighteen year old male knack that had been carrying a gun without a license. He was a werewolf, so they kept him in a separate cell just in case.

The rest were adults, differing in either being human or knack, male or female, violent or not.

Silver called it in.

His voice trembled over the radio.

"Dawn entrance to Isakov Bridge, found a man in critical condition, currently taking him to the-- GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY! Currently-currently taking him to the Saint Dismas Hospital on Ghost Road. Requesting immediate. . ." Watanabi quickly dialed a number into the phone, and laid the phone on his desk before grabbing his coat and leaving for the hospital quickly along with the only other officer in the office. The protesters screamed out to them but weren't acknowledged.

The chief was unaware of all of it, watching an episode of Tokyo in Harlem while eating caramel popcorn.

--

Kellie walked in to the apartment, the Italian Bistro one, at the same time the phone rang, and jolted Cameron awake from his slumber on the couch.

Hours earlier.

He felt hollow, holding the key, and shoved the feeling aside, ending up powering his body with nothing but determination and hunger as the smell of smoke and meat kept strong.

Sax music played. It hadn't stopped playing.

The key went to the Wet House Bank on 11th Avenue, right in between a yoga palace and the travel agency that Kellie used to go see her mother for the last time. The employees worked with Cameron with a smile and led him to a back room. The place wasn't busy, so they took their time.

Wet House Bank was founded in 1782 in what was once Old Bronte, used primarily as financing for ships when they came to the docks. Soon it was moved to just small town business and deposit boxes. It was the first building in the city to be given protection by the government for being a historical landmark. Next was the Church of Pan, then Morgan Hall, etc. etc. Cameron could see it in the old oak walls, and the gold light fixtures as he was led to a large metal gate in the back of the bank, away from the noises of the street, and watched as the woman unlocked it. After that, she left him to his business.

A wall of boxes stood in front of him, a large ladder on the side of it to reach the second stage, and then eventually there was a third and a forth. Platforms stuck out from the edges with a large hole in the middle that let you look all the way up to the roof. And then, lantern light.

1937 was the key's owner.

Once you reach the third floor of platforms in that room, you start to see the cracks in things, so it wasn't surprising when he found himself on the fifth floor seeing cobwebs and missing boxes. The box was there, and the lock was busted.

Inside of it, was the address book.

Unfortunately, it had been burnt.

--

"Hello? Hello? Who is it?"

No response to him personally, but he heard words, a sort of organic white noise coming through, distant. He pushed the phone closer and motioned for Kellie to not move. "Currently-currently. . . to the. . . Dismas Hospital on Ghost. .. Requesting. . . help. Shows signs of The Night Cat's work. . ."

It kept going, the phone picking all of it up.

And then it stopped. There was just silence. He put the phone down, not sure if he should rush or take his time.

"The Night Cat."

"The Night Cat?"

--

Kellie went with him to the hospital. Neither of them liked the idea of being alone right after another attack.

Cameron had one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the lights and the sludge of melting snow that would turn to ice by morning. The crispy book was tucked into his coat pocket.

Both of them had their mind on the book.

--

"You okay?"

The nurse turned on the radio to some smooth jazz as she left the room, prompting Cameron to turn it off right after. The hospital was getting so empty nowadays. Less people hurt? How did that make sense? His knees bounced while he waited for Watanabi to come back down. When they arrived, he was already there, telling them to stay on ground level.

Kellie asked again, assuming it passed over him. "You okay?"

"I don't think so."

"You're hurting yourself."

"I've barely even started the case."

"But you're hurting yourself."

With a kiss, he stood up and got some fifty cent coffee from a small machine that didn't give cream or sugar, just black bean juice. The light on the machine flickered.

How come if I'm the person on the case, I've done nothing but sit on the sidelines the entire time?

When he came back, Kellie was reading through the book, letting Cameron realize she must have slid it from his pocket when they kissed, and he couldn't help but laugh, handing her a cup of shitty dirty coffee. "What is this?"

He took a sip. "It was Hunter Thompson's. I was given the key to his security deposit and found that while there. The key didn't come in handy however, someone was there before me." Instinctively, he looked over his shoulder.

"It smells odd."

"I was barely able to get through it before falling asleep."

She snickered. "Sleepy head."

Another kiss, and she could feel his bouncing leg through his lips as they did so. Her fingers were gentle as they flipped the pages, and her eyes scanned for anything that could help, but she didn't know what could help, so she gave it back. Cameron only half paid attention as he looked through the book with her.

For the most part. It was filled out like an old travel journal. The big Cameron called it an address book, as did his brother, and so did the faded and chipping cover. But inside of it were receipts, pictures, now splotched plastic, long writings usually regarding things they couldn't read and things they could read that just described things he needed to do that day, phone numbers and things he had to do, and sometimes even ideas for the movies he would make. The fact that he was a filmmaker always got to Cameron first, because he had never seen the man's name anywhere and he watched movies all the time. Not in the recent time, but in a time before he saw a saxophone player on the streets.

Clicking boots violently took Cameron's attention, and passively took Kellie's.

Watanabi held a look of disgust.

"Hey Kellie."

"Hey Jenji."

"What happened?" Cameron asked.

The tall detective fell into a waiting room chair and stared at a poster on the wall talking about vaccines. He thought back to a moment when he was a child when he was denied the polio vaccine when it was first introduced. Kellie remembered her uncle telling a similar story. Cameron thought about the book. "The man was walking his dog, and was attacked. The killer--"

"The Night Cat." Kellie said.

He laughed. "The Night Cat bit him and left him for dead. Officers Stone and Silver found him parked near their cruiser. He's still asleep so we haven't been able to ask much. Well, we haven't been able to ask anything. How's your investigating going?"

He held up the book. "I've got a burnt book."

"Story of my life."

"You and his both."

--

At around 3am, Kellie walked into the kitchen, being painted in the moon's glow. So was Jon. He sat in a tank top and shorts against the counter, breathing with his hands in his face, a steaming mug by him.

"Martin get upset at you Jonny Boy?"

He looked at her with red eyes and smiled. "Nope, just can't sleep. You want my coffee? I made some but can't drink it."

"Why not?"

"Just can't."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I am. Why are you awake?"

"Same reason."

They were quiet for a moment, not really knowing what to say or to think, as she slowly drank the coffee and Jon looked for symbolism from the moonlight. Then she thought of something, still smelling the clinical aroma from the hospital, and decided to speak her mind in as little words as possible. "I'm worried about Cam."

He looked up, still a tad faded, and asked, "What's he doing?"

"He just." She took a sip. "Isn't himself."

"Are you talking about the case thing he's doing?"

"Yeah."

He didn't really know anything about it, Kellie knowing he was on the down low about it considering just how much that anyone else was allowed to know. Then they went a little longer without leaving and staying silent. Cameron was sound asleep. Martin was sound asleep. And the other two were envious. The coffee mug was empty, and she felt the same. "I'm worried about him, Jon."

He chuckled then. His age was heard in his throat. "I know what you mean." He stood up tall, and Kellie remembered he was of Nordic blood and chuckled herself.

"Martin does the same thing. He'll be okay."

"Martin?"

"Both of them."

In her head, she knew she didn't need another cup, but she still found herself siting up in bed that morning as the sun rose on her third cup, and seven chapters into A Day in the Life of a Wingless Bird with Bifocals.

--

The man died in the hospital room, and the next killing happened in late December, after Christmas, and right before New Year’s. The Night Cat, a name that was announced to the public and scowled upon by the killer them self, had a plan in play.

15

"Guys, gals, and enby pals, all of us over at KNNR are wishing the people of Night a wonderful New Year’s Eve and promise to be giving you everything we can for the upcoming year, which we hope will be more wonderful than your dreams can conjure. We know it's been a rough few months, with the murder and civil unrest, but things will turn out, they always do. The Night Cat will be found and will be dealt with if my name isn't Theodore Parkinson."

--

For Christmas, Kellie and Cameron and Jon and Martin, all kept it small, getting one gift for each.

Jon got a pair of jack boots, navy colored.

Martin received a new comforter. So basically, Jon and Martin got a new comforter that they were thrilled about.

For Kellie, Cameron got her a new writing journal and an old 70s Nikon camera with a few rolls of film.

Cameron, well, he got a new suit.

And he didn't think of it until Neil stopped by one day, now seeming to be a good fixture in all of their lives and asked Kel and Cam if they'd like to come to a New Year’s party that was going on at her work.

Having Neil be back in Kellie's life made her feel somewhat less connected with the city but more connected with herself. Work was slowing to a snail's pace, most of the people that would even show up anymore at any point were either Knack's looking for a place to stay overnight since going home would for sure mean an arrest, or just knocking on the door to see if the owner would be willing to give some magic ingredients for the protests. Not even during Christmas did it slow down for anyone. In fact, on Christmas Eve, in the Industrial area of town, someone drove a limousine into a power plant leaving the east side of Settler's Park in complete darkness for a few days.

Wearing a black sequin dress and a thick wool coat, she walked out of the room to Cameron drinking a cup of tea that he had bought the day before and talking with Martin who was just off work and already down to just wearing his sweatpants and a tank top, showing the jack-o-lantern tattoo he had on his shoulder. She smiled, and so did Cameron.

"You look nice."

"Why thank you." She could see him wearing a letterman jacket and taking her inside for the school prom.

He put the can down and hugged her, she bit at his neck and he snickered. She could see bags under his eyes, but didn't say anything about it because she knew what the answer would be anyways. The book was still in his back pocket, bookmarked to hell.

"We needed another movie night."

"Hopefully we won't have another death at the party."

"Don't Jinx us."

"What?" He leaned back a little bit.

"I just said don't jinx us."

He stuttered in a room that had stiff air and laughed, picking up the keys from the counter and heading out, trying to focus on the sound of anarchy in the city. Neil would be meeting them there after picking up some wine for her boss.

--

She watched him drive.

Both hands of his looked crusty, full of small paper cuts, gripping the leather steering wheel tight while keeping those red eyes of his on the people that made the roads look narrow, almost like alleyways. Kellie started at Cameron though. There was more to gain from staring at him, than from staring at the crippled city in front of them.

He knew where to go, so he didn't ask.

And she knew how he was, so she didn't ask.

People stared at them drive by, along with everyone else driving in cars, giving sneers and looks of disgust at the people they believed were a part of the problem. The curfew had been lifted per request of the Knack Night Council due to the protest, but they still kept up now for reasons unbeknownst to her. Kellie kept out of it. She just wanted to sleep and wake up when the snapdragons and orphan roses were back in bloom, and forget all of this ever happened. It was making her head hurt. Cameron stayed quiet, while Parkinson played on the radio very quietly, talking about the new Phantom Fist! movie. He seemed to like it.

Once they got to the building, the place was packed with both old Volvos and people holding large signs. The people all looked familiar to Kellie, and both her and Cameron felt their deep stares as they drove by up to the large brick and iron rod fence, the car driving slow from the spit and slurs of the Knacks wanting rights to the parking lot where Knacks that didn't have to worry drank white wine and spoke freely.

Kellie asked if they could park in the back, so they did. She felt out of place. Like someone was rubbing mud into her hair and sending her to buy shampoo with it still in.

The air was stiff and filled with, what seemed to be, the howls from the future's Sandman. Bedtime stories with blood curdling in their throats and curt words.

She stayed close to Cameron.

He could feel her worry deep in her bones and refused to let go, keeping his free hand on the switchblade he kept in his coat pocket at all times. He wasn't one for violence, but it still seemed like a good idea.

Coins jingled like church bells in his pocket.

Paper rustled in everyone else's.

It was almost cliche how rich everyone there looked when all they seemed to be was businessmen that could do magic or float.

"Babe, your hands are getting a little hot to the touch."

She looked down and gasped, seeing her glowing hands and dropped them, letting them cool off in the air. "I'm sorry baby."

"It's okay, I promise. Are you okay?"

They walked past all of the cars and were coming up close to the giant wooden double doors atop the jutting Greek like pillared structure to the council building. On top of it all, written crudely on a long strip of fabric.

KNACK NIGHT COUNCIL NEW YEARS PARTY; HELP US WELCOME 2005!!!

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"We don't have to stay long if you don't want to."

She hugged him closer and felt the book in his pocket, feeling a spike of anxiety run up her throat. "Let's steal some bottles of wine and head back to the apartment, feed Kurt."

She looked to his static eyes, looking ahead. The words lagged.

"Sounds good to me."

He tickled her ear with a kiss, turning the heads of some council members as she howled out with laughter while they walked in. It smelled like seafood and alcohol. Rum mostly.

It was 9:32.

Someone would die at 11:59.

Martin and Jon were in bed already, fast asleep. It had been a long day for the both of them.

Elle was walking alongside Settler's Park.

And no one knew where Watanabi was.

--

The party was like one that a hotel would throw. You could spot the top politicians and law makers a mile away.

Everyone was wearing either tuxedos or flapper dresses, Kellie kept herself by the bar, drinking peppermint schnapps while people on bar stools around her chatted about the riots in between baby pictures. She muttered back, protests.

Kellie sat there waiting for Neil.

She had arrived at about the same time as the others, giving the two big hugs while still holding the paper bag of wine in her hand. The sounds of the protesters made them feel icky so they quickly walked into the warm aroma of the party.

Cameron said that it smelled like jury duty,

Kellie agreed, but said it was jury duty for the case of the man that killed Jay Gatsby.

--

"I have no clue what to even do here."

"As someone who works here, I can assure you that there isn't anything." Neil snickered like an older sister and scanned the room for people that she assumed would try to make conversation.

Both of them watched Cameron for different reasons, with Kellie's more dower. His shoulders were low, he sunk into his suit, and wore a painted smile as he drank gin and listened to Frank Sinatra, saying very little. His lips were extremely chapped. Trembling hands hung by his side except for when he was taking a drink. She could never tell where his eyes were at. They seemed to wander from the crowd of rich old fat men at the silver and glass tables to the bar of rich old skinny men at ruby and glass bar tops.

Howls of Knacks outside were audible under the jazz music, as people tried to relive the Roaring 20s once again.

"Cameron?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

The smile of a man that knew what lied outside the universe was returned. He squeezed her hand three times: I love you.

"And I love you."

Whenever a good song came on, the two would dance, Neil would laugh along and dance with a coworker. She stayed close to them the whole time. And when they wouldn't dance, they wouldn't really move. The two gal pals would talk about things, specifically work and social issues, while Cameron sat next to Kellie, holding her hand and reading the book for the hundredth time.

It didn't feel like New Years.

Kellie liked a New Years spent cooped up inside with wine and some sex, not this.

Then Neil would smile.

And Cameron would clench her hand.

Until she needed to go cry.

She was glad it was loud, she didn't have time to react to it until she noticed Neil's eyes. They were starting to empty out, until she led her away, and she found herself in the back hallways, currently empty, of the Knack Night Council building.

--

The halls were covered in oil paintings, and lit with sconces of burnt orange lightbulbs and lanterns of whale oil.

The two of them walked for quite a while it seemed, the sounds of the party getting more and more quiet, and no physical mention of Cameron was present. He was no where to be found, like he was still at the table, not even noticing his missing love. Neil was holding her hand now, guiding her across those ancient archaic walls that seemed to be the setting for a Mary Shelley book. One where a scientist may have began a killing spree solely to understand how the stars aligned, and accidentally summoned a demon that only drank tea and corrupted bodies. The demon would wear a bowler hat and a mustache made of flames. The halls told the whole story through light and paintings. Paintings of the history of Knacks.

Kellie felt safe knowing she didn't live in these, but scared again when she realized that the paintings could've been from 1921 or 1999.

There was one that took her away and she stared at it for a long time.

It was of two children, one holding a hand of flame, and the other holding a new toy car. Both of them had their eyes in the car, as the world around them was dark and coated in starlight. A man ate a sandwich on a bench, waiting for the bus, behind them, wearing a blue jumpsuit. His face was blank. And yet he still seemed to show pain.

"What do you gleam from this?" Neil asked. She'd seen the painting more times than she cared to admit.

"That Knacks aren't appreciated."

"Yeah. And that children aren't taught, they're indoctrinated. Indoctrinated to follow the status quo of Night, the only city in the world that will ever belong to a group of people."

"It doesn't belong to anybody."

"If we keep saying that, then it'll belong to humans."

"Why do we have to divide ourselves from them? We're human, we just have nicknames."

"Not to them."

"To Cameron."

"And only Cameron."

Kellie stared at the kid with the car. He looked like a brother she never had.

Neil stared at the man eating the sandwich without a mouth. The pity on his face. Deep down, she wanted to ask the painter who the man was. If he was a Knack or human.

Kellie's eyes were still puffy. "Why were you crying Pyro?"

"I don't know."

"Are you unhappy?"

The crowd's cries for anything crept through the silence of the halls.

"No."

"Are you unsatisfied?"

"I don't know."

"Are you in love?"

"Of course I am." She glanced back the way they came.

Neil stared at the floor. "With who?"

“You know who.”

“It isn’t Cameron.”

The dress she was wearing suddenly felt extremely tight, constricting, keeping her from breathing and living. Her hands extremely hot, like a pilot light.

And then Neil's hands went to Kellie's cheeks, steam burning off as her hands singed, and their lips met, with the same steam coming off. It was okay, vampires could heal.

So, the kiss continued.

16

Cameron didn't want to go to the party, but he wanted to spend time with Kellie and follow up a lead he couldn't share out of a risk he subconsciously felt could arise if he shared. The name of a council member, written in pen in the first page. From Odin Seaworth, to Hunter Thompson. Happy birthday!

When it was gifted, he couldn't be sure.

But he knew he was gonna be at the party.

The party felt filthy while trying to show itself as sterile, everyone wearing their dirty laundry in the form of dry cleaned suits and rolled dresses. Their mouths flapping like their sunflower and wool cigarettes that were tucked into cigarette holders that wore each individuals monikers. Cameron didn't want to say it, but he felt like they shouldn't be this fanciful and gleaming. A woman chilled the bottom of her martini. Another man multiplied himself to pull a prank on another man that was short, about as short as Martin, and had cat's eyes. They burned a bright green. None of those people were Odin. They didn't keep the spunk and fatherly energy that the writing conveyed. They were too postured. Cameron kept himself distant from everyone, staring at all, but not showing anything else. He kept his looks discrete. If the killer was here, trying to mark people to hit next, they could see Cameron watching. A vampire has a thousand eyes and only two fangs. He just wanted to ask the man if they were close, and see if maybe he knew more than he would let on any other day. And based on the message that followed his birthday wishes, he seemed he could get something from the man.

Steer clear of blood bars or you'll be what's to drink!

Obvious enough.

He got to the bar to get Kellie a drink, and heard a low voice speaking of their own escapades at the bottom of a bottle. He kept his ear to him, and his eyes on the bar-top, a large block of pine leaves in resin, with a wooden back. Why? Cause apparently having the big dome above a marble and ceramic office needed a wooden bar.

"No, his funeral will be paid in full by his uncle. He wanted full ownership of it all. I wish he would've let me help. At least halving it would've been okay. I don't know. I don't even know if he wants me there, he didn't like me with Hunter. . ."

Bingo.

--

He pretended to read his book and sat with Kellie and Neil, tracking the man's movement all over the party.

He liked people.

The man moved all around the party in those hours. Everybody seemed to love him just the same, and would talk with him for quite a while. Diamonds glittered on his suit and on his smile. A vodka glass with an apple slice rested in his hands, off the rocks.

Cameron would hide his looks in the moments that he got closer to him, when he could hear his conversations, and attempt to gleam things about Hunter or things past that.

He didn't even notice when the girls left, as he was just about to step away to meet the man. There was enough liquid courage in his veins.

He tapped his shoulder. Both Odin's attention and the entire party's attention was on a woman screaming from the top of the Medusa statue in the middle of the ballroom.

Odin turned around, a smile painted on his face covered in a gray beard that reminded Cameron of Jon in quite a few decades. He missed Jon. It had been three hours and he missed him more than anything. And as that thought drifted to where Kellie was, if she was safe, he saw Odin's eyes on him, waiting for an answer.

"I beg your pardon?"

He chuckled. "I asked how I could help you young lad!"

"Oh, yes, hi." He outstretched his free hand. "My name is Cameron Jinx Heron."

"Like the bird?"

"Like the bird."

"Well, what can I do for you Jinx?" He chuckled.

"I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Hunter Thompson."

So, they talked.

And in an hour, Odin would be dead.

If he had known, he would've made the words count.

--

When the Knack Council Capitol Building was built, thanks in part to Robert Smirk, he was given full liberties in such things as style, as long as it stayed true to Knack heritage and didn't slander. He obliged.

He choose a pretty verbose style, a large teal dome over a marble building, wooden offices and floors on the inside, much space for paintings, a thing that the current Knack Council President had a, well, knack for. Not his physical knack though, no, that was his goat legs.

But he did add one thing.

While looking through the blueprints overnight, drinking some black coffee and listening to police radio, he noticed just how much room was there in the walls. It was appalling. So much wasted space. He finished his coffee and got working on the only big creative liberty he took, the inter-tunnels. Cobblestone and pine tunnels, lit with magic lanterns in the walls, that spanned all three floors of the building, in every single room. Sometimes the tunnels would expand into their own rooms, specifically for the chamber meetings, and sometimes they would simply stop with no warning or no direction.

The tunnels weren't used.

Ronan Tuck, the president, wasn't a fan of such a thing existing in his place of work. Like it was an invasion of privacy. Most agreed. The vote was 8-2.

They were still used, of course.

Whether it was a courier needing to get through crowded hallways fast, or a drunk couple needing a place to swap spit. Or in the case of the New Years Party of 2004, it was used to hide a killer as they lurked in the walls, waiting for whatever was happening, to end. The gun in their hand was chill, burning cold steel in their palm.

--

"That it?"

"It's all I can think of."

"Oh, okay."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help. I want this killer found just as much as the next guy. I've been becoming more and more paranoid as the days go on due to this. I've even started carrying a gun on me." He lifted his jacket to show revolver. "My .44 makes me feel safe."

Sighing, Cameron outstretched his hand. "Thank you for your time sir." Once again, getting nowhere. Utilizing the only death with a few loose ends, and still managing to run it into the ground.

"Are you a cop?"

"As much as everyone wishes I was, no, I'm not."

"Are you a Knack?"

"Nope."

"Thank god." He snickered and drank some of his vodka. "I can't trust Knacks nowadays. Too emotional."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would. They worry me. They all think I have the answers. Hunter did too. And he died without any of them."

Cameron left to find Kellie, he had no other reason to stay at the party.

--

Rustling the coins in his pocket, Cameron stared at the portraits of the council members, oil paintings of stoic men and women rested high up on a pedestal, as his shoes clicked.

Odin's portrait didn't stick out as much as he thought it would. The man was higher than life in person, but when drawn, he was just another knack trying to make the world a more equal place. The glass of vodka was in one of his hands.

Odin Dutch Seaworth. 1999-Present

He was the kind of man that would happily oblige if someone asked him to bum a sunflower cigarette. In fact, in his office, he saw a rose gold case with a sunflower on it on his desk. One of the fancier ways to hold your cancer sticks. When Martin smoked, he had one similar. It was black and had a stick figure man holding a sword on it. Inside, an assortment of sunflower, wool, and soy cigarettes. He quit when Jon and him started getting more and more serious about things. Specifically kids. And then they got older, Martin at least, and that passed. But at least the addiction passed. Odin didn't seem like he cared. He had his case out right next to his bottles of apple cider and vodka glasses like he had just finished his fourth candlestick within the hour. Maybe that's what his knack was, making apples appear and his lungs disappear.

A farmer's knack.

One of the kids in his school was able to--

Bang!

--

People ran, and those that held fire in their hands followed. They had no inclusion, as close as they were. A man with a mullet, in a Buccaneers jersey was the one that made the wall crumble, and blow inward. One that belonged not to the protesters, but to the ones against the idea of a Knack council existing in his, American City.

Most in suits and sequins scattered.

Some were unable to do so and laid still.

18

The next morning, the large window that had been broken was now covered in safety tape and scuffles between the police and protesters were still going on in the surrounding area.

Cameron wasn't there, clearly.

He was at a building he'd never been to, sitting in front of a man he'd never met, but had talked to dozens of times. He was large and could've killed Cameron if he wanted to. He didn't want to.

"How much is the other guy gonna have to end up paying?"

"Ninety percent."

"Huh. It won't work for me Cameron, I need you out."

He pushed further forward in his chair. His landlord stunk up the room as he shewed his nails, his long greasy hair slopped over his shoulders. "Sir, we were robbed, there was nothing to it."

"You had a pet."

"It's a plant."

"A sentient one."

"All plants are sentient."

"Well not all plants can stop a robbery."

"Kellie helped."

"And she's a dirty Mag."

"Why did you ask how much they were paying then?"

"That money goes towards me." He wasn't the kind of person to really smoke cigarettes, but he was the kind to drink. Despite the freezing temperatures outside, the frost coating his windows, he had a fan blowing, and a bottle of gin on his desk, getting water stains over some paperwork. "My hands are tied Cameron, I'm sorry. You'll have to find another place to stay."

"The lease ends in four months."

"Sorry."

"Can we at least have our deposit back?"

"Nope. The place was a disaster." He chewed off a nail and swallowed as it cut along his thick throat. That was all for that matter.

Cameron punched the wall outside as he left, reeling back in pain as his knuckles throbbed, starting to bruise purple and yellow. Across the street, a man in a baseball cap stared at him until he turned his way.

--

A knock came from the bottom of the door, and when Kellie opened it up, looking outside cautiously, she saw Cameron standing there, holding Kurt with both hands, looking strained from carrying the heavy boy. He quickly moved past her and put Kurt down on the balcony looking out into the courtyard. He took up half the area. When he turned, taking a breath, Kellie was looking at him.

"How'd it go?" She had a quiver in her voice. Bruises were still on her neck, making it raspy.

"We'll talk about it later."

He gently kissed her.

They stared brewing some Earl Grey from Kurt, who was looking a little depressed, if not a little shriveled.

"Is he awake yet?"

Kellie didn't look back at him.

"Yeah, he's awake." Martin looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes would have cost an extra forty dollars on the next train out of night. He hadn't gotten out of his pajamas, and the mug in his hand was stained to hell. Specks of dry coffee grounds along the base of it. Jon was at work, probably feeling the same. "What did they say about the apartment, Cameron? We need some good news."

He sighed. "The landlord won't let us back in because of Kurt."

"Because of Kurt?"

"He said that Kurt was considered a pet."

"Fucking." He squeezed his nose, and teleported the mug to the counter. It was only half on it, and ended up falling onto the carpet, spilling out the small bit of coffee that was in it. Out in the courtyard below, a man and wife were arguing over who didn't water the carrots in their small patch of dirt they called a garden. Kellie was peaking into the room that a man laid still in. "Just, Cameron, please try and get him out of here soon, okay?"

He nodded. "I promise you I will, Martin. I don't like having him here either."

"Good."

"Yep."

"I love you, but it isn't safe."

Kellie flinched.

"I know Martin, I just want to get to the bottom of things." He looked at Kellie as she was staring through a crack in the door, a picture of Jon and Martin at a Christmas party framed on the wall behind her. "I'll go to talk to him right now."

The short book salesman patted his shoulder and then headed back to the living room. Cameron wanted to ask him why he wasn't at the store today. He decided against it. Kellie stepped away from the door and hugged Cameron as he came closer. "Has she tried to call?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Good." Cameron replied.

--

In 1983, the actress Georgie King passed away at the age of eighty-three. She was one of the first knacks to live on the big screen and stay there through more trials and tribulations than anyone else. It was a wonder that any knacks that lived through the first thirty years of lockdown were able to live in that city anymore once they were actually given the ability to leave. But there are too many people to ask that question, so it'll always be a mystery.

When she died, she was working on a low budget coming of age movie, where she played the great aunt of the main character that raised her. They had one more scene to shoot, where she comes out as gay, but then her heart had to give.

The feeling started in her bones.

And then her blood.

Then her lungs felt heavy, and tired, and so did her poor old heart. She always took care of herself, but sometimes the body just feels age and lets it take hold. She was in her home with her partner, watching a rock star documentary when the pain started. I'm a star, she thought, I shouldn't be in pain. Next week, she'd be dead.

Elle was arriving in town on boat that same week, seeing the city lit up in flowers and neon, talking to a man that introduced himself as King. His breath stunk of menthols and he looked like an as seen on TV ad for a cheap broom.

Hopefully, she'd never see him again. That was all that went through her head as she walked through the fishnet and swordfish filled docks, dodging puddles of blood and salt water, as she walked to her mother's shop in downtown Night, a place she hadn't seen in nearly a decade.

The Cupboard of Bullshit.

A duffel bag of European novelties and long unshowered hair, she arrived, she had a small reunion, and then she connected herself to the store.

The bell rung, and her mother put on a smile for a new customer, and then dropped it when she saw her daughter.

"You're here early."

"The boat managed to unload some stuff in Norway pretty quickly. Can I drop my stuff upstairs real quick?"

"Okay."

She did. It reeked of old mothballs, so she left quickly, and came back downstairs. Her old mother worked with a customer, persuading them to buy some extra herbs from the wall behind her. Using her Knack for the greater good it seemed. Elle was the only one in her family that seemed to skip having the persuasion gene. A miracle, in her eyes. The customer eventually left after buying another fifty dollars in herbal remedies. "You shouldn't be doing that."

"It's fine. They don't even notice it."

"It's a scam."

"Everything in this city is a scam. Give it a few years."

"That's if I'm here by then."

Her mother gave a genuine snicker, and then continued on with her day. Only one or two more people came in, and they went through the same process as the other scammed patron. Elle just sat behind the counter and read Hunters Amongst Prey: A Capitalist Tale. It was worn out. Eventually the day ended, and she found herself sleeping in the guest room in the basement, staring at the ceiling, and missing Europe. A place that seemed more free than she could've even fathomed. She smoked a carrot cigarette, a favorite of hers, and fell asleep in the haze.

--

The radio played behind Kellie, as she read a book, and tried not to cry. Parkinson had a message.

"Guys, gals and enby pals, I come bearing fantastic news for our city. The Night Cat Killer has been found. Last night, the house of a one Detective Watanabi Junji was found burned to the ground, him and his wife inside. Through thorough investigation into what caused this, evidence leading him to the murders of Hunter S. Thompson and others has been found. While dental records are still being taken, his stature makes it very likely. Watanabi Junji was one of the primary detectives on the case before recently being taken off of it. His motives are unknown. More information will be given in the future as the investigation continues, but, tonight we shall drink and we shall sleep."

Cameron sat with Kurt.

Kellie wasn't paying attention.

Martin was asleep.

Jon was serving wine.

And Odin was keeping his eye on the window.

19

Smelling like cheap candles and freshly printed paper, Quinn threw his monitor across the police station, grabbing only the attention of a few Night citizens in the waiting room and his partner, sitting across from him, and having to dodge quickly to avoid his second broken nose of the year. The first having the honor of happening at his kid's first tennis game of the season.

He jumped back up, panting. "Quinn! God damn man have some self control."

"Sorry Holland, I forgot you didn't give a shit."

"I give a shit but I don't need to break shit to show it." He picked up the monitor from behind him and threw it on his desk. A few circuits sparked, batting some eyes, but they quickly went back to their own business. Ingram sat down at his desk, and put his face in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, just, take a fucking breath. Go smoke a cigarette."

"I'm trying to quit."

"Well that explains it."

"Explains what?" He looked up.

Just about every single officer in the station could've answered that before him. They tried to notice everything those two would do, hearing more about the bad than the good. For instance, after their departure from the Night Cat case, neither would let anyone else forget how badly they were fucked out of it. Watanabi may have been handed the shortest stick, but he was quiet about what the chief did. The chief with the school boy hair cut and the TV sitcom obsession. Those two, they basically had put up FUCK THE MEN UP TOP signs on their desks.

Holland didn't answer him and just sat back down at his desk. "We can't be hot heads about this."

With a snort, Quinn chugged his coffee and crumpled the paper cup. "Yeah, well, I don't care at this point."

"I know."

Holland felt a slap on his shoulder, and looked at Quinn's eyes to see who it was.

Schoolboy.

He smiled and tried to think of something sarcastic to say, but he decided to let this one pass and spun his chair around to see the chief. It was hard to believe he ran their precinct, especially considering all the paperwork that came through the place and the number of times he could see the man asleep in his chair with a show blaring on his TV, a bag of cheese puffs on his cluttered desk. He lit an old cigarette. "Hey boss man, selling girl scout cookies again?"

He ignored him and eyed Quinn who quickly went to giving him the bird. Apparently that attitude ticked his fancy, his chuckle being dad like and hoarse. "You're on visitor duty today, Holland. Quinn, go get a new computer at the Ash precinct."

Quinn told him to go fuck himself, and he did, going back into his office and sitting back down on his stump. "Fucking goblin."

"Quinn."

He looked over.

"Watch out."

He took the keys to their car and left, making sure to grab his .32 from his desk. And then Holland went to take care of visitors, reading the minds of those that looked truly disrupted and ignoring the others.

--

Cameron didn't want to have Kellie by herself, so he brought her along with him to the police station, where his foot tapped, and his hand stayed on Kellie to make sure she wasn't shaking or cold. Quite the opposite, her skin felt like the hood of a car in the summer. Since her cast had come off, her knuckles had seemed bonier. She didn't say anything until an officer that wore a leather jacket and turtleneck came in calling for Cameron.

"Can I stay here?"

He stuttered but said of course. She smiled and closed her eyes. He went to give her a hug and kiss as she turned her body the other way,

--

Holland took off his leather jacket and sighed.

Another fucking private eye.

"You don't look like a detective."

Cameron jumped, searching for words but only coming back out of the water with, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Most private eyes that I see smell like chimneys and try their best to resemble serial detectives. You know, trench coats and switchblades." He made sure not to read his mind to be as polite as he could, which was a shame, because then he'd realize just how accurate that described Cameron when winter began. Chuckling awkwardly, Cameron said how lucky he was that he wasn't that, and tucked his knife deeper into Martin's jacket.

"I don't remember writing down I was a detective." He knew for a fact he didn't, he wrote book store associate.

"Mind reading. It's my kick."

"Oh. Are you--"

"No, I'm being polite. What do you need?"

On the way there, riding beside Kellie and a fat woman with a few kids, Cameron had written a script in his head. Kellie helped out with a few ways to describe it, but she consistently second guessed herself and told him to ignore her. He didn't, it was good stuff. It was hard to come up with how to explain to one of Watanabi's coworkers what their secret relationship was, so any help was good help. He was still writing the script when the man in the leather jacket came out to greet him, but now, as he sat in the uncomfortable chair, it was all gone. But he could remember one thing, as odd as it was.

"Watanabi's wife didn't sew on weekdays."

Holland wanted to kick his teeth in, but instead peaked in to make sure it was the truth. He was. A cop behind him kicked a teenager that had been caught shoplifting across the room.

"You better watch your fucking--"

"I was friend's with him. He and I worked together on trying to find the Night Cat. It isn't him."

"Sorry, but your time is up."

"Can't you see I'm telling the truth."

"I can."

"And?"

"Your time is up." He pointed to the door. Another cop saw and paid attention, but not enough.

"Please detective, the killer is still out there, and I need help with it. I even have Odin Seaworth with me, he's alive."

He's telling the truth.

"Maliciously?"

"No, I've been helping nurse him back to health."

"Is he hurt?"

"He was shot."

"By who?" Holland was starting to whisper. He knew just how far the station would be willing to take his word. "And keep your voice down." He said.

Cameron scooted closer. "I don't know, but I think I know who the killer is. Neil Dodge Springer. They work under the Knack Night Council, and would have easy access--"

"How do you know all of this?"

He smiled. "From detecting." Holland didn't smile. He couldn't, the scene was still too fresh to feel for. Instead, he rummaged through his desk that was too small, and took out a notepad, station issued, and a pen, not station issued. His eyes seemed to look everywhere besides the pad as he wrote down a few words and slipped it to Cameron. "You have a lot going on up there, but at least none of it is bullshit. Meet me here."

"This was productive."

"Yeah well, when you start saying things that grab the police chief's attention, that usually means it's bad here."

Right in his line of sight, through the slew of able bodied citizens and cops that still looked at Holland's with smirks instead of smiles, police chief Augustus Cesar peaked through his blinds at the two talking. Holland knew someone told him, and that made him smile. "Don't look at him." Cameron went still.

"Us knacks have to stick together."

"I'm not a knack."

"We can't all be perfect. Meet me here."

"You really jumped to help me fast."

He shrugged. "I'm easy to convince. Plus--" He bent in. "I have nothing else better to do. Now get the fuck out, and meet me here tomorrow night. I have dinner with the in-laws tonight."

Cameron quickly ran out, Kellie already waiting by the door.

--

"Is he gonna help?"

The imaginary blanket around Kellie's shoulders shook off when she said that, and with the bumpy ride that came with taking the bus back up town. Walking can only get you so far. Cameron looked to her and nodded, recounting everything he said to her.

"How do you know this isn't a trap?"

"There was a picture of him and Watanabi on his desk. They were both friends. He's probably going through hell, and I granted him the oar."

"Oh." She wiggled a bit as the bus hit a bump.

"How are you, babe?"

She looked up, a little frazzled look in her eyes and smiled. "I'm better, but I've also been better. Kind of medium."

"Well it's good you're doing better."

"Yeah."

"Wanna get some food on our way back?"

"Yes please."

--

Although it was midday, their part of the city was still recovering from some of the nasty riots that came out of protests. The gunfire that had woken them up weeks before had belonged to a convenience store owner who fired into a crowd of masked men and women trying to steal his supply. That was the only case that Cameron had heard of, but the number of boarded up stores was proof enough. It still hurt to look at The Treematorium all closed up and vacant for the time being.

Since food places were limited, the two found themselves eating in a little dive bar near the spot that the saxophone girl had died, something that Cameron noticed and Kellie didn't.

She ordered a plate of chicken fingers, and Cameron went to make a quick phone call after asking the waiter for a half lemonade and half sweet tea. And up on stage, a Knack with horns and four eyes played a Carole King song on guitar. It seemed that they had a lot of people play there.

The dive bar wasn't clean, but it wasn't dirty. Years of dirt were in the cracks of wood planks, racks of wine and brandy glasses hung from the ceiling, and an old TV was tucked in the corner. Everyone there was either too sober or black out drunk. It felt like an airport, like time didn't exist, and when he found the pay-phones next to the unisex bathrooms, he wiped them down first.

"Hello?"

"Hey Martin."

"Oh hey Cameron, y'all coming back soon?"

"Yeah. I was calling to see how Odin was doing?"

"He's okay, still bed ridden."

"Okay, cool, um, I'm sorry for asking this but can you do me a favor?"

"Sure thing."

"I don't think Odin is safe there anymore, so if you could move him some place, or tell him to go back home or something, I would owe you a lot."

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure."

A knife pricked his back, either that or a very large sewing needle. It felt thin and delicate, but sturdy, cutting through the jean jacket easily. The wielder wasn't afraid to make a mark. Cameron shuddered.

"Hang up the phone."

Martin continued talking but the phone fell with a click, Cameron raising his hands above his shoulders.

"If you want money, I don't have any on me."

"I'm not robbing you." It was a woman, and her voice was familiar. "Who are you?"

"A friend, I hope."

Neil.

"Hey--"

"Stop talking about me. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to Kellie, she and I are close."

"Too close."

The knife pushed further, breaking skin.

"Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. See you around, Jinx."

Jinx?

The knife was gone, and as quickly as he could turn, they was gone too. Not a trace of them. He felt sick and puked in a free stall before going back out. A man was standing over Kellie, a big man with sailor tats and boots. He watched her burn his hand when he touched her, prompting Cameron to run over before he made a response. The man's response was stopped by Cameron grabbing him, and resumed with a quick and heavy punch to his eye. Another burn to the man's arm, and the two quickly left without paying.

19

Jinx.

Why did she call me Jinx?

"Does it hurt a lot?"

"It really stings, yeah."

Kellie had a bag of ice against his eye. "Keep this there, I need to talk to Martin."

Like Cameron asked, when they got back, still a little shaken, Odin was nowhere to be seen. Whether he was at the hospital or lounging somewhere in Maui was all up to them. Once he was able to talk to Martin, he'd be able to know. But at the moment, he was stuck trying to talk Jon out of a funk on the phone at work. Some more rioters were breaking windows and trying to get in, and that's all they knew. Cameron held the ice to his eye and tried not to think about Big Cameron.

He thought he was done with him. Hell, he had completely forgotten about the journal he had led him to since it didn't get him anywhere. And now he wanted something from him. Something bad, most likely. He missed just being a lonely PI in a small building with a glass bird on the door. At least there he wasn't dealing with mob bosses. There was no telling at what time someone was coming over, only that it was soon. That night. The sun was already setting and he'd brought crime into his boss's home. His friend's home. All for a book.

Martin came in with Kellie from the back room. "Is Jon okay?"

"Yeah, the authorities showed up. He'll be okay. He's on his way back home, wanted some time to relax before being back."

"Where did you drop off Odin?"

The old short man sighed and looked at Kellie who looked at him, and then both at the newly injured private eye who had managed to get blood on the denim jacket. "I hadn't checked on Odin this morning. When I went to talk to him, he was already gone. Don't know where. Took all of his things, and washed his dishes."

"Okay. Okay, alright. Thank you."

"You two can't stay here much longer. I'm sorry, but we just--if you're gonna be--"

"I understand Marty."

"Don't call me Marty."

He snickered.

Kellie rubbed his back, and Martin left. The room's life drained out by a one Neil Dodge Springer, in it's entirety. If they were lucky, they'd show up at the door, cut hands outstretched, asking to be handcuffed. No, not asking, fucking begging. Crying and drooling on the floor to be tried. He jumped away from Kellie's hand. "What's wrong?"

"Your hand is hot. It hurts."

And with that, he went to bed for the night at 4pm.

--

He didn't dream that night, he didn't have the energy, but Kellie did, and it made her wake up screaming.

She saw herself in the hall of portraits, smelling the whale oil and acrylic and paint and wood polish and everything else that came with capitalism. The smells are always one in the same. She could see Neil, staring at a portrait of Elle on the wall, one of her smiling, a ring on each finger, with her birth and death date under her picture. It was too blurry to make out.

Neil looked over at her with a tilted head and a smile. "Hey little Pyro. Did I rob the cradle? Or did I just give it a mobile?"

--

Elle gave the panicked employee an ice cold beer from her ice box and sat across from her, in bed, with a blanket draped over her sheets. She would've pulled the curtains but the moon would've been upset.

"You're here early."

"I'm not working tomorrow."

"The other employee was stealing from the stock room." She started petting a cat that looked relatively new, it made her laugh more than it should've. It was almost like she didn't come to Eleonora Robin Nightingale's home in the middle of the night crying. "I haven't worked here in so long Elle."

"I know. Why is that?"

"I've just been, I don't know, upset."

"That's an understatement. Drink some alcohol."

She laughed it off, but obliged and hated the taste. It tasted homemade, like if Wade had made it, but she didn't know who he was, and neither did most of the city.

"My sister said she missed you. Misses your presence or some bullshit."

Another chuckle. "Did she help with anything regarding King?"

"Not yet, but close. Said something about apples or something, I don't know."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about the dream you had?"

"Not really. I just needed to be here."

"Alright darling. Stay as long as you need, the Cupboard will keep you safe." Baby Kurt draped down and rubbed against Kellie who found herself falling back asleep in the middle of the night. The new cat, wearing a collar that said Yuri, went and laid down in a bed that was probably recently made by the witch master herself.

And then they heard a knock.

--

Jinx.

See you around, Jinx.

He couldn't get it out of his head. She had never called him that. Not once. He went down the list of everyone that called him Jinx, hell, even people that called him Vale, but it didn't make any sense all together.

Kellie wasn't on the couch when he woke up, but all of her stuff was packed up there. A duffel bag full of clothes, and a suitcase full of books. Cameron laid there for awhile, wondering if he could detect from the ground to avoid getting up. His legs were hurting and refused to move. The radio was by his head, but Parkinson's broadcast wasn't coming through.

It felt nice not to hear people upset out in the streets. The cars had finally muffled them out, the numbers dropping but not gone. It was all moved to the rich bitch district, protests taking up all the space that hadn't been filled with those that agreed.

Small businesses were opening back up but it was still fucking freezing outside.

Cameron didn't take much with him. He had stashed a big bag of his things in the back room of the Treematorium, only hauling a Jansport backpack of work things, a duffel bag of clothes, and another backpack of miscellaneous. He had the short sword Martin gave him out in a sheath separately. He tried Parkinson again, but it was still just static, like he wasn't even broadcasting. Like his radio tower just crumpled to the ground. What is it that makes this city so fucking repulsive sometimes? He folded the blanket from the night before and stacked it neatly on the tweed couch. A TV in front of it. A radio behind it. And a record player beside it next to a stack of jazz records and coasters with numerous cryptids on them. Cameron stared at the jazz records for a long time, and walked out the door with as much as he could carry. Weirdly enough, he had a destination in mind after dropping off his things, somewhere.

He needed to call Kellie, but he didn't know where she was.

Coins jingled in his pocket and a switchblade was still on the counter top next to a half eaten bowl of oatmeal and papers regarding the discovery of Watanabi's corpse, and then he was off. He'd come to miss that apartment.

All of it's nooks and crannies.

The maps on the walls, the pictures of the two old lovers. The smells of coffee and melted candles. Shoe oil and book pages. A sense of old fashioned style. That tweed couch that had years of stink and butt molds to it that could've probably housed forty new species of bacteria, like every couch, without anyone being the wiser. That granite counter top that always held at least one dirty mug, usually Martin's bowling team mug he got in '88. Rings of coffee on the table in front of the TV. And even if it wasn't until recent, the rustling of Kurt's long branches of leaves against the patio door. It would be the last time he would ever visit.

Who knows that?

No one does. You go to a place and focus on being there in that moment, never even knowing it could be your last time there. Cameron walked through downtown not thinking about it, he was thinking about where he had to go next. An old place he hadn't been to in almost two months, and looking forward to more than he cared to admit.

The duffel bag was already staring to tear through his trench coat when he turned the block and saw a crowd of people across the street from The Treematorium.

It was a pizza food truck that summoned the people.

He headed over and bought a few slices of supreme pizza, and ate on the sidewalk outside the book store. He didn't have the energy to go inside quite yet, it felt too sudden, so taking a pizza break gave him some peaceful nostalgia. A person came by and tried handing him a dollar, to which he had to peacefully decline. That should've told him something, but it didn't. The lady was nice, and he understood. He hadn't showered in maybe a week and his hair was looking extra long and shaggy.

He ate the crust, sighed, and built up his nerve to go inside.

Jinx.

She called me Jinx.

--

It was mid-day, in May of 1989.

School started like usual for little Cameron that day, sporting an old backpack full of books and wearing a beanie, and learning about history in Mrs. VanBeek's class.

He ate lunch alone.

He read books alone.

And then the day was over. And it would repeat itself like it always would.

Steinbeck Elementary wasn't far from his apartment, only about a mile or two, so he usually walked all the way back. Riding the bus was a death sentence for him, getting pelted with rolled up balls of homework or slurs pointed at him or his mom. Plus, walking was always nice. He liked the sights of people on street corners playing guitars while dressed like superheroes, or little elves giving him flowers. He didn't see anything like that that day, but his eyes searched for them, stopping when he didn't see any, but instead saw Gerald Key. A boy two grades above him, with a frown worse than toads, and a complexion worse than the Moon. Two of his goons were behind him, and they were staring right at him.

"Fucking tyke. Your mom is a mistake, you know that right? And that makes you a mistake. The biggest of them all."

Cameron didn't say anything, his collar in Gerald's hand and blood coating his mouth and chin.

"Dirty Mags. Dirty fucking Mags."

He took his backpack and ran off down the road, leaving Cameron alone on the pavement, using his shirt to stop some blood.

His mother and father nearly exploded when they saw him when he got home, and everything after that was different.

They had had a bad fight that night, one of the worst they'd ever had. So bad that Cameron couldn't concentrate on his comic books. He sat in the laundry room and just listened to their words, concentrated on every single thing that they said. It started like it always did, the constant stress on Mama Heron's shoulders, having to deal with work pushing her down while Papa Heron simply went to work and came back with enough rent for the next two months, acting like everything was peachy keen. Cameron kept listening, putting his issue of Phantom Fist down on the washer next to him, filled with his wet damp clothes from two days prior. The conversation moved into darker topics that he was too young to understand. Topics of their marriage, of the love they once shared out of the city, in the West, and how it was dwindling in the bottomless pit known as Night. How Cameron was born out of wedlock. How Cameron was going to have to deal with a shitty world, regardless of if he's a Knack or not. How Knacks and humans shouldn't be considered two different things. They stopped for a minute after that last one, a heavy breathing coming from Mama Heron. Cameron supposed she was thinking what to say next. He couldn't see their faces from the dark room, but he knew they were both upset and sad, sitting at a dinner table that needed to be replaced, wondering what to do next. The whole fight was just one big block of text being spewed out of two lovers turned anxious roommates with a child. The two started quietly crying, and hugged each other for a long time. Cameron cried, and not even he knew why.

He snuck into his bedroom and waited in bed. Comic book on the floor, flashlight under his pillow, and a neon billboard advertising The Dreams Club out his window, through the fire escape and dirty glass pane.

His mother came in an hour later.

"Still awake, huh?"

"Yeah."

She sat on the chair next to his bed. "I'm sorry. Dad and I are just a little stressed is all."

"I don't wanna be human."

Cameron hoped she'd reply with harsh words, something to take away from her concentration on his dad, but she didn't say anything. Her word count had been all used up. Grease still covered her hands as she took his hand in hers. "Cameron, you can be whoever you want. A Knack isn't not a human, but a human isn't a human either. They're just words. We are people, and we exist to give words meanings. They only called us Knacks because they were scared of us. Now that we coexist, they don't know what to do. I'm human, and so are you. I've just funky horns is all."

He giggled, and she snickered.

"Are you and daddy gonna be okay?"

"We sure are Jinxy." He liked when she called him that, it felt personal and close. "Things will be okay, I promise."

"Okay."

"Good night baby."

"Night mama."

--

The door opened up, and he stared into the familiar smelling home of his old life, before The Night Cat. Before Neil fucking Springer. When he'd always come home smelling like furnish and old paper, not booze and sweat.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door and just kept walking, already feeling tired from the day and wanting to fall onto one of the benches in the back room and fall asleep until all of it was over. Until a new house was built in the ashes of Watanabi's old home. He'd gone there when tape was still strung up down the road, and blue coats held up their hands to keep people from proceeding. He wore a hoodie that day, and a frown. In that pile of sot was a chair that he once sat in and drank home made coffee from. Where a wife sewed her tall husband a pair of slacks. It was early morning, but once it was the afternoon and he was still there, it seemed best to leave.

The key to the backroom was dusty on the door frame, but it still worked without a hitch.

He opened the door.

He sighed.

And in front of him, he saw the bloody vampire known as Neil Dodge Springer, holding a knife with their hands up. Their figure standing tall in the room of antique books, almost like a preacher about to give a sermon. They choose to wear a loud pointed smile, and the faded handprints of the woman he loved on their cheeks.

"Do I have permission to surrender?"

The knife fell, sticking blade first into the wooden floor.

Part 3: A conversation with a Killer

20

"Hey Junji, sweetie?"

"Yeah babe?"

"Can you come here for a second?"

He did as she said, sitting up slowly from the couch with the crack of a bone and making his merry way to the craft room in the back of the house. If he was lucky he would be able to convince her to make it the baby's room so he didn't have to give up his office. That would be a fun talk. She was sitting by her machine with what seemed like miles of fabrics on the floor and spitting out of boxes. A ribbon kept her big mess of hair tied up behind her. And a nice belt kept the slacks she had made look more office job than he would've liked. "What do you think?"

He smiled. "I love them. Thank you honey."

A kiss on the cheek, and then they were in the dining room. Watanabi going over things he was able to pull about the victims of The Night Cat, and possible suspects he wanted to work out. Rose just ate cucumber salad and listened to Parkinson drone on.

After the man found dead in the bushes, Watanabi had felt nervous. The killer wasn't afraid of anything. Their death was just for fun, a carnival game for a psychopath--

"Junji."

He looked up.

"I think you should take a break baby. You look tired."

The clock read midnight.

"I am pretty tired. Just let me finish up a few more things."

She smirked and stood up, taking her dirty dishes with and putting them in the recently cleaned sink. Besides the four mugs on the side of it. Watanabi had a problem as seeing them as single use. "I'll give you thirty minutes. And no more coffee."

Secretly he drank one more with a smug grin and laid in bed as night in Night got darker and darker. He felt sick looking out the window into the suburban streets, so kept to the ceiling. The popcorn texture looked like the universe under the lamp light. Twinkles and speckles of plaster. Rose snored quietly next to him dreaming about whatever it was she was dreaming of, and Watanabi wished to join her. But he couldn't. His mind had been racing for months and it wouldn't stop any time soon. Sleep would've been good to have, but that old machine on rest mode so it could recharge and come at everything with a fresh start.

He found himself on the porch ten minutes later in slippers and sweatpants drinking water from a dirty mug and watching the stars. It looked like his ceiling.

"Am I going insane?"

A raccoon ran down the street, scaring him half to death.

The breeze felt like the sleep he hadn't been able to get in a long long time. He missed it like he was already missing his wife while he walked to the corner store at the end of the neighborhood. Just a small ma and pa joint that Dawn needed more than they would care to admit. Nothing too fancy, just a large neon sign in the dark surrounded by bugs and a shack that sold cigarettes and soda. When he got there, still in his slippers, he could hear classical music from inside. Maybe it was Beethoven. There was a single broken gas pump outside, something that reminded him of a 1920s painting.

"Oh, hey detective."

It was Calvin, same as always. Working nights because he had school during the day. When he slept, he never knew. It didn't seem like it affected them, he still read his books with enthusiasm. "You know dang right it's Junji to you. Only my father calls my detective."

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

He turned the chair around to the wall of drugs and adult amenities and grabbed Watanabi a box of sunflower dust for his pipe. "Getting anything else?"

"Nope, just the dust."

"You know, you should really stop smoking. It's not the best for you."z

"Yeah, well, it keeps my mind off of things. Let me find the killer and then you can convince me." He rang up a receipt with a ding and Watanabi pocketed the dust. He was a good kid. He liked knowing the world wasn't totally fucked when it came to the youth. Cameron, he thought, was kind of in the middle. Too wormy.

"Is it going well?"

He shrugged.

"I'm assuming it's not old timer. You look beat."

"Call me old timer again and you'll be beat."

"Okay, okay, just don't smoke too much before bed. Gives you nightmares."

"When do you sleep?"

He just smiled and the bell above the door rang once again that night letting neon back into the room. Watanabi left the store as the next customer shopped, and Calvin continued reading his book about bird watching. Calvin was a Knack, but neither ever talked about it. It wasn't important. They just wanted to people that late at night. And besides, why did being eight feet tall have to be political? Ember dust glowed in the hole of his pipe and smoke left his mouth like a cloud. Some nice relief on this nice night. Feeling drowsy was a good sign, and he walked down the street back home.

--

"Is the kid still waiting?"

"Yes."

"Was he the one that--"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Bring him some coffee."

"The machine is gone."

"Then fucking go buy him some down the road."

--

Currency.

In the city of Night, back when it wasn't even Night and was instead Old Bronte, the currency was the American dollar. Sometimes a sheet of green cotton paper, and sometimes a copper or silver coin. It can buy you strippers that can morph into your dream person, it can buy you overpriced donuts at two in the morning, it can buy you a lifetime of cigarettes with anything but tobacco. But you have to respect currency in Night, because most of the time, favors are currency in both the above ground dystopia of a city and the underbelly of the concrete sidewalks and buildings that changed occupants every year or so.

Coffee could be currency. But few saw it as such. They saw it as a beverage to keep their eyes open, just like everybody else in the world. It was gateway currency. College students majoring in Knack history and pizza delivery drivers used coffee.

Cameron used money, because the last time he tried to use a favor, he got a burnt book and always felt someone watching him.

He picked at the scratch on his hand and looked at himself. His ash and blood covered jeans and his shirt that smelled more like Old Bronte than it did Night. He looked like a soldier from The Great War that had been drafted right after shopping at Macy's. He was trying not to cry. He was trying oh so very hard. And his body listened, keeping him still, staring down at his feet.

"Hey kid."

He looked up, hearing the station buzz to life once again into his head. An officer he hadn't met before handed him a coffee. "Here."

"Thanks." His hand shook taking it. Embarrassed, he took it quickly and huddled back up into himself.

"It's black."

"Okay."

"There's cream and sugar in--"

"I'll be okay."

They left muttering something, and Cameron exhaled while the station's loud music continued tearing through his ears and into his skull. Phones ringing, people yelling at other blue coats for "the situation", regardless of if they knew it or not. Fax machines whirring, chair wheels scooting, and especially the sound of metal clashing against metal, whether with keys or guns in holsters. He hated it more than anything, and just kept shaking his leg and staring at the ground, hoping he'd drop down a drain that wasn't there, but appeared just for him so he had a reason to go back into the sewers. But in that situation, he'd have to look at his feet, something he'd rather not do.

--

Watanabi woke up with a shock on a bench in front of Duck Island a little bit away from his house. A few ducks quacked, as did a solo goose. His head "fucking" hurt. It really, really hurt.

He sat up from his slouched posture and rested that throbbing face of his in his hands and groaned.

From the looks of it, he fell asleep on the bench after taking a moment to smoke his pipe before going back home to sleep finally. How long he had been sleeping was uncertain. A full moon was still high in the sky and the same shade of indigo painted the wall behind it. Maybe half an hour?

He found his pipe in the wet grass, some glowing embers still inside, and picked it up before he heard the noise coming from right next to him.

"You gonna smoke another bowl?"

"You like one-liners?"

"They're kind of fun."

"Cameron was telling me to be weary of you."

"Did he now?"

"Are you Neil?"

They didn't say anything.

"I'll take that as a yes." Watanabi found himself listening and put his pipe in the pocket to his undersized robe. "What do you want?"

They kept sitting there, still and breathing out their fog into the cold air. "To sit here with you for a minute and talk."

"About what?"

"Do you like living in Dawn?"

He thought about it, wildly, and knew that he did. It wasn't gray and concrete, it was green and lush. He told them so. They smiled. Watanabi could feel it, but he never looked over. He couldn't.

The person on the bench next to him chuckled to themselves. "That's good. You have to love your home, don't you."

"Sure, chief." Against whatever that person asked, the pipe lit up and gave the pond some much needed light, even if small. When did he take it out?

"Junji, you are to stay away from me and my escapades. I would like you to sleep until then, until I say so."

"Excuse--"

"I think you can go back to sleep now Junji."

"What--"

"Go to sleep."

So, he did, and he dreamed of many things. None of which were unpleasant, but empty hollow shells of memories that he forget he had. He rode his bike with his fathers cheering from behind. A girl kissed his cheek while standing on top of a chair. He saw someone following him as he left Cameron's office the night they became friends.

--

"State your full name."

"Cameron Jinx Vale Heron."

"Spell it for me."

He did.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes."

"Are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?"

"Let me talk to them, please."

Quinn put down the clipboard and stared at Cameron, who as of now, was nothing but a kid sitting in a chair that looked too big for him. He slouched. He picked his fingers, picking off clumps of ash. Many clear burn marks covered in his neck and hands, not third degree but ones you'd get in a home kitchen. He wanted to see how his face looked, but the man refused to show it, it hung low instead.

With a sigh, the ordained blue coat said, "No. I don't give a damn what you need to ask, if they kill you--"

"Trust me, killing me isn't in their date book."

"You reckon?"

He said nothing.

"Just. . .go home Cameron. Go visit W--"

"Don't. Stop right fucking there."

Quinn's brow furrowed. "It doesn't matter much."

He kept talking, but Cameron instead decided to focus on other things. In the past twenty hours, Cameron had found himself in four different chairs, being talked to by four different officers, all with different ideas about what exactly went down, hoping that the private eye would give them a little bit more to go off of. But there was nothing he could give. That didn't stop them apparently, as the pin-up girl calender probably had him lined up for a few more detective counseling sessions.

Quinn took a sip of something that wasn't coffee and wasn't water. "Don't feel bad kid, it wasn't your fault." He was the kind of man to think he had a good poker face even if they knew what his cards were. "Just bad luck."

Sorry, I'm not listening, I'm fishing.

He got the cream and sugar at a fold out table and sat down. The coffee was cold. There was screaming coming from the room down the hall, where they held them, and eventually he saw a woman come out with a bloody forehead and a long scratch mark across her cheek. He heard them call out a slur from the back, and then it went silent again, the sound of a door closing behind it. Cameron took a sip of his coffee, it still tasted black, and sat back down in the seat that was covered in ash.

--

The fire was fast.

Faster than Watanabi was to wake up, lying on the bench like a corpse. Just how the figure wanted it to be. All it took was a little persuasion and the once high and mighty detective was sleeping like a baby.

They left him be and walked the path to his home, where a Mrs. Watanabi slept and a garden was planted. They flipped a small fireball in their fingers like a coin until they stood in front of his home and smiled. It smelled like an old Hollywood movie. It reminded them of one where Gloria Sideman played the researcher that told the rest of the world about the existence of Knacks.

In the house next door, there was a calico sitting on a windowsill cleaning itself. It was the only witness to what happened next. Of a small ball of fire, no bigger than a marble, being flicked through an open window into the house of Watanabi Junji, and immediately flourishing and growing into a beast that could not be tamed. Crackling and dancing orange spirits inhabited the house in its final moments, climbing walls and breaking through fabric. It was so happy to explore, dig through each nook and cranny until it was everywhere, and lit up the neighborhood like a lantern.

They smiled.

Oh my, they sure did smile.

--

"Holland, go get Mr. Heron."

"Chief?"

"You heard me. And make it snappy. I don't know how long it'll take before that thing in there makes a move. Or worse, a demand."

"Yes sir."

God help us.

Holland stayed in his head for only half a second, catching the end of a prayer, before the ash covered private eye became the one that everyone began to look towards.

The one reading a book burnt to hell.

21

For a radio talk-show host, Parkinson was fast. And not just in terms of how quickly he was able to grab news and get it on the air, which was already impressive. But when on his feet, there was no stopping him. The tall fifty-year-old man wore a tight blue suit to work every day, with tennis shoes and a baseball cap, and none of them stopped him from nearly running into other employees nor the interns holding coffee as he tried to get to his office as soon as possible. Not before turning back and grabbing some of that bean juice from the intern and continuing down to his office.

When he got there, everybody was already getting their broadcast set up. There was no time to get nostalgic. They weren’t going to be playing music, but it would sound that way to people in the city.

--

Neil sat in the metal chair with a cigarette in their mouth, and Cameron sat across from them with a snarl and a tired feeling. Maybe it was cold, maybe it was smoldering, but they couldn't tell.

"How's Watanabi doing Cameron?"

"Stable."

"And how are you?"

"Same, I guess."

"Oh, yes, scrambling to find words."

"I'm glad to see that your nose hasn't healed too well."

"What can I say, myths can be accurate. Half the time. A wooden stake through anyone's heart would kill them, as would a silver bullet. They just save the delicacies for us it seems." A puff of smoke left the corner of their dry mouth, and a bandage wrapped over their nose.

"I guess so."

"Thanks for coming to talk to me. It took a lot of convincing to get you in here."

"I was convinced. They weren't. It just took a little bit of waiting."

"So it seems mister private eye."

"Why do you want to talk? You told us everything we needed."

Numerous detectives listened from behind the glass.

More smoke left Neil's mouth, a cloud of heat floating to the ceiling. "I don't have much to say, but you're much easier to talk to than those clowns. You seem to listen to every word whether you want to or not, you can't help it. It gives you a hard-on. Sorry, that's a little crude, but I feel like it's true. Those blue coats sure think it's arousing to see me in here. Maybe not Mr. Holland, he at least seems somewhat decent." They smiled, and Holland felt the glare of a few others on the other side. He started at Cameron, waiting for his response, curious if it was going to sting.

Cameron rubbed Kellie's ring, and stared. "I wish I could tell you why. Why did you kill everyone?"

"Cause it's fun."

"Bullshit."

"What? It is! There can be several reasons to do something. Why are you an investigator?"

No response.

"Boo, I thought you liked talking."

"Sorry, I'm a little sour at the moment."

Holland went to take him out, but the chief stopped him.

"How about a compromise Cameron? I'll tell you my side, if you tell us yours." They looked through the glass at everyone watching and winked with their uninjured eye. "How does that sound fellas?"

"I don't have anything to answer."

"Parents, schooling, jobs before this, even your investigation up to this point. Isn't it true that you were working with Watanabi secretly before he went missing?" Someone's knuckles cracked, and no one looking could tell who. Cameron growled, breathing slow. "Yes, we did. But it wasn't--"

"When did this start?"

Sometimes, Cameron just wanted to get rid of the last few months and restart everything. Have a do over, where he wasn't involved in anything. Nothing else would change. Neil would still turn themselves in for sport, and the police would still be looking at the shallow end.

"When Aleah Tinner died in the street. Thanksgiving night." He finally said. Control was in their hands.

"Oh yes, the elf with the brass. She was one of the more painful ones to kill. Had so much spirit--"

"Please shut up."

They smiled.

"Your turn, Neil."

"It sure is. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know why you killed Hunter S. Thompson. Was there a purpose?"

"He was annoying, and aggressively plain. That was my reason. Amongst others, but that's for a later date."

"If you say so."

"Well, when you work for someone, especially that close, you can truly see just how boring they can get because they can't try constantly. There's gotta be some white bread attitude every so often."

Cameron thought of Zane, of others that walked through his door with a bird simply spouting their own agenda and nothing more.

"Are you and Watanabi friends, Cameron?"

"Yes. Does that matter?"

"Did you two ever go out for dinner?"

"No, we only met to talk about the murders."

"Did you mention me?"

"No."

"When did you think I was the killer?"

"New Year’s Eve." He clenched his fists.

"Oh yes, yes, the night of the bombing at the council house. What a terrifying night. Odin Seaworth almost died that night, did he not?" He knew what they were trying to do, throw him into a line of sight that made his words seem less applicable than theirs. About the nights he homed Odin Dutch Seaworth until his eventual departure into the unknown.

"I never knew Odin, Cameron, I didn't work with him often." They continued.

Their words were getting hotter by the minute, and he wanted to leave before they began talking about Kellie.

The chief lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and an empty lighter with a pin up girl on it. Holland was feeling worried.

"He's a nice guy, it's a shame you didn't."

"I've still got time."

"No, you don't."

"Oh? You know this?"

"I do."

"And why is that?"

"Because I won't let you win."

"And how can you make sure of that?"

"By letting you talk."

And that theory was put to the test, with Neil, the Night Cat, the Midnight Lover, thinking of every anecdote they could think of as the two talked nonsense for the next half hour or so. In the end, only Holland and the chief were in the room listening. Everybody else had been sent out to deal with crowd control. Protesters outside and worried mothers calling on the phone. It was chaos.

When Cameron arrived at the station with Neil in hand, the city went into sort of a mental lock down. No one knew what to do but go with the flow, locking them up in steel bracelets and trying to keep it away from the press as best they could. Parkinson got the story first, clearly, and then everyone did. Cries of both joy and anger flooded the streets. Cameron heard none of it. In fact, he didn't know about how bad it had gotten until he heard a knock on the glass. Neil chuckled, "I think that's for you."

"I doubt it. Next question. Why did you kill Aleah Tinner?"

"I can't answer that yet."

"Okay, fine. When can you answer it?"

"When you ask the prime question."

"And what is that?"

"You'll find it."

He paused, taking in the smell of smoke, and hearing the knock persisting.

"Are we playing twenty questions, or have you been condemned to murder?"

"Both."

"Neil, Kellie--Kellie is waiting for this to be over. For me to come home, and for you to be seven feet under. Everybody outside wants your head, and they are probably going to get it. Just answer my questions, please."

"I have, you stopped asking them to rant about your whore."

"Don't call her that."

"Then why did she kiss a vampire?"

"You kissed her."

"She kissed me back."

"Why did you kill Aleah Tinner, Neil?"

"Not yet."

"Why are you killing people?"

"Not yet."

"Answer a god damn question."

"Ask a good one."

"Why did you kill people?"

"That's not a good one, Jinx."

"Wh--"

Cold air graced his skin, and the steel table burned his palms.

"Neil."

"Cameron."

"How do you know my middle name?"

They didn't respond.

"Answer me, Neil."

Smoke left their nose like the detective that they weren't. Their eyes bounced like a tennis ball. Each nail was long and painted neon green, completely flawless.

"Neil, who told you my middle name?"

"Never got his name. Didn't care for it. But he was big, I know that. Wore a zoot suit."

"His name is Cameron."

"And his name is Cameron. It sure is. Do you know him?"

Of fucking course I know him. The man taped a bullseye to my back and gave me a handshake as greasy as his chin.

"Yes, we met once."

"I'm so sorry. It's not easy to get out of his eyes."

"I still owe him a favor."

"Do you now?"

"Why did he give you my middle name? What were you talking about?"

"He had questions and I had answers. It was in response to a favor that I owed him."

"What favor did you ask of him?"

"I could ask you the same."

"He was friends with Hunter as far as I know. He led me to a deposit box where all I got was a burnt book. I expected that was the Night Cat's work."

"Not this time."

"Cool."

"What did you ask of him?"

"I needed help with some work down at the docks."

"With King?"

"Yes, with King."

"Too bad he's in the ER and can't back you up."

"Eh."

"What help did you need?"

They stopped talking and fell back.

"I'm a little tired Cameron, I'm done answering questions today."

The imaginary detective inside Cameron's head flipped the table and knocked a pile of bile and answers out of their gut, but the real one exhaled from the nostrils and left the room without another word. Holland watched him leave and looked at Neil smile as they lit another cigarette.

--

"They sure are angry out there."

"I'm sure angry in here."

Kellie didn't need to hide anything. She didn't hide her scratched and bruised face, and she didn't hide the deep anger that looked through the glass all the way down on to the street. Small spotlights shot up from the ground. She was too high up to see specifics.

The nurse walked in loudly, speaking to Jon and giving him information that they already knew. Jon was formal, as always, and spoke in a manner of courteousness. As soon as the door was shut however, he kicked a tin trash can across the room. "Fucking useless."

"It's okay Jon."

Jon sat back down next to the bed with the man in it, holding his hand and tapping his foot. "Your boyfriend is a real pain in the ass sometimes."

"Yep."

"If he doesn't get anything--"

"He will."

"You won't touch him Jon." Martin said. Hoarseness was more present than class. No one wanted anything else from him. The sheets were pulled up over the hole in his chest, and a bandage sat over his eye with medicinal tape. An IV dripped. When they came in, looking like the cast of a bad theatre performance, Martin immediately asked that the IV have red wine in it.

Of course they didn't do that, but they left a bottle of Pinot Noir.

Jon refused to have any treatment for the burns on his arm other than some peroxide and a little bit of gauze. They were running low on supply, so he took as little as they'd let him.

Kellie wasn't hurt enough to warrant a search.

"You know I was kidding."

"Your jokes need work then, honey."

"Don't talk babe." Jon leaned forward.

"I'm okay, don't worry. Got magic in my blood. We'll be dancing before morning."

Kellie chuckled. Down below on the road, two men got into a fist fight that drew blood and spit. It reminded her of someone.

There was a folk story that resided in downtown Night, about the Phantom Fist.

A comic book was made.

Radio dramas.

Movies, shows, merchandise.

He was painted in purple and blue tights, with a pair of aviator goggles and tall jet-black hair. That was how he was seen today. At one point, he was dressed like a soldier from The Great War. And before that, he was an ordinary citizen to the naked eye. Burlap shirt, khakis, and a flat cap with aviator goggles around his neck. His name was Rob Stallion, but nobody knew that. In 1902, he saved a family from a mobster that broke into their house after he saw gun fire. Rob then went on to live for seventy more years until he died of liver failure. He never knew the Phantom Fist was based off of him, a city tale about a ghost that knocked out a man without even raising his arms, but he enjoyed it. His grandson would read the comics in bed. His distant cousin would be an extra in the Phantom Fist movie. And Rob Stallion would die an unknown hero to most, but not himself. When the first punch was thrown on the street, and then the first, and then the second, Kellie wondered what he would've done. What side would our cities little folk hero be on? Would he want Neil to be set free and be given the key of the city for their work at sending a message to the government? Or would they take them in by themself, horrified at the bloody and gruesome crimes they committed.

All you had to do was look at the bodies they left, to know just how much emotional was put into them. Zero percent.

Kellie wasn't sure who won, she turned away to listen to Parkinson's broadcast. He spoke to his audience about a sanctuary at their radio station. All citizens were welcome.

22

"Back for round two?"

"Shut up Neil."

"They took away my cigarettes."

"They did."

"Why?"

"Is that really a question? Really?"

"I guess not."

"It is one in the morning, and I'm tired. And I have a girlfriend in the hospital-"

"I am aware."

"Because you put them there."

"We both did."

"You did."

"Who brought me where? Your silence is deafening partner--"

"I didn't know what I was doing, and that's that."

"You hear that chief! He didn't know what he was doing."

"The chief isn't in there. He's watching TV in his office."

"What a surprise."

"Yep."

"Got any good questions for me?"

"Sure."

"Lay it on me, Jinx."

"What's your social security number?"

"Don't have one."

"Okay. Check. Date of birth."

"March 13th, 1931."

"Were you given your knack?"

"Yes."

"By who?"

"The pigs outside already asked me all of this."

"I know."

"So why are you asking?"

"Making sure it all matches. What is your mother's name?"

"Diane Springer."

"Maiden name?"

"Koffer."

"When did you move to Night?"

"I was born here."

"Me too."

"Good to know."

"Have you had any partners?"

"Does that matter?"

"Yes."

"Ugh, no. I slept with Hunter a few times, but no I have not."

"What is your Knack?"

"Don't you dare."

"What is your Knack, Neil?"

"Um, I don't know, vampirism."

"Okay,"

"You don't get to ask that question. Where the fuck do you get off?"

"I don't know."

"Ask me again, I fucking dare you dick nose."

"I'm not going to."

"You look uncomfortable. Did I scare you?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least I know you're honest Cam. We need at least one good quality."

"You forgot about ping pong."

"You're not funny."

"Okay Neil. Fine. I'll come back later."

"Don't."

--

It wasn't Holland's fault that he was right on the other side of the door. If it had been his mother, he most likely still would've still thrown the punch as he came out. But it was Holland that met Cameron's knuckles, spit blood, and fell to the floor. There would be no dentist appointment, but there would be a dry cleaners ticket in his coat pocket later that week. Two other officers quickly grabbed him and held him.

"You fuck!" He screamed. "What kind of question is that? Huh?"

He wiped off blood, coating his wrist hair. "A good one. We don't know what kind of power they hold. We can't show fear."

"Then why didn't you ask it?"

"Because they'll only talk with you."

"I'm not taking anymore of you questions. This is between me and them." Holland stood up tall, and took one breath before throwing his fist into Cameron's loose stomach. Spit flew from his mouth and he folded forward. "This is between them and the city. Stop bringing your bullshit into this Cameron, or I'll disable the cameras and beat the hell from you."

--

Ah, yes, the rich bitch district. Slang term turned common phrase amongst both the outsiders and the occupants. An inside joke with the outside, and a joke about the outside with the inside. In that section of the city, on the border of Settler's Park where the homeless and protesting Knacks took shelter, words were thrown.

Anyone with a briefcase, with a nice car, with an expensive watch, was spat and and nearly assaulted. Most for good reason, and some to release anger. Bobby "The Arm" Perez was nearly arrested after crushing someone's car with his mind. No one was hurt.

It was a madhouse. An insane asylum for the stable. If Cameron had heard that phrase, he would have considered coining it to be the city's new tag line. Bumper stickers with it. But he hadn't, he was sitting outside the police station in the dark with a bag of ice up to his chest. He had no clue about Bobby, and nor Bobby of him.

What was once a city that lit up twinkling lights in the night, neon signs and fliers, was now in the dark. The only ones that had light, held it in their hands thanks to a gift at birth.

"Can we leave yet?"

The receptionist waited quietly for a reply from her boss. He stared down from the fifteenth story. "I don't think so."

"Oh. Okay." She managed to catch a few papers before they fell from the stack in her hands. All of them homework given by the boss.

Noise echoed from the linoleum halls that had already been moped for the night, catching their attention, but barely enough to take them away from the sight below. Until it got louder. And louder. Getting more clear, turning from noise to a noise with shape. And structure. Until the receptionist was staring in horror as a horde of men with knives came running down the hall. They wore shirts with red fangs on them. The receptionist and her boss got the door shut, throwing down a file cabinet and a bookshelf to keep it shut. He knocked over a picture of his youngest daughter in the process. It was only a matter of time before they'd get in. They sounded like zombies, scrambling for flesh. Craving the sound of ripped skin and meat. The people below could only look up and see a smoke started to bellow from windows as Molotovs were thrown into rooms. As fire Knacks painted the walls with heat. One especially used their knack to good use, creating a shield to contain some and let it explode out like a bomb.

Within the hour, the ESI building was in flames completely.

--

Cameron held the bag close, and rested his eyes in the cold, slightly warmer, air. His blood boiled, but his breath was calm.

He didn't want to be a cop for that exact reason. He didn't want to be an asshole. There was still a shirt somewhere in his closet that said All Cops are Bastards, making his job just as ironic.

He needed tea.

Boiling and barely sweet. Maybe with some tea leaves floating around.

"Hey Cameron."

Holland stood above his shoulder with tissue in his nose and a paper up of tea. "We only had chamomile."

He smiled. "I love chamomile." It went down smooth and warm, just like Holland on the bench next to him.

"Think they bought it?"

"Probably."

"Did I punch too hard?" Cameron asked.

"Not at all. Did I?"

He chuckled and sipped more tea, listening to the city exploding, feeling his shoulders constantly risen. "Just a tad."

Breath spilled from Holland. He had been there since 6am, and it was starting to hit more and more as Neil spilled their guts. "Sorry about that. Needed to sell it." His joints ached. Maybe it was age, maybe it was something else.

"What about Big Cameron?"

"His name is Cameron Gonzalez. He's big, sure, but we just call him The Sabbath. Right hand man to the leader to the mob. But since we don't know who runs it, The Sabbath has become the face of it. Does all the dirty work. It's no surprise Neil has been in their grasp at least once."

He finished the cup and chewed on some the leaves, crushing the paper cup. "I know where to find him."

"Good. Now get out of here before anyone else sees you dumbass."

Kellie's voice came out when he was called a dumbass, and it made him colder. He was going to sprint to that house, get some more answers, and get everything done within the night. They were close, he could feel it. He was too wrapped up in his silence to notice Holland having to leave and walking back inside, leaving Cameron alone. But once he came back to the real world, he ran quickly.

23

There wasn't much Cameron could remember from the fire.

One moment he was in the apartment, the second, he was covered in blood and ash, watching as his second home crumpled to the ground with ease. Martin in Jon's arms, and Cameron staring alone. Kellie was gone, down the street, chasing after Neil, as far as he knew.

"Cameron."

He didn't move, he stared at his sot caked shoes.

"Cameron you better be listening or so help me god."

His head shifted, and he stared at Jon, the Norse man with long beautiful hair, and red skin, pulsating and sweating. In his arms, laid his college sweetheart.

"What happened? Is Kellie okay?" Cameron asked.

Jon's eyebrows furled. "Our apartment burned down you piece of shit."

He blinked.

"Where's Kurt?"

"Dead."

"Oh."

Snaps of burning wood, crackles of fire, pops of electricity, and the noises of staring pedestrians.

"Martin, are you okay?" No emotion could escape Cameron's numb lips. Martin understood that, even as his shallow breaths seemed to slow. "Yes, I'm okay."

Jon looked down. "Don't talk, you're still bleeding."

"I'll be okay."

"The ambulances should be here soon."

He was right. A firetruck was already visible, with the cities name and the color red plastered all over the big machine. An ambulance wouldn't be following far behind. Cameron sat down on the sidewalk, and felt his fingers tingling. His arms, his legs, his face. He wondered where the blood on his jacket came from. Where was Kellie? The firetruck eventually came to a stop at the end of the block and plugged into the nearest hydrant before starting their business. The fire was spreading over the other buildings fast, taking out other apartments. "Did Kellie do that?" Cameron asked.

Jon looked down at him but didn't say anything until an EMT came over and took Martin away from him. He talked with them a lot. Jon was barely harmed.

Cameron waited until the third branch of communal government came over to talk with him so he could promptly give them the finger.

--

There's only so much a Knack can do.

Kellie practiced her mediation in the room as they waited, trying to keep her mind occupied. The sound of the city was easy to drown out if you knew how, which she did.

Many knacks can be given to other people. If you are born knack-less, then you can be granted the ability by another. For instance, magic. It can be taught, sold, and learned like any kind of skill. Harris Folio liked to compare it to trade schools. In an interview in 1948, he even called this 'a gentle exchange between a current and future minority.' The one asking questions wasn't a Knack, so he didn't laugh like Folio did.

"Miss?"

Kellie opened her eyes to see the nurse. Jon seemed to be out cold in the seat next to Martin, holding his hand. The nurse asked her if she wanted anything to eat or drink, to which she declined, and shut her eyes again. It was no point though, Martin would be groaning in a few minutes, so she opened them back up and stretched while the nurse got ready.

Martin was barely awake but got himself ready. The nurse lifted his shirt and said, "Deep breathes sir." She smiled brightly.

Long story short, she was one of four nurses in the West Baptist Hospital that had an organic mending knack and put to the best use she could.

Kellie made sure to look away. The sight of Martin's wound wasn't exactly the most pleasant, and neither was the noise. The city at least had more lights than just the lamp by his bedside and the white ball that was being pushed into his stomach. It was like an angel was shoving it's halo into somebody's flesh. The city just looked like there weren't any angels, so it was a good dichotomy of feelings.

Kellie turned back when the screaming stopped, and Jon was wide awake.

"I'll be back for his last treatment in a few hours."

"Why can't you heal him in one treatment?"

"Well, his nerves couldn't take it. A lot of stress to the body like that can make it shut down, go into shock." She paused and pondered. "The body has to learn what's happening, and go with the flow. If it's suddenly thrust into healing without any communication, then it won't listen and won't take it."

"Is there any way to speed it up?"

"Not unless you want him to go into a coma."

Kellie didn't know enough to respond, and instead sat back down, and went back to meditating as the nurse left, and Jon and Martin talked about the vacation that was for sure going to start as soon as he didn't have an extra, gaping belly button. Martin made that joke, not Jon. Kellie was somewhere in the sticky slick abyss--now occupied by the ghosts of her past and seagulls--while two people entered the hospital, not looking to visit anybody.

--

Martin's Volvo pulled up to the familiar gate, and Cameron took in the sick and sweet smell of the vineyard surrounding it. A light was lit inside the property, peaking through the double doors and a large ornate window next to it.

He stepped out of the car, and took off his jacket, throwing it in the back.

Cameron didn't know what he was going to come across here. It seemed like none of his questions had been answered. They had Neil, but how much more obvious could it be that they weren't the only one involved in everything going on. Big Cameron was head honcho for something, maybe even just the messenger boy, and was wanting to talk with someone about it. Cameron swung the gate open, and hoped back in the car. Miles Davis played. Parkinson's broadcast was coming up as static.

Holland and Cameron came up with a simple plan.

It was clear some of the cops were dirty, working with The Sabbath, so they had to get Cameron out and send him that way without alerting any of them.

So far no one with a shotgun was standing before Cameron in that dark vineyard as he drove.

They wanted to bring in and question some members of the Knack Night Council, but none of them were able to be reached, all sheltered midst the current state of Night. The next best person would be, you guess it, Big Cameron himself. All it took were some public punches and giving Cameron the run down.

"Cameron Gonzalez is a talker. He's a Knack too. Loves apple cider, loves women, even owns a few local clubs like any gangster you've ever heard of. Has a wife, we think, maybe a husband. Age is unknown. Likes bodyguards. . ."

The car came to a stop in front of a large stone fountain. Michaelangelo's David was at the top, spewing water from his mouth. There was no point in hiding if the man himself already knew he was on his way.

The plan: bring in either Big Cameron himself, or one of his bodyguards. Suzanne was an option--if she was present--but to not be too nice to them. They would shoot on sight. And since he wasn't shot yet, it must've meant that he wasn't in anyone's sight.

The dashboard of the car said it was about 2am.

He took a deep, long, and heavy breath. It tasted of grit. Of donut shop coffee. He stepped out of the car quietly, and walked up to the large stairs to the double doors. Everything was made of mahogany. He knocked and waited.

Someone eventually answered.

It wasn't Big Cameron.

"Cameron! Oh my god, it's so good to see you my friend! Sorry that I left with such short notice, I had things to get back to."

Cameron stuttered, as Odin came out and gave him a large hug. "Please, please, come in. Me casa es su casa."

24

Where are you Elle?

She isn't here Kellie.

Are you her sister?

Yes.

It's nice to meet you.

You aura is faded.

I haven't been doing this long.

It takes time.

You look just like her.

Thank you.

Where is she?

I don't know. She hasn't been here in weeks.

Can you get a read on her?

No. She isn't home.

The city is killing itself.

It's only going to get worse.

How do you know?

I've been listening. The dead talk louder than the living.

Are any of Neil's victims here?

Who?

The Night Cat.

Oh. Yes, they are. But they won't talk to you.

Why?

You aren't dead. They don't trust you.

Have they told you anything?

Yes.

Can you tell me?

I don't trust you yet, I'm sorry.

What's going to happen to the city?

A symbol of power struggle will soon be present.

Do you know who's going to do it?

No, but your boyfriend does.

Cameron?

Do you have another?

Who does he know?

A colleague. He doesn't know what he's going to do. But he knows the man.

Where is he at?

I'm simply dead, I don't know what I'm not told.

Okay, sorry.

You're fading faster. Concentrate.

It's hard to concentrate when there isn't much reason to stay.

I still have more to tell you, Kellie.

I need to go find Elle.

If she died, I'd know. She'd be here. If she was being tortured, she'd be talking with me.

She could be knocked unconscious.

Same thing. She'd be here. She has more power asleep than when awake.

So, she's choosing to not come here? Not talk to you?

Yes.

Why?

I don't know.

Well, what do you need to tell me?

To not trust the living.

Myself included?

--

Odin looked as good as new. His bandage was still present--peeking out of his tank top--but looked more fashionable than medical. He led Cameron into the room that the light was sourced from, a ballroom with a La-Z-Boy and a TV in the middle.

"I'm sorry, I've been moving out so I don't have much furniture in here."

"Don't worry about it."

He was worried about it.

The house itself was bigger than he could've ever imagined. Even if their dust piles in places where large ornate clocks and imported furniture once stood, it was still the nicest place he'd ever been. Right as he entered the door, a large wide staircase led up to the second floor, a stained glass mural of Leonardo DaVinci. was above it. Cameron was suspecting a pattern.

Odin fell into his chair, and stared at Cameron. "What can I help you with my boy?"

"I didn't know this was your house, I came to find someone else."

He didn't recognize the show on the TV. It was some crumby soap opera. The main character was playing the Spanish guitar.

His black revolver was on a chair side table.

"Oh?"

"I've been here before."

"Were you now? Well, I haven't been here in a good little bit. With the move, I've been spending a lot of time in California, with the new house."

"Do you have people taking care of the house while you're gone?"

"Sometimes."

Something was off in his eyes. They looked too glossy.

"Why are you here, Cameron?"

"I believed someone else lived here, but apparently not, so I should probably go." He hadn't sat down, and didn't want to. The floor was dusty and dirty. Wood was scratched like all the furniture was dragged out.

"No! Please stay Cameron!"

"I'm on a case."

"Still a PI, huh?"

"Since yesterday, yes, I sure am."

"What a waste of potential. You're a dedicated worker. You could do anything. And you catch cheaters and chase false geese."

"I best be going now, Odin."

Odin could be described as the council's grandpa. He wasn't ever on TV, talking with people about their cause. He never headlined newspapers, or talked with radio hosts. He simply stayed in the background and gave the other members a reason to smile. But Cameron, he found himself frowning as he turned and started walking out. Odin smelled sour, and looked rugged. Like an old teddy bear left in the rain. Like the evil twin of a man he once felt somewhat close with. Leaving now was the best thing he could do. Too bad he had to catch a glimpse of the rec room, down the hall, with it's door wide open.

Just keep walking Cameron.

Just keep going, apologize to Kellie, and try to make something normal from all of this.

Odin called out. "Make sure to come visit before I move for good!"

Cameron stared through the room. It was simple. A pool table. A few chairs. Boxes. The drapes were taken down. A giant view of the vineyard was given to him via a bay window where the drapes must've belonged. He could tell this must've been one of Odin's little nests. He was surprised that he didn't have the TV and chair lined up in here. A few bottles of empty apple cider were on the ground. He expected a body next. It smelled like sludge.

But beyond that, was a large glass case full of instruments.

"You like what you see?"

Odin now stood behind him. Cameron wasn't able to see the table, to tell if he was carrying the gun or not.

"Do you play?"

"No, I dabble with piano but that's about it. Just a fan of jazz is all. Most of those are antique."

He walked ahead of Cameron and started looking at them like a proud parent. His hands tucked in his pockets, his body masked in darkness. "Jazz is such a free art form."

"It's good stuff." Was all Cameron could think to say. He listened to him talk for a little longer about his beliefs on the genre, and kept his distance. The concept of whether or not Odin was against him, and knew what he was up to, was seeming to fade the longer he talked. He sounded like a grandpa again. Cameron asked him who his favorite artist was, and he said he didn't have one. And then he came upon the empty rack in the case. Odin touched the area above it, and put his hand on the glass. It was almost like he was expecting somebody to reach out and touch the other side. "You lose a piece?"

Odin turned. "What was that?"

"Did you, did you lose a piece? There's an empty spot."

"Oh, no I didn't. It was a gift to my daughter."

"Which piece?"

"It was the saxophone played at the first Midsummer Festival after The Great War. Jasmine Maltese played it. My daughter loved it, so when she left home, I gave it to her as a gift."

Cameron's hands were shaking, he was unsure why, but his mind immediately heard the jazz music that once bounced off of brick and concrete, in the middle of the night.

"I'm sorry."

Odin knew what he meant. "It's okay. I've come to terms with it."

"You never told me you were married either."

"My wife died in childbirth."

"I'm sorry."

He started walking back. "Would you like to see her? She was quite the looker."

His eyes were dry. They were his own. Cameron didn't have to follow him anywhere--if he were to show him a wall of pictures he would've done so before it was all packed up and shipped across the country. He simply pulled out his wallet, and unearthed a picture. It was him, and a tall elf woman. She was gorgeous, a real looker. "Her name was Francis. I called her Franny."

"She looks lovely."

"Oh, she made a room gasp when she entered. She gave the moon the silver medal, and kept the gold for herself. I remember my father gave me shit for two reasons. One, he wasn't a Knack so the fact that I was tainting the blood line upset him. Second, he's quite against Abraham Lincoln." Odin chuckled, and then Cameron did the same.

"I better go, Odin."

"Yes, of course."

"I promise I'll come see you again."

"Give the chief my love!"

Cameron stopped. The door was half open.

"What?"

"Well, I assume you're helping the police with dealing with Neil."

He turned around completely.

"Odin. I didn't tell you that."

"Parkinson was talking all about it."

"Not about me he wasn't."

Odin wasn't shifted. Cameron was loosening himself up, and tightening his stance at the same time.

"Odin, do you know The Sabbath?"

"The Sabbath?"

"Do you know Cameron Gonzalez?"

"Of course, he's one of my best clients. Helps me ship my cider."

His gun was out before he said cider and Cameron was already tucked down when the first shot fired. It wasn't full of blanks this time. The bullet ricocheted against the door frame, blowing out wood. Odin's arm flew back, Cameron flew forward. He felt the adrenaline flying through him like a diving crow, and followed it. He pushed his boot into the ground and jumped into Odin's gut, knocking him down as the second shot was fired into the ceiling near the chandelier. They both fell with the grace of a crippled snail. "You bastard!"

Odin didn't smile. "I'm sorry Cameron." Blood was spilling from his nose.

"Where's The Sabbath?!"

"He's gone now. Left the city."

"Is he in charge? Tell me!"

Odin paused.

"Tell me!" He held his fist above his face.

"I'm sorry."

The air raid sirens from the city, those implemented during the war--before Cameron, and even Odin, were born--began howling from inside the city not too long after. Perhaps, about five or six seconds.

25

Kellie was in what seemed to be west Indiana, sitting outside of a gas station reading a newspaper. An old man that smelled of oil was fixing a car was about five feet away from her, and an equally as old dog was laying beside her, snoring through it's snot. She didn't know how she got there, but the air was crisp and smelled of pork rinds so she couldn't complain.

"Sir, can you keep it down?"

The mechanic tipped his hat and did just that.

It didn't seem like she'd get anywhere without a car so she took the time and waited.

She smiled. She turned from the front page and started scanning the editorials. It seemed that the city of Tinker was in need of some sort of elementary teacher for the upcoming school year. She hadn't ever been there, but it always sounded nice. It was at the foot of the mountains where all of the giants lived.

The mechanic wiped the sweat from his brow so that it didn't get into his third eye.

She flipped the page again and started reading the comics. Most of them were very misguided attempts to please older audiences, jokes about hating their wives' cooking and making fun of hippies. Occasionally, a cartoon about a little girl and her imaginary friend, a lion with a top hat, would appear. The strip that day involved the two of them playing a board game with their parents, ending with a pie being thrown into someone's face. Kellie couldn't help but chuckle. Reading the newspaper was all she could do for a little bit while her old car was bing fixed up. It wouldn't take much longer, according to the mechanic, and she'd be back to driving along the interstate with a ghost in the passenger seat.

"It's all done ma'am." A line of oil was on his unshaven cheek.

"Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?"

"It's on the house."

"No, I insist."

"As do I." He smiled and she drove away while he pet his dog and walked back into the run down gas station and convenience store.

The air was stiff, so she had the windows rolled down. No radio tower was close enough to be able to listen to some punk in a room with a microphone talk about their favorite tunes, so she just had an old cowboy trail mix playing.

"I hate cowboy music."

"Sorry Elle, you'll have to deal with it."

"You can't get sucked into here."

Elle's spectral form rested on the window. She was wearing something only a dad would dare to wear out in public--a white t-shirt, cargo shorts, and some flip flops. All of them had one stain or another. "You could at least put on the ones about gunfights."

Kellie laughed. "Those ones will play eventually."

Elle groaned and stayed quiet until they were about an hour away from the gas station.

"I didn't know that your plane looked like an old western." Kellie said, eyes glazed over, staring out the windshield. She quickly came back to their reality.

"Yeah, well, it is."

"Fair enough."

"How'd you find me Kellie?"

"I don't know. I threw a dart at your name and here we are."

"Did my Abigail tell you?"

"She didn't know where you were."

"Huh, well good job."

"Where are you?"

"Here."

Kellie shut off the music and sighed. "Why are you hiding?"

A chuckle came from Kellie's right, and it was quickly followed with a large breath. "Why the fuck not? I've got nothing better to do."

"I can't argue with that logic. But people are dying Elle."

"How am I supposed to help?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I needed to know you were alive."

"I am."

"At least you listen more than the bitch in Chicane."

"Who?"

"My mother." Kellie sighed. She could taste pop on her breath and was able to hear the beeping in the hospital room again.

"Your concentration is slipping Kellie. I'll talk to you once this is all over."

"Okay."

--

Kellie awoke, and saw Jon peering out of the door as quietly as possible, while Martin sat wide awake, watching Jon.

She looked out the window into the street and saw that it lacked any life. All there was, was concrete and neon lights lining the street.

When she looked back to Martin, he was looking at her with a finger to his lips. It still had the little funky metal box that was reading his blood pressure.

She didn't hesitate, she stayed quiet, and stood up quietly. The boots she came in were by the door, so an extra step was avoided by letting her toes breath. The room felt humid, more so than before. It seemed too cliche for every hospital room to be an icebox but that didn't mean hospital rooms felt like Florida. It caked onto her forehead. A thick layer was covering her forehead, and when she got close to Jon, she saw it on him too. She tapped his shoulder, and he motioned out into the hallway.

The two men that were nice to the receptionist were standing over a body. One had a rusty shotgun, and the other held a crowbar. Both almost touched the ceiling. They reminded Kellie of boxers.

"Are those--"

"Yep." Jon replied. "Some of Neil's goons. They've got those stupid shirts on."

"Is she dead?"

"I'm not sure."

Kellie put up her hand to ignite, but Jon put it down. "There might be more Kellie, we need to be careful."

She growled to herself, a deep seated need for revenge still present.

For the next half hour, Kellie watched them like they were animals at the circus. Trying to understand what each act was for, and what it would amount to in the long run. She felt like mentioning to Martin, to make him feel better, that he probably wouldn't have to pay a hospital bill considering there were now people trying to kill patients in the hospital most likely, but she wasn't certain about that. All they had done was scan the hallways, while one typed word after word into the Apple II at the desk. If she got any closer to read what it was, she'd have been seen, and that would've been a problem all in itself.

To her surprise though, she kept seeing Cameron at the end of the hall with a pistol, about to get the jump on them. Then she'd blink, and it would be dark again.

They made no noise.

There was only typing.

And the sound of Quinn as he puffed a cigarette in Watanabi's room with the door shut. He had no clue what was happening, and he didn't care enough about the raid sirens to be on edge. The support systems that Watanabi was plugged into were whirring, beeping, and flashing in every way they were supposed to. He took another puff and blew it toward the air vent, flipping the page in the Night newspaper. Today's headline: AESIR'S BRIDGE NEEDING REPAIRS? He scoffed and flipped the page to the funnies. "Give me something good for once."

Watanabi didn't make a sarcastic comment towards him, and that made Quinn more happy than it should have.

"Hey, you want the sports section Junji?"

He moaned in his sleep.

"Well, you snooze you lose."

He moaned again. He must have been having a wild dream.

Quinn was getting antsy. He and Holland were taking shifts, making sure no one came in to finish off Watanabi, and so far it had only been Quinn. He tried calling the office on the phone in the room, but the phone to his desk was off the hook, as was the chief's. It was his fifth time reading the newspaper.

"Get me some water." Watanabi's voice was hoarse, dry as the dickens and sounded like an old car exhaust.

Quinn laughed. "You have to say please, first."

There was stale air for a moment.

"Get me some fucking water."

"Close enough."

Laughing, he went out into the hall to find a vending machine. Watanabi waited until he was gone before he started laughing himself and took a sip of the water bottle under his blanket. Some peace and quiet was always nice.

--

On the halfway point of the bridge connecting Dawn and Night, right next to a support beam that had a graffitied smiley face with teeth, the Volvo stalled, and Cameron sat behind the wheel halfway between boiling mad and shaking out of fear.

He spoke in monologues in his head, all of them involving what he wanted to say to Neil once he found them, but he gave up on that. Then he tried to write a few letters to Kellie in his head, apologizing for what had been happening, but those fell through too. He was just a man, in a stalled little car, watching his home crumble in front of him. No one was stopping people from leaving or entering, but it still seemed that nobody was leaving by way of the Aesir. He was the only one.

He screamed, and got out of the car, and started running as fast as he could into the city.

The Greek's would've made him an honorary messenger if they knew how slick his steps were, splashing in puddles of water and oil and moving forward without slowing. A sort of adrenaline was taking him over.

It was clear how bad the city had gotten.

The air raid sirens stabbed his ears. Trash littered the streets. People held up signs with no words in front of buildings. Almost every mom and pop joint that he loved so dearly was boarded up, glowing eyes peeking out from in between planks of wood. Some lower than others. Dragons and Donuts was simply empty. Phoenix Sewing had been raided, and a car was crashed into the front entrance.

Cameron kept running, his feet burned.

Coins jingled.

People paid him no mind; they were just trying to wrap their heads around what was happening at all. He turned a corner and found a running car crashed into a pole. The end of Parkinson's broadcast about a sanctuary was stuck on repeat.

"Be safe-be safe-be safe-be-be-be-be safe-be safe guys gals and enby pals. Be safe-be safe. . ."

Parkinson was doing just fine; he and his crew were hiding out in the basement of the KNNR station. He was on his feet the entire time, making sure people were okay and keeping morale up. At the time of Cameron running, he was helping to set up a sleeping area. Nobody was sure how long this would last.

Cameron eventually realized he didn't know where he was going, and started running faster, deciding as he went.

--

Kellie looked over to Jon, now helping Martin get dressed. "They're leaving."

Jon didn't know if he should've been scared or relieved. Neither seemed right, neither seemed applicable. "Which way?"

"Not sure, but they just finished up whatever they were doing with the computer."

Martin coughed. "I might be able to make a portal."

Jon mentally slapped him and physically gave him a kiss. "You will do no such thing. You'll rip yourself apart."

The two men moved out from the desk and over the body. They had chipper smiles and daunting hands. A burn was now visible on Mr. Crowbar, covering his entire mouth and neck. Kellie closed the door as much as possible without making any noise. "Who the hell could be worth so much as to have Neil send a few goons after them?"

"You think that's what's up?"

"I can't think of anything else. They were probably just trying to get into the patient portal or something."

Her eyes raised.

"There's someone else."

--

Potato chips came tumbling down the vending machine, lit only with a blue bulb, and the water came down from its sister machine not too long after.

Quinn had a trick. Give any machine a hard enough hit and you'd be good to get anything you needed. Computers? Smack the box. TV's? Twist and mangle the antenna until you're back to watching local baseball. Vending machines? Kick with enough force to rattle it but not enough to crack the glass. It was a science he prided himself on knowing.

"Fuck, no salt and vinegar?"

He kicked it again, this time out of anger. No more snacks fell, and he walked back down the hallway.

It was dimly lit and smelled of cotton balls. It made Quinn gag, so he walked quicker than usual, eating the barbecue chips he was now stuck with. They weren't bad, if not more salty than flavorful. It had the after taste of a burnt burger.

Quinn turned the corner and crumpled up the bag before just dropping it on the hallway floor. A quo of men were walking in front of him, too far ahead of him to be a bother. Probably just some night guards making sure every patient was still sedated so they could keep charging them money.

Another thing Quinn liked to complain about.

He slowed his pace and kept walking as normal.

They sure were big. He licked the remains of the powder off of his fingers and stuck his hands in his pockets.

Watching them walk was the most entertaining thing he had been able to do all night, so he paid close attention the whole way with a smile, eventually lighting a cigarette and puffing away like he was at a dirty movie theater. Did they like dirty movies?

"Hey you guys! Do you like dirty movies? Weird opener, but you know how sometimes you see a person and you're instantly able to know something that they like? When I met my girlfriend, I somehow knew, right away, knew she was into some kinky stuff. There was just a twinkle in her eye. . ."

His words trailed off as they turned around, showing their faces in the light. Quinn saw the man with the shotgun first.

"Shit, dude. Could you at least answer my question before you kill me?"

One laughed.

And then the other laughed.

"Yeah, I like pornos. Really make me feel good."

"Right? Wait, should I raise my hands?"

They didn't laugh at that joke. They can't all be winners. "Yes."

He did so.

He thought of the fact that he was about five feet away from a corner, and about two feet away from a fire extinguisher. With the fire extinguisher, he'd have to break the glass though, making it more risky. Did the shotgun have any shells in it? Some thugs liked to just have the look of a badass. It took a special kind of idiot to load their gun with shells. He needed a good bit of luck to be able to attack first. His gun was just sitting next to Watanabi, resting, giving Quinn the finger from a few rooms down.

The big one with the shotgun spoke again, establishing his role as leader. "What's your name?"

"Mike Hunt."

"Good one."

"Thank you, I was thinking of that or Seymour Butts."

"See more butts?" The other one asked.

Quinn lightly chuckled, not wanting to tempt fate so soon. "You've got it."

"Give us your fucking name." Quinn expected to hear the shotgun cock, movie style, but these guys were smart and actually had a shell loaded already. He sighed. "Richard Connor. I'm just here to see my wife."

"What's her name?"

"Bella Connor." Only half of his lie was untrue. Bella Connor was real, and she was in the hospital after some pneumonia. The leader furrowed his eyebrow and looked over at the goon. "Do you recognize that name?"

"I-uh yeah I think so."

There was a release of tension in the room. "Okay, okay fine--"

Quinn was fast. He was a hefty cop, bigger on the gut than most of the other detectives, but he was quick on his feet. In fact, back in the late 80s when he was in the police academy, he set a new record for the hundred meter dash.

He didn't have his gun, but he always made sure to have a pair of knuckles in his pocket, and that exact pair made contact with the man with the shotgun. There was a shockwave, and then he fell.

The other one threw his own, catching Quinn in the head with a bat and knocking him to the ground. He was able to cover most of the blow with his arm but it still hurt like shit and filled the room with stars and the smell of burning toast. He threw another swing down, and completely missed, hitting the floor next to Quinn.

Quinn threw his fist up, making the goon spew blood. The man on the ground was already getting back up, leaving some teeth on the ground.

But then he was back on the ground. Quinn watched as he seemed to throw himself back on to the ground, and listening to his skull crack under the weight, and his moan get louder.

The goon looked over at him, and didn't get to think for too long before Quinn kicked him to the ground and umped on his chest, punching both sides in succession, curious how this head was going to look once it was reduced to a bloody pulp. He was close. Blood painted the floor on each side of his head, and his breathing was reduced to a wheeze.

"Don't kill him!"

Quinn's fist stopped. He kept it hovering over the man. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you wouldn't gain anything from it."

"Maybe you wouldn't."

Kellie walked closer, and Jon stayed in the back.

"Shouldn't we ask why they're here?

He smiled. "Hey big guy, who are you here for? Blink twice if you're here to kill Detective Watanabi Junji."

It took a moment, but he finally did. Blood was caking his eyes.

"That's what I thought."

"Watanabi?" Kellie quietly repeated.

Quinn threw another punch, this one because it felt good. Punching clearly guilty people felt great to him, and each punch felt like a drag. "Who are you anyways?"

Kellie stuttered and looked back at Jon. He was already gone, back to Martin. "Um, my name is Kellie Wood."

"Nice to meet you Kellie. Now fuck off, I'm a cop. If you can't tell, the city is a petri dish of fun at the moment. And this fella is one of the germs. Isn't that right big guy?" He punched him again.

"Detective Watanabi is here?"

He sighed. "You're not stupid enough to be one of these lard asses, so yes."

"Is he okay?"

"He'll live. He can barely--fuck it doesn't matter." He finally looked back at her and went wide eyed. "You're the private eye's girl."

"Y-yeah." She replied. "I guess."

"Remember me? We met back in November; I think. How's that wrist of yours holding up?"

"Was every detective there that night?"

"Knacks don't get put on the fun cases." The shotgun rattled as he ripped it away from the leader man. Quinn spit on him and chuckled. He put the shotgun over his shoulder. "Have you seen any more of these clowns?"

"There was one with a crowbar."

"So, at least one. Good to know. Lots of people after my boy." He looked to her. "You should get out of the city. Take your friends with you. If everything goes well, your boyfriend will be with you in about an hour if they can get anything out of that damn vamp. Not a lot of people are leaving, too attached or something."

Voices echoed down the hall. Quinn wanted to smile, but he didn't want to risk scaring the girl. He gave himself about a fifty percent chance of being able to enter her back door by the end of the week so coming off as a man horny for action would have to be his second personality on this fine and wonderful night.

"Hey Kellie Wood, you think they had a plan to just execute the whole hospital of it's knacks?"

She didn't reply.

"I sure think so. Watanabi first, and then maybe even you." He threw her the shotgun. "It's got four shells. Use it wisely."

She barely managed to catch it, having it stumble a little before it was tight against her chest. "I don't like guns."

"Neither do people on the other end. If push comes to shove, it makes quite the heavy hit."

"Well, I'll just leave the killing to you."

"Oh thank god."

He disappeared in the dark down the hallway as he went to get Watanabi.

--

The police station stared at Cameron as he stood in front of it. It said, you lost, in a crisp and bubbling voice. Molten lava poured from it's voice. It was hot. He saw one of the cops hung over the side of a broken window, his throat slit, and the voice could've come from him.

He continued running.

His lungs burned.

Where was everybody?

--

Jon peeked out his head. Nothing in the hall but a water fountain and a few empty gurneys.

"We should be good."

The five started walking down, Quinn and Kellie led the way. Kellie had given the shotgun to Jon, who seemed more equipped to handle it. He just slung it over his shoulder and thought about how he was going to take a long vacation after his hometown wasn't burning to the ground and the world felt like a sitcom again. Quinn now had his .45 in hand. Watanabi was in a wheelchair, and being pushed by Jon. They looked like the cast of a hospital sitcom. A very oddball one.

"Watch out, there may be more people on the ground floor." Quinn said. The elevator descended.

"Yes sir." Watanabi said with a grin.

It had been less than a day since they found Watanabi in the sewers, his feet raw and bloody, and his clothes torn to shreds. He'd been walking for days underground, either looking for a way out or trying to get as lost as possible, per Neil Dodge Springer's orders. They healed him as much as they could, but it was clear that it was more mental, and would take time before their effect wore off of the tall man's mind. In fact, when he looked at Quinn, he saw a lion with the head of a snake, speaking in a Russian dialect. He took Russian in college so it wasn't too bad.

"How are you doing Junji?" He looked up at Quinn and gave him the middle finger. They laughed. Kellie stared at the numbers as they got lower. And then the door opened, and there stood Cameron.

He had someone's collar held in his hands.

"Stay here."

He dropped them to the ground. They surely didn't look good. Kellie hated to admit how bad it turned her on. Cameron walked up close to them, all looking in shock. Kellie walked forward first, and slapped him. Then, after letting it settle, she hugged him as hard as she could. "Are you okay?" She asked.

He nodded.

"Are you doing okay Marty?" He asked.

Martin looked at him confused.

Quinn wasn't so impressed with the entrance. "Did Neil tell you anything? What's going on Cameron?"

Cameron's eyes dropped. "A lot. Neil got out."

Now he really wanted to punch Cameron. And he did. The but of his pistol knocking him square in the nose.

Cameron stumbled to the ground and grabbed his bleeding nose. "Ah, g-god. I wasn't there I'm sorry."

"And where were you?!"

Jon screamed out in anger. "Knock it off!"

"I-I was getting coffee for the chief. He sent me out."

"Is that so?"

Cameron backed up slightly, a grin forming. He looked for the knife in his--

"No, it's not."

Everyone froze. Especially Cameron.

The new Cameron walked forward. The first one quickly tried to scramble up, but the other Cameron was quicker, tackling them down to the ground on their stomach.

"I don't like having words put in my mouth." New Cameron looked up and smiled at Kellie. She didn't smile back.

"Detective Quinn, I'd like to question this one if that's alright." He spoke.

"I'm not doing this. One of you assholes." He looked back at the others. "Ask him a question. If he gets it wrong, I put a bullet in his head."

They all tried to think of something. Kellie spoke first. "What was our plant's name?"

The one on top replied. "Kurt."

"Father's name?"

"J-Jonathan."

"Where does my mother live?"

"Chicane, I think."

She smiled. "That's him. Now stop pointing that gun at him."

Quinn obliged.

"So, who's this character?" He bent down on one knee and looked at the Cameron on the ground. The look of a wounded puppy in their eyes.

"Want to go find out?" Cameron asked. He had a smile. Kellie found it endearing, and too precious to forget about. They all said yes, in their own way.

26

Once upon a time, Cameron Jinx Vale Heron sat in a bar and wrote notes down on a napkin about the person he was asked to follow.

The bar was in the rich bitch district, so he didn't order anything except for some water and crackers, keeping a book open to keep people away from looking at him. It didn't matter regardless, his clothes clearly gave him away.

The man he was watching had a long mullet and hoop earrings and sat on the end of the bar, drunkenly hitting on the bartender who laughed along with it despite how uncomfortable he clearly was. Cameron understood his pain, to a degree. Sitting in that bar made him feel mentally ill, like the world was pressing in on him for even existing around people like this, that saw every windbreaker as a flag of insecurity. None of them wore their shoe size, it was always one size bigger.

Eventually the man left, and Cameron slowly followed.

He walked almost everywhere in the city, Cameron keeping his paddy cap low, before arriving at his apartment complex near Settler's Park. It was run-down, moldy, and dropping crumbs every few seconds. The Residence Inn was in bright neon above the door.

When the time came, both of his feet became feather light, and worked their way up.

For the next few hours, Cameron watched the man about his business.

At that time in his life, Kellie was spending her time still working pretty late at the Cupboard, a place that now barely existed in present day Cameron's recent memories, and he knew he could be there for hours. It was boring, all the man did was watch TV. The man that hired Cameron didn't let him in on their relationship, only that this man seemed to be cheating on his wife, as all of his clients apparently do.

When the moon struck two, his thighs started burning, squatting in the fire escape right outside the living room, the cold numbing his nose, his knuckles drying out locked over the camera. He was gonna go before inside, he heard a knock.

It was a heavy one. The man inside jumped awake, the dress shoes he was still wearing clicked on the wood loud, mimicking the knock perfectly. Then he stood up and made his way, stumbling still in his drunk stupor.

Cameron waited.

"Hello?"

The door flung into him as he looked through the peephole, and hall light filled the room. The culprit stood in the doorway wearing a mask, still. They were tall, too tall, and stared as the man stumbled. Cameron was still hidden outside the window.

The drunk said something, but Cameron didn't hear him.

A fight ensued, and in the end, the drunk man lay dead on the ground, Jeopardy! played over his corpse. And the still figure watched his body twitch on the carpet. By then, Cameron was running down Star Street. He and Kellie had toast and apples for breakfast the next morning, and it was never brought up.

--

Cameron took a seat, right in front of himself. This version of himself was bleeding. This version of himself was rowdy. This version of himself was sickly. And this version was right in front of him, curious as to why they were in a bookstore.

"Hi there."

"Hey there Jinx."

"Jinx, huh?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Who told you that they were at the hospital?"

"Who do you think?"

"I think Cameron Gonzalez told you."

"Bingo. Can I get some water?"

"No you can't. Not until you prove that you're worth our time."

"Oh come on."

"Who are you really?"

"Take a guess."

"Everybody's favorite radio host Parkinson?"

"I could be."

"Shape-shifter first, asshole second. Got any more tricks up your sleeve?"

"I mean, it's pretty easy for me to just make my hand smaller and bust out of this rope."

"Then why don't you? Why don't you make yourself bigger and stronger and take us all out?"

"Because no matter how strong I am, I still can't take a bullet."

"Couldn't have said it better myself. Now, let's see, who are you?"

"We could play twenty questions."

"Are you the queen?"

"Nope."

"Oh, I've got it, you're a vagrant."

"Excuse me?"

"You the one that pointed a shotgun at me?"

". . .man, you're good at this."

"Suzanne, was it?"

"It sure was. . ."

"Son of a bitch."

"Quinn, calm down."

"She's a cop. Precinct three."

"Is she now?"

"I sure am. Don't you recognize my eyes?"

"Well, that explains a lot more than I expected to get out of all of this. What is Neil's plan?"

"Plan?"

"What's happening in the city, everything is gone to shit. Neil and Gonzalez working together?"

"Don't know."

"Want me to get Quinn back in here?"

"I don't, I swear that I don't."

"Then tell me what's going on."

"I just know he wants the city to himself. He doesn't tell me everything, you know?"

"You seemed pretty close when you pointed a shotgun at me."

"You ever gonna let that go?"

"I don't like having guns pointed at me."

"That's true."

"Shut up, Quinn."

"You know, these ropes are kind of tight."

"Shut up Suzanne. Only a few more questions, and then we'll be out of your hair. Or, well, you'll be out of ours."

"Yeah?"

"Why was Cameron at Odin's house the day I came to ask him questions?"

". . .I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"I don't know."

"Tell what you do know."

"He called me to come guard him, that's all I know. Offered to pay me upfront."

"Are you his bodyguard always?"

"Always."

"Where you there when he and Neil met."

"I'm never there for deals."

"So, you've never met Neil?"

"No."

"Well, that's odd. You sure seemed to know about their relationship with us when you put a knife to my back. You know a good bit about her."

". . .I don't know what you're talking about."

"Neil doesn't call me Jinx, because if you can't tell, that's my middle name. They call me Cameron. My first name. You however, always call me Jinx. Because that's what Cameron called me. Isn't that right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How do you know Neil?"

"I don't know Neil."

"Then why were you pretending to be them? Were you trying to save me?"

"I wasn't pretending to be them."

"Sure you were."

"I wasn't."

"Did you not want the Sabbath to know? To know that you were going behind his back to keep me out of it? Do you have sympathy?"

"Neil wanted you alive!"

". . .why do they want me alive, Suzanne?"

"They didn't tell me. They just wanted me to tell you to back off."

"Does Cameron know that you two know each other?"

"No, no he doesn't."

"Who introduced you?"

"That asshole's police chief."

"I beg your fucking pard--"

"Quinn, wait."

"You have two minutes before I kick their teeth in."

"Try me cunt."

"Oh baby I've wanted to--"

"Both of you shut up or I will untie those ropes and let hell break loose. Now Suzanne, how do you know him?"

"He worked with me."

"In what way?"

"We were the ones that made up the Night Council's police detail."

--

Suzanne Anansi was born during a year, on a day, in the middle of a month, to a mother in a hospital. That was all she able to know. It was all the orphanage told her before raising her until the ripe age of eighteen and sending her on her way with an apple and a pocket full of food stamps. She made it work. She got a boring office job, she got a boring car, and she made it work. She was a shapeshifter, a trait that came in handy more times than she'd like to admit. She'd rob, she'd steal, she'd have sex with whoever she wanted. To her, it didn't seem wrong, she was doing what she needed to do to survive. People wouldn't give her good jobs, so she had to make up for the slack. Maybe that's why she made such a good cop. Getting through the academy in under a year, and in the sights of Cameron Gonzalez not long after.

Maybe he saw her act dirty, throwing a hot latte on a kid that stole a twinkie, maybe he just liked her spunk, but he liked her nonetheless.

The work was nice, and that sentiment would never leave. If the city was going to throw her under, why not give her own sourness back.

Eventually, she went from worker to partner. Friends in the force were even indoctrinated in alongside her, growing the Sabbath's family more and more. She got more and more for her effort.

And then she met the chief.

It wasn't known how close the Sabbath worked with the Knack Night Council. Hell, he had tea with Garrett Gaiman at least once a week, the big face of the group. She'd sit in the corner and listen to them laugh and howl, recounting their deeds over the week and how they should go on a cruise at some point, even if they never did. But after a long night, when she was sitting in his office eating egg rolls, he let her in on a deal they had been making.

"The name's Suzanne Anansi."

"Nice to meet you."

She shook the chief's hand, and they walked with each other to the council building. They patrolled the perimeter, and nothing more. The Chief was a smooth talker. He liked TV, that was for sure, and he liked fast food. Nothing else interested him it seemed. She found him charming, somebody she could bring home to the folks. Not that she ever would, even if she did have folks.

More cops joined.

More militia members.

More mobsters.

And then Cameron Gonzalez asked something of her that made her mouth drool. "I want you to make the city burn."

She helped to do just that.

--

"Is it the council?"

"I mean, it has to be."

"How deep does this go?"

"Doesn't Neil work for the council?"

"Are they all involved?"

They all talked over each other terribly. Cameron was reminded of grade school, being in the lunchroom, listening to an entire table of youngsters making bets over random topics. Only this time it was a group of adults, all deciding what they should do with a mimic. His imagination was elsewhere.

Quinn was in the forefront. Being a cop, he somehow appointed himself leader. Cameron disagreed with the idea but didn't have the energy to talk back.

"I say we leave." He said to the group.

Kellie scoffed. Jon and Martin were barely listening, they had already decided. "Just, leave?"

"At least until all of this settles down. We're, what, five people?"

"Six." Watanabi replied.

"Okay, six people. Most of the people in the city are terrified, and we can't remedy that. If we leave now, we can just deal with the aftermath later."

Cameron was behind the counter, taking out things they would probably need, and losing himself in his head.

Cameron!

It would be nice to come back and work here once Neil was dealt with. That seems like a good career ender.

"Cameron!"

He looked up. Everybody was staring at him.

"Yeah?"

"What do you want to do?"

Wasn't that the question. There were more than fifty answers you could give. Some to please Kellie, some to please Quinn, and some to please only himself. He opened up the cash register with a ding and took out most of the money. "I'm gonna put this in the back room, okay Martin?"

He nodded. He was back on his feet now, using his cane to stay afoot. "Don't put it on any high shelves."

"Wow, self-burn. Those are rare."

"So are you staying?"

Kellie was just as eager to get an answer.

"Yes."

Quinn took it and turned away, talking with Jon and Watanabi. Kellie kept looking at Cameron and walked forward. "What did you find?"

"Nothing at all."

The little burnt book was on the counter next to him.

"Why are you staying?"

"Because of Neil."

"Cameron, where are they going to go?"

"Somewhere that isn't here. Away from everyone."

"It isn't your responsibility." She said back. His words were scary to hear. She wanted him to stop.

"They hurt you, Kellie. I won't forgive myself if I let them get away."

A tear was forming. "Okay."

"If you don't want me to go, I won't."

She snickered. "I'm just a little pissed that you didn't ask me to come with."

"I was getting there."

"Well get there faster you asshole." She turned her back to rest on the counter.

Nobody said anything for a few minutes after that. Instead, Cameron pulled out a bottle of Gin from under the counter, saved for special occasions, and poured a glass. And then he poured another. Kellie grabbed it and sat down on a stack of books behind the counter, and they drank together until the people up front were done talking. Eventually all of them left via portal, leaving the two lovebirds with a couple of empty glasses in a bookstore. They stayed inside for a while, until Cameron looked over at her with a tired smile. "Scared?"

She nodded rapidly.

"Because we could die or because the lights are off."

"The lights."

"Me too."

27

Those of the radio workers that weren't asleep in the basement, were upstairs on the surface. Parkinson was in his office, drinking scotch and trying to get all of his affairs in order. They included but weren't limited too; a few friends from high school that he still owed money to, library books that were overdue, and his tab at the Dreams Bar.

He heard a knock at the door just as he finished writing all of his letters that would be sent out in the untimely demise of yours truly. "Come in."

It was his executive producer, Jamie. She had been with him back when he was just the coffee/errand boy. "Hey Park."

"Is everyone okay down there, Jamie?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're doing okay."

"Good."

She sighed and sat down in the chair on the other side of his desk, usually for those that wanted to be advertised on the radio program. He was glad it was only Jamie, and they could talk. It had been too long. "You think we should try and get everybody out?"

Parkinson sighed and poured a second glass of scotch. "Most of them live in Night, so I think they'd be safer here. I don't think anything that's happening has touched Dawn yet. Want a glass?"

"No thank you."

It went down smooth. "Jamie, this is too much."

"It is for me too."

"Do you have anybody that you need to get back to?" He asked. She breathed in the smell of varnish. "No, not tonight. Tommy is in Tokyo right now for business so it's just me."

"If you need anywhere you need to go, go."

"Thanks Park."

"Did you come in for anything in particular?"

She smiled at him and laid back in the chair. Parkinson noticed a pack of sunflower cigarettes in her hand and smiled back. "I just wanted to talk was all."

"Well, I'll talk as long as you need. We have about three hours until dawn, so we have time."

"Is there a deadline for dawn?"

"I've got to start the show."

--

Cameron put the money on the highest shelf he could reach before he and Kellie descended into the tunnels below the shop. He had a sword on his back. She had a backpack on hers. Both of them were exhausted. Cameron went first to make sure it was empty, and when he saw the chalk mark he had made before Neil dragged him down here, he knew that it was probably safe.

"Oh god, what do people flush down here?"

"Shit and piss probably."

Their shoes were caked in gunk before they even heard the streets above them. Cameron jumped at the sudden sound of wheels above pipes, but they kept walking, now more aware of the city than ever.

Kellie Wood found shelter in her head.

I wish I had learned to draw better. And I know Cameron is doing this for the better, but I wish I hadn't joined. What are you talking about Kellie, you want to kick Neil's ass as much as anybody. He is not the reason you are in these sewers. God, is that a dad rabbit? Just look at him now, he's just as scared as you are. No. He's terrified. He's mortified to be down here. You've slept beside him long enough to know. He was there when Elle asked you to join her coven, and he supported you for whatever you did, even if he was scared.

He was scared?

Um, hello?

Hey Kellie.

Elle?

Yeah, it's me.

Where are you?

I don't know Kellie. But you can't be going where you're going.

You could come tell me that in person, I might take it more to heart.

I'm serious.

I am too. Why are you suddenly in my head?

Because it’s the only place I feel safe in.

I feel like I get a say in that.

You do, I'm sorry. I can't think straight.

Are you okay?

"Kellie?"

She opened her eyes wide and looked at Cameron, the man staring with a hint of fear and a bowl of worry in his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I am."

"Do you want to take a break--"

"No, no, it's fine. We need to keep walking."

He nodded after a moment and continued through the sludge.

Why didn't you tell him Kellie?

Just, shut up Elle.

Can I just, please keep talking to you? It's dark in here.

Why can't I just talk to her? Kellie, come on you idiot. You can keep talking.

Yes, you can. Are you dead?

Once again, no I am not.

Would you be able to tell if you were?

Yes.

Okay.

Kill Neil for me if you're feeling up for it.

It took Kellie snickering behind Cameron for him to feel a little better about their trek. He passed a wall with graffitied runes and slurs. An owl in a top hat was next to all of it. He kept walking, wondering if they'd run into anybody down here.

The subway system was near, a rusty hatched door being the only thing separating the two. Cameron spied down both ends and saw nothing. "I think we're close. I think."

Kellie dropped onto the heavy tracks before responding. "Well, too late to second guess my love."

He dropped down next, stumbling, and folding his ankle.

--

Bang!

Cameron's head whipped back around to down the hall, his heart on fire, and his head a sponge. The sound echoed down the hallway for a few seconds, and when it was over, his feet built up enough courage to run.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

He head never felt his blood boil from adrenaline before, and it almost made him giddy from the feeling, having all of his body at his command, to it's strongest capacity.

Odin's office stared him right in the face. The frosted glass a deep red.

Cameron had never seen a dead body in his life. In biology class there was a day when they were to head to the School of Le Fay for a cadaver study, but Cameron was sick. When studying to get his PI license, he specifically stayed away from the genre of cases that involved that rough stuff. It didn't stop him from opening Odin's door however and feeling the complementary pigs in blankets about to come back up.

The old man was slumped back in his chair, dry heaving as he clutched his chest, blood spilling from his fingers and mouth.

And Neil themself, running down a hallway behind his bookshelf, as fast as they possibly can.

Cameron thought to himself, I wonder if I can run faster, and quickly attempted it.

"Mr. Seaworth, I'll be back to help I promise."

He didn't have the energy to respond before Cameron was gone.

--

The last batch of big movies that had played in town were a few rom coms, the large budget King Lear movie that Cameron still didn't entirely understand, and an animated movie about living and breathing cars that were competing in a race. The animation looked terrifying, making it odd that it was for kids. When Cameron first saw the poster, he had to take a minute to ground himself and tell himself it wasn't real. He’d taste popcorn until they were out of the subway. Out of Old Bronte.

Cameron saw some posters similar to even older movies up on the walls of the subway, some years old, and some months old. A Phantom Fist! poster was probably the only one that wasn't torn to shreds from, something that was below their pay grade.

The graffitied door came up next.

--

A knock woke up only half of Parkinson, but the opening of his door completed the action and his head jumped up. The empty bottle of scotch rattled off of his desk into the carpet. "Yes! Yes, who is it?"

"There's somebody here sir."

"Well, well who is it?" He wiped his eyes.

"Um, I'm not sure. They just knocked on the door looking for you."

That part woke him up another twenty percent, and he stared at the messenger intently. He went for another drink and sighed at the empty bottle on the floor. "Didn't we lock the door?"

"Yes."

"Then how'd they get in?"

"They didn't."

"What?"

"They knocked on the door. They're waiting outside. It's a group of five people."

". . .what?"

"They would like to speak to you. Are you drunk?"

His hand reached for the clock on his desk, but he instead punched it off onto the ground, joining the bottle. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven o'clock sir."

"Do they look armed?"

"Yes, one of them has a shotgun, but he also showed me a police badge."

Parkinson looked into his mind, snarling. Police, coming to start a fire when we didn’t even have matches. "So, they’re all police?"

"I'm not sure."

"Keep those fuckers out. Sorry, just, no, let me talk to them."

A battle was waging in his head, an angel and a demon, Crowley and Aziraphael (during a rough patch), a lion and a gazelle, etc. He kept a huge shelf of drinks, from orange juice to scotch, behind his desk, but he knew taking more would just make the battle wage ever worse. He slapped his face and thought about his younger sister before standing up and walking out of the office, apologizing after bumping the intern that came to inform him.

And the intern was right. A group of five people sat behind the glass in the room between the studio and the world where more animals lived. Parkinson tried to sober up and knocked on the glass. "Are you guys friendly?"

A shorter man walked over, and an extremely tall man, one that Parkinson couldn't help but feel attracted to, came over. "Are you Parkinson from the radio?"

"Who's asking?"

"Well-I guess I am."

"I was told that the big man with the shotgun over there is a cop."

Quinn nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Well, what did you guys want?"

Watanabi spoke next. His voice was back, finally. "We heard it was a safe place from the radio."

That sure was curious to Parkinson, but he kept to a motto: one problem at a time to make the world a better place. This was apparently his. The night had been too easy.

The door clicked. "Leave the shotgun on the bench." Quinn had no problem with that. They all let themselves into the station. Quinn came in last, and Parkinson stopped him before he could step in any further. Along with that, he stopped the woman that seemed to be trailing behind him with tied hands.

"I don't like cops."

"I don't listen to the radio."

"I don't want any funny business. Why is she tied up?"

"She's the enemy. I want to keep her safe."

He looked her up and down. "You can keep her in the break room."

Quinn kept walking.

Parkinson followed after locking the door and putting a chair through the double door bars.

--

It reeked strongly of weed, and Watanabi found a comfort in that. The sticky odor of sunflower and soy had clung to his nose, years in the station turned daily hotbox, and knowing he was out of it made him feel a lot better.

It wasn't Quinn or Holland, the pair of them wanted to make sure they didn't stick out in any sense at the cafe, so cigarettes were off the table. It actually seemed to be coming from a booth of groupies for Nirvana, baked out of their minds and eating pancakes as four pm approached.

"Why are we here Junji?"

Holland snickered. "Want me to tell you?"

"Please don't look in my mind. I just needed to talk to you outside the station. The place is rigged to the brim." Holland kept snickering to himself as Quinn smacked his shoulder. "You're telling me. But why are we here?"

"I got a friend to help us."

"Oh?"

"A private eye?"

Watanabi made sure that Holland was able to see every single thing he wanted to do to him for, once again, peaking into his noggin. "Holland, last chance, before I tear off a finger."

"I'd like to see you try old man."

"A fucking private eye? You're joking Junji."

"Afraid not. But, hey, he's free of charge. And he's got spirit, that much I know."

"Did you meet him in bed?" Holland asked, at this point just trying to see how far he could get the tall detective towards knocking his head off. He just stared with sunken eyes. "No, Holland, I did not."

"What is a private eye going to do for us?"

"Keep the law and the city on our side, mainly."

"The city is already on our side, just not our bosses."

"To them, we are one."

"I mean, for good reason. The system is kind of shit." Quinn cut in. He wasn't saying much.

"Regardless, he's our friend. Not just mine, and I feel like I need to clarify that. Not the most well versed in talking with the city, but he won't stop until this is over."

"At least we have that. I can do the talking." Holland took a sip of some tea he ordered. Watanabi hadn't caught what flavor, he was too busy scanning the room for listeners.

"How's the wife Holland?" Quinn asked.

"Fuck off."

He laughed to himself until Watanabi took his cup of coffee away from him and drank it all in one sip. "Piss off you two. We don't have very long before this gets worse. And I know it's going to get worse. The party is already talking about boarding up the church."

"You're joking."

"Afraid not."

"Then, I guess we better be friendly to your pal."

"Our pal. Just, trust him, alright?"

"That's a lot to ask before we've even see his face."

"And it's what you have to do."

Quinn agreed first.

And Holland agreed after he had gotten a refill on his tea.

--

When they reached the door, Cameron stopped and breathed in and out to calm his nerves. Kellie had to do the same, but she did so much louder. He turned around swiftly, and she saw him standing behind a bookstore counter, wearing an apron and ringing her up.

"Kel-

"Cam-"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You go first."

"Kellie, I'm-I'm sorry about what happened to you. What happened to Kurt. I-I just get so wrapped up in my own thoughts."

"You do. But so do I. I shouldn't have shut you out. I think with everything going on, I just, I don't know I felt like you didn't want any of my help and that made me feel really shitty."

"I did want your help, I wanted everything. Maybe that was the problem. I had things I was prioritizing more.

"Are you cold?"

"What?"

"You're shaking."

"N-no. No I'm fine."

"You can have my coat if you need it."

"I'm not cold, I promise."

"Okay."

"Are you okay?"

"Please stop asking that."

"I'm sorry."

"And please, stop apologizing Cameron. I love you, but, it's hard to love somebody who doesn't love themself. I swear, it's every day, that I watch you look at yourself in the mirror and say that you aren't good enough, and it pisses me off."

"I-I. You're right."

"I am."

". . .okay."

"What happened to you Cameron?"

". . .I don't know. I got angry with life I guess. I got upset it wasn't giving me more."

"Do you not think you have enough?"

"I never had enough to give to you. I thought that if I helped somebody, actually, that maybe I could finally feel like I've done something to make me have-to feel like I'm giving you something you can't get anywhere else. To make you know--"

"Shut up Cameron, and stop, stop thinking I'm stuck with you."

"I don't think you're stuck with me. I think you want me more than anyone alive. And I don't want that effort to be in vain."

". . .you give me, everything I want."

"And you give me, everything that I need."

". . .your hugs are nice."

"Yours are too."

"Ready to die?"

“We won’t die. If we’re careful, we’ll only lose an eye.”

When they let go, Cameron opened the door, and entered. Kellie followed. She left the door open just in case. Nobody else occupied that abandoned subway station for another four years, when a teenager and his friends entered to smoke weed in secret and use their newly found Knacks to mess around. One could talk to animals, one was as tall as Watanabi Junji, and another could give life to seeds, grow plants, and clean the air wherever he was.

By then, the city wouldn’t be in the dark.

28

Odin. Dutch. Seaworth.

A businessman with as much charm as hair on his back. A man that possessed a smile that could calm a room and give their sobriety a run for their money.

This exact man, sat next to Barbara Uematsu, twiddled with his thumbs, and concentrated on the throbbing bruise underneath his chest, and the one trapping his eye in the middle. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be anywhere, he wanted to listen to jazz music and drink a cigar. No, smoke a cigar.

"Odin?"

He only gave enough attention to convince them of his presence.

"What's the situation on the private eye?"

Neil scoffed when Vance said that but didn't say anything. Odin had the floor after all.

"He's dead."

"And Detective Watanabi?"

"I sent Suzanne to kill them. It should be done."

"Good. Thank you for all the hard work."

Chief scoffed. Somewhere in his head he felt that he had earned the right to take the tall detectives life. All those years of dealing with coffee and pipe smoke from the Mag fuck had granted him God’s will. Neil caught on to his scoff.

"Where's the body, Odin?" Neil spoke up. They didn't have their own desk, but they did have a nice corner right behind Frances Music, the one usually in charge of taxes around the place. Odin took a sip of water. "On the floor in my home."

"Good. Neil, please stop berating the man. Now, onto our next form of business. How is everybody planning on leaving their part of the city?"

Neil almost spoke out before the police chief stopped them, and they instead listened for as long as the meeting would let them.

When they were tasked to burn some extra documents and left, the meeting continued.

And when Odin heard a phone ring in an office far down the halls, and went to answer it, the meeting continued.

--

"One, two, THREE!"

The door slightly budged.

"One, two THREE!"

A little bit more. A sliver of light was cutting through, hitting Cameron square in the face. He couldn't see anything noticeable.

But he and Kellie sure could feel something noticeable, his big ass bookshelf that stood in front of the door into the tunnels. Their limbs felt it too, Cameron's triceps even commented quite negatively about it.

"One more. One, two THREE!"

With that last shove, they felt it open up just a little bit more, opening the sliver into an opening they were able to squeeze through.

Cameron took out his sword and kept it out.

Odin's office was, empty. Completely and utterly empty. Not a piece of furniture remained except for the bookshelves it seemed. Must have belonged to the building. A few random desk pieces were on top. The frosted glass on the door still a hint of red stained into it. Cameron found himself hyper fixating on it, until Kellie knocked him back into reality.

"Do you know where they'll be?"

"No clue. New Years was the only time I'd ever been here."

"Do you know if they're here?"

"I have a hunch."

"Okay."

She couldn't argue because she didn't have anything better than a hunch. At most, she had an image in her head of half a dozen Knacks laughing maniacally and twisting their mustaches.

He opened the door into the hallway and looked both ways. It was dead quiet.

For no reason in particular, Cameron found himself examining and trying to understand the oil paintings of each and every member of the council over the years as Kellie walked, and vise versa, down the almost endless feeling hallways toward whatever the word destiny could've meant. Cameron's mother never believed in destiny, he found himself thinking about her too. She would've looked at them walking and probably said something along the lines of, have you granted me any premarital grandkids yet? When he laughed, Kellie strengthened her grip and started picking up the pace.

"Neil is such a bitch." He said.

She laughed. "They are the biggest bitch are you kidding."

He passed by Odin's painting and lingered on the bottle of apple cider in his arm.

And then they were at the door.

The huge door that led into a conference room full of the city's horseman of the apocalypse.

They shared a look.

A long lingering one that held enough emotional to last a lifetime.

And the door opened.

--

It seemed that whatever higher being existed gave them a full potato sack of luck when they weren't looking.

Nothing was thrown.

Nobody spoke out at the sudden interruption.

For every member of the council, lay on the ground dead.

But two people stood in the room.

He tried to say a few words, but Kellie didn't hear them. As soon as the door was open, a flash of light and gust of wind rushed towards him and grabbed him by his throat, throwing him against a door that immediately broke. Neil in all their glory, digging nails into his throat, and staring at him with a sickly smile.

Laugh. Cough. Laugh. "Hey Neil."

A bullet fired into the hall as the police chief came into view. Kellie dodged it.

Neil looked, bad. A river of blood moving from their head to their neck. It almost seemed impossible that he had seen them only a few hours before.

"You're dead you fuck, you're dead!"

They flinched at another gunshot and felt a swift head butt right as they looked back down. It wouldn't knock Neil off of him, but it would make them mad, and that's exactly what Cameron wanted to do. Their hand came smashing down, claws out, and missed, digging into the carpet, and giving Cameron leeway to kick off and roll out of the way, having them both staring at each other from a few feet apart, Neil smiling, and Cameron panting.

"Odin, I should've known he'd have been your best fucking friend. You were always weak."

Kellie felt her right-hand heat up, hotter, and hotter, as the police chief screamed out. "Neil, is it them?"

"It sure is!" They had forgotten what his name was, but Neil was hoping he would end up dying here anyways, so they didn't try to remember. Al of their concentration stayed on Cameron. They lunged forward, and he barely dodged it, feeling his trench coat tear under his armpit. The Mexican standoff was back up.

The police chief's gun entered first, right into Kellie's hand. She held the gun barrel and bent the melted pipe upward. He screamed and dropped the gun.

Fire scorched Neil's irises.

They moved fast, and Cameron jumped out of the hall, the police chief falling against the desk inside. Neil's claws reached again and hit that time. Four long nails scraping off his shirt and flesh.

His back hit the ground with a thud.

Kellie threw a punch, missed, and the chief had his turn, filling her mouth with copper. It sprayed out as his fist came back, aiming for the stomach this time.

She--

Cameron rolled. Something felt broken, something in his gut, if there were bones in the gut. Regardless, his roll took effort, and Neil jumped back into the ceramic floor of the hallway. "Stop moving! Stop! Take it like you want it!"

Getting onto his feet was harder than rolling, much harder. It was affecting his sight, his concentration. Neil's fist slammed into his nose, and he used everything to keep his head up and throw a hook into her neck, their skull making a loud bonk noise as it hit the wall.

They both took a moment, dazed.

Cameron swallowed adrenaline, and headbutted them as hard as he could.

Now that hurt like the dickens. Neil could've written a five-page essay on how much it hurt, how their head became a lit firecracker, wanting to let everything inside blow. But thanks to some scientists in the 1800s, the head no longer can explode simply from pain. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Elle, he's on the ground.

I know.

Well, do something!

Not yet.

He's going to die!

No, he won't.

The police chief pulled a knife from his pocket and lunged it up. Kellie's hands were still hot. She managed to stop the blade, but only redirected it to her leg.

"How does that feel you dirty fucking Mag?"

"We-don't-even-know-YOU!"

"You don't need to."

He pushed the knife in further, and she let her free hand clasp around his neck, burning and sizzling. And when he screamed and let go of her, she kicked him into the wall, and charged headfirst into his stomach.

Stars and little action figures floated above his head, and then one more hit sent him to the ground. Kellie followed.

Elle talked to her sister behind the scenes.

--

It was five minutes to eight o'clock, and Parkinson drank a large cup of espresso in the recording studio. A producer and a few technicians agreed to help him get back on the air for the day, giving the people a show. The office was lit warmly, he was cozy in his clothes from the day before, and the coffee tasted like Europe gave him a hug.

His hands counted down.

One.

Two--

--

“Three?”

“Yep.”

“Damn Elle, that’s a long time.”

A sip of tea in the moonlight. “Yeah, well, I’ve kept it in good shape.”

“But three decades?”

She stopped and jerked her head.

"Did somebody just knock?" Elle took a sip of her earl gray gin and tonic and pointed her ears downstairs. Kellie simply looked down the steps and kept her ideas latched with Elle's. "I think so."

"God, it's midnight."

"Maybe it's a bible salesman."

"It better not be, I told that asshole not to come by here ever again." The asshole she was referring to wore khakis, a shirt and tie, and called Elle's existence a sin. She told Kellie to wait, and made her way downstairs, finishing her mug and throwing it out of existence, and back into existence in the dishwasher.

The Cupboard was dark.

It was late.

A few hanging lanterns.

One of the cats followed her down and took shelter under a shelf of snow globes.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. She was tired and it was pissing her off that somebody had come over close to the witching hour, but that's the city for you. Whoever it was wasn't visible through the door, so she turned a ring up and grew a pile of ice in her hand. The other hand opened the door.

And a man was there.

"Hello Eleanor."

"Oh, hey Zane."

"May I come in?"

"Nope."

"Please?"

"What do you want, it's midnight."

"I'm leaving town tonight; it's going to be getting bad here soon."

"So I've seen."

"Looking forward?"

"Yep."

"Are you going to leave?"

"I'm not sure yet. I need to tie up some loose ends. Make sure my friends don't die, you know the drill."

"Sadly, I do."

They stood silent for a moment.

"Well, I'm off. Just thought I’d say goodbye.”

“Travel with wit, my friend.”

She waved at him as he got into his car, running on the side of the road, and rove off with another wave from both of them. She stood in the door, and waited until the car was out of view, and did the same as she watched her protege leave down the sidewalk until she was completely out of view.

"Is she gone, Elle?"

"Yeah, you can come out."

Her sister came out.

"Are you ready?"

"Nope, but let's go."

She locked the door, flipped the sign, and went.

--

Cameron woke up from his five second nap, and saw Neil on the other side of him, rubbing their head, and trying to come back to the real world just the same. His hair felt wet, and he didn't know why.

"Do you know how easy this was supposed to be Cameron? Nobody was supposed to get involved. We had the perfect plan, and then you had to get involved, and ruin it for everybody!"

They crawled over, as he pushed himself up on his knees, trying to move. Fire ignited in the palm of their hand. They shifted into Suzanne. They shifted into Odin. They shifted into Elle. They shifted back into themselves. The smile was on every form.

"You shit head. You don't live through hell. You don't have to exist, with the constant worry that you'll be hurt, killed or worse. This was supposed to be our city, ours! And people like you just ruin it. This was going to be a new start, Cameron. One where no one has to be scared anymore! Where we can live!"

"But but I know not to hurt. Unlike, you."

Knuckles cut through skin.

"I kill so that we can live. So that the city doesn’t burn to the fucking ground! —”

He connected with their cheek and sent their head down to the ground.

“It’ll take more than that.” Their fist was faster than a bullet, knocking his head back into the ground, sending his sight down underground.

“What can you do Cameron?”

Crawl, that’s all he could do, flipping over, and trying to move forward. Hopefully that cinephile of a police chief was at least dead.

Neil’s howl of laughter echoed. “You make me laugh. You have the audacity to ask what my knack is only a few hours ago, but now, you can’t even look me in the eye when I’m killing you.”

Blood pooled out of Cameron’s mouth.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

No thank you. The floor felt elevated, the side of a mountain made of granite.

They grabbed his shoulder and flipped him back on his back. “Now, Cameron, I’d rather like an apology before you die.”

It hurt to try and speak. The fire in their eyes turned blue.

“Sick little man. Pride boils in your veins. Fire burns in mine, and I’m still standing—”

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

A bullet soared through their chest, right from across the room, clean and quiet. To Cameron it was quiet, but to Neil, it was a railgun, and then the next two came, and it was silence. And then down they fell, breathing.

Not much was keeping him awake, but that surely helped put adrenaline front and center. Panting, he got on top of them, and punched again. And again. And again. He punched with each fist, left and right, left, and right, watching blood and teeth spray out. A fang hitting the wall with the smallest sound, and Neil's gasping continuing.

Cameron stopped. But then he continued. His anger become the pilot and hit them over and over and over again.

Left cheek.

Right cheek.

"You don't get to fucking ruin lives because you think you can!"

Nose.

Left cheek.

Right cheek. Their jaw shattered. It felt like jelly.

Head.

Face.

Right cheek.

Cameron!

A tear dropped on her right cheek. He swung.

Cameron!

He didn't stop.

Right cheek.

Left.

Face. Cartilage spat out all over their mouth.

Left.

Face.

“Cameron stop it!”

And he stopped.

He didn’t know how long he had been hitting them, but it felt like years. Kellie’s hand was on his shoulder for just as long it seemed. Another tear dropped, and he realized they were his.

29

Parkinson cleared his throat, and looked out the window at Night, as the sun rose and rid his view of the fire and smoke. It made him smile.

He took a long deep breath.

And then he spoke.

"Guys, gals, and enby pals of the beautiful city of Night, this is Parkinson, reporting live from the studio, with more words of inspiration than words of fun. We sent out a broadcast early last night regarding the events happening in the city. A broadcast to let everybody know that our building was a safe house for whoever was needing it. . .it has been, one of the worst nights. We have had, one of the worst nights in the history of our city. In fact, it was the first time that we’ve ever stayed at the station past midnight funny enough. People have come to take shelter here. Scared employees that live in the city that had nowhere else to go, simply because people decided to take advantage of a good thing. However, from what I have seen, it hasn't taken us down. As a Knack myself, I am not on the ground. I'm right here, talking to all those that are able to listen, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. The Night Cat may have escaped, this may be true, but we know who they are, and cowards are nothing when their identity is known. And we made it to morning, so they’re more visible than ever. . .

". . .Also, I bare a message from a one Martin Whitewood to a, what was it?--A Cameron Jinx Vale Heron. He says, 'if you're still alive, you can call me Marty. We are safe'. Ha, that's a good friend right there. So, Cameron, if you're listening, your friends are safe, Marty included.

“Now, without further ado, some John Coltrane. . ."

--

To know what had happened, you'd have to have been there.

You would have had to be in the room when a single man broke and pulled out his gun. His boots making noise first as he came back into the room, gun already cocked. He didn't have anything to say to them, it was bottled up and corked with no way out. The conversations in his head told him that it was useless, and he listened, and fired without even a second thought. Some tried to run, but he was fast. All of them had knacks, but he knew what to look for, and could avoid them. Odin Dutch Seaworth was close with all of them, of course he knew what to look for, and of course he knew that the only way to get back at the world, to finish what he accidentally started. And once the last bullet was fired, he reloaded, turned on a record, and laid down. If there was anybody that could play this album perfectly, it was his daughter. The bullet went through his head like butter.

Neil and the chief entered next.

And then they left.

And well, you know the rest.

--

Kellie had nothing to say, except for a swift thought of, thank fucking Christ.

The record player in the corner stuttered, running over the same vinyl over and over again, unable to stop without outside influence.

Once they had finally walked in, they were hit with the true revelation of what exactly had happened. Cameron assumed Neil snapped, but the body of Odin told him all the he needed to know.

It brought Cameron immense comfort to know that somebody, somewhere in the city, was looking at the sunset, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. It was a very warm comfort that he shared with Kellie, as the two laid on the floor, and waited for the authorities to show up and bring them to a hospital. Their work was done, and it was time to take a break.

Kellie brought up the idea of going on holiday to New Zealand, and Cameron suggested Bulgaria.

In the end, he dug into his pocket, and flipped a coin.

Epilogue

On the corner of a currently unmarked street, where Cameron once bought donuts to cheer up his depressed girlfriend, a Knack child spoke to a squirrel and laughed to herself as it heard her. Once it ran off, her parents laughed too, and they kept on their way to whatever their destination was. That squirrel wasn't alive when the city was locked down, but she barely was, and it was clear.

A man right outside of Night Middle School, wearing a blue jumpsuit, was fixing a streetlight that had been going in and out since lock down. He got it done quick, and then went back inside, taking a sip of his pop on the way.

A newspaper salesman, trying to save the business of paper news, smoked from a pipe made of whale bone, and read his own supply. In the news, it was being said that Odin Dutch Seaworth's enterprise was moving outside of Night, and further west. The picture they choose had his closest heir eating in a restaurant with a three-piece suit on.

A teenager named Wade was in his room, a Pink Floyd poster above his bed, naked in his bed as his girlfriend slept beside him. He was in love.

The city of Night, was in the middle of a mundane day, smelling of coffee bean and tobacco. Somehow, tobacco was making a comeback over sunflower cigarettes. The city of Night wasn't a big fan of that change, as the smell was starting to overtake other things. Settler's Park banned it entirely, as did all buildings, but the outside world still reeked of it. Like all things, the trend would die down. Martin and Jon Whitewood didn't allow smoking of any kinds in their tea and novelty shop, Novel/Teas. It was to smell of pine wood and steaming cups of wake-up juice, and that was it. Sometimes apple turnovers and bear claws would take up most of the aroma, but that was rare. Everyone inside talked with their partners, Knack or not, wrote screenplays, or just took a break before having to head back to work. And while most of them were thinking about the stink and the rot and the corruption that stuck the city in a stand still a year ago, they were still able to smile to themselves and to Martin as he handed them glass cups of espresso and glass cups of earl gray tea.

The Knack Night Council had a new staff.

And Suzanne sat comfortably in her own home, somewhere in South America. She told them everything.

--

Cameron read through some essays from Professor Stephen King, wondering how he never became an author, and put it down to help someone check out a stack of books. She was floating above the ground; her converse were untied.

"Have you read that one?" She asked as he held a book titled, We Used to Ride Horses, Now We Buy Them by Kellie Z. H. Wood.

"I sure have. My girlfriend wrote it."

"Oh wow."

"I read the first draft, and this is much better." He chuckled, and she mimicked him. "Thank you."

She left, her skirt fluttering out into the summer heat as he went back to reading some of the essays and waiting for the day to go by. The Treematorium was cozy especially on this day, and he didn't know why. Customers were slow, an unusual sight since it was now the only surviving bookstore in this part of Night, and the coffee shop was booming. Cameron could see through the wooden arch that connected the two buildings, a short man flipping a cup and laughing with Jon who was taking some breakfast bagels out of the oven. His apron had a raccoon with a chef's hat on.

Cameron wondered what Kellie was doing, and if she would be free to wear a ring that night.

Martin came in around an hour later, when the lunch rush had calmed down, and his replacement came in to take his shift for an hour or two for lunch.

"Hey kiddo."

"Hey old man."

He opened his mouth to a gasp as he got closer. "Oh my god you're Cameron Heron! You stopped the Night Cat!"

Cameron snickered and tossed the book at him. Quickly, Martin opened a portal, and the book came hurtling at Cam and hit him square in the face. "Oh god, oh fuck."

He sat down in a spare chair and started looking through a book that was on the counter. Cameron didn't see what it was called, hell, he couldn't even keep track of what books were still there on the counter. "So, Cameron, my boy my son," Then a Cheshire smile crossed his face, "You uh, you ask her to be your slave yet?"

If there was a drink in his throat, it would've killed him.

"Okay, please rephrase that."

"What? I'm Jon's slave."

"Ew." He gave a dad laugh.

"Nah, but come on, details, I've been waiting for months."

"The moment isn't right yet."

"Shut the hell up, it so is." He took a sip from Cameron's water bottle and kept reading.

"I'm thinking of asking her tonight."

The book slammed shut and he threw it at Cameron too, making him chuckle loud after he was hit with both. "Shit!"

"Hey keep it down."

"Do you have the ring?"

"Well yea--"

"Show me, show me!"

It took him a minute, but he was able to retrieve it. Kellie would come in and visit all the time, since she started working from home, usually to bring him food and make sure he was actually eating it, and sometimes to have him read over drafts of her poetry. He could still remember when she brought in the one about Neil and the huge smile she had when he started crying reading it. It was the first time she had talked about her without panicking. He opened the cash register and took out the drawer, then reached in to pull out a small wooden box. Martin snatched it from him.

Stacking the books back up, and reloading the register, Cameron said, "You've gotten really spry since you stopped smoking."

"Right? Jon noticed that too."

He opened the box.

The ring was custom. Wood and resin, a mossy leaf inside of it, and a crystal moon engraved in the center. She never liked anything too fancy. Martin asked who made it, and Cameron couldn't remember, as he greeted another customer that came in to shop for some books. The library side of the business had been cut out since very few people actually took them up on it.

Being told like the plan for robbing a bank, Cameron told him all about what he wanted to do. First, he'd leave work early, close an hour before normal, and then go and get a bottle of peppermint wine. Probably from Gertrude and Ophelia's Wine Shop. After that, he'd take her out to get cheesesteak sandwiches from Moe's, and then they'd go back home and watch a movie. And if sex happened, then it happened.

Martin smiled.

Cameron smiled.

And then they hugged for a long time. Martin was able to rid the tears on his face easily.

--

When the time came, Cameron flipped the sign on the door and walked to his Chrysler, driving off the curb and over the bridge until he was in Dawn. Graffiti he'd come to be accustomed with was currently being scrubbed away by some teenagers in beanies and bright neon vests. He smiled and kept driving, listening to some John Lennon on the radio, and breathing in and out slowly, fingering the ring in his hand. He knew it would go well, how could it not? And then the voice in the back of his head would scream out something from the back of the class and make him slow down just a little bit to calm his nerves.

--

Kellie turned off Parkinson the second she heard blue grass playing. The static didn't help at all to add to the atmosphere of a cornfield. Something about his new building, being outside of Night, and just barely reaching the outskirts of Dawn, making all of his broadcasts fuzzy every so often. It didn't matter, A Wingless Bird with Sunglasses went a lot better with the sounds of kids flying kites in what felt like the first summer since Knacks even existed to the world.

So, in more concise verbiage, Parkinson could wait.

She'd been enjoying her days inside more so than usual. Living in the city didn't give the outside world much to flaunt over, but Dawn had a little charm to it. They had a rose and poppy garden in the back that she would occasionally water, finding times when her neighbor Jackal wasn't outside watering their own garden of color.

And besides that, she'd write poetry.

Read.

Or listen for Cameron to get back home to ask if they could order takeout again, since neither of them were very good at cooking. Not a recent discovery, but one they had just started to accept.

Kellie got a cup of espresso from the kitchen, looking at the postcard Martin and Jon had sent from Puerto Rico, and then sat back down once the cup was in hand. And then the sound of the Chrysler pulled into the driveway, and another poem was finished.

Life is pretty fucking good.

--

"Can we order takeout?"

"Of course. What kind?"

"I'm kind of feeling pizza."

"From the looks of it, you're feeling me, Kell."

"Eh, I can feel both."

"God, just say what you want."

"Pizza sounds great." He smiled.

--

He popped the question when she was on her fifth slice of supreme Hawaiian pizza and describing her fifth line in the poem she had been writing just before he got back from work. He made sure to make it work into the context of their conversation.

Her poem was about the complexities of sharing love, like most, with a horror element to it all. Something about an old woman killing old loves. It was sweet to a degree, at least to Cameron and Kellie. Maybe anyone else who read it would think otherwise, but it felt perfect to Cameron as he pulled out the little box and showed Kellie the ring. They weren't fans of traditional weddings, but hey, they were also old souls. So she screamed her answer with tears, and had sex with him on that couch, right then and there.

--

The wedding was in the old Eleventh Station Theatre, now refurbished and spotless of any physical memory that it may have once held.

Kellie had this idea that she had wanted to go with ever since she thought of it as a teenager. A wedding with three acts! It was to be presented like a play, their ceremony on the stage, with actors playing parts randomly in the audience to give it more of a personality. In the opera box, they'd have an Abraham Lincoln impersonator get shot halfway through. Whether this was a homage to his legacy or an attraction to his murder was unclear, and Cameron and Kellie would argue about it until the day eventually came, two months later in the birth of Fall. It smelled like pumpkin and candle wax, Cameron felt it in his nose when he left the house early that morning. Dew covered the grass, his car had a thin layer of water over it's windshield, and he was smiling. He'd be getting their first, and Elle would be over soon to pick up Kellie for their introduction to the day.

"How does this look?"

Martin squinted and then adjusted Cameron's bow tie. Their prep room was the dressing room to the theatre. "Alright there we go, it looks perfect."

"Sweet. I wish I didn't have to wear a tie."

"I wish I had gotten married before you."

"It's not a race."

He snickered like an old man. "Okay Mr. Tortoise."

"Hold on now."

It took a lot of convincing to invite Watanabi. Of course Cameron wanted him there, he was one of the best people he had met in his entire life, but also they hadn't talked since cracking the biggest case of the century. If you could call it that. Each newspaper thrown from a bicycle stated that in the city, mentioning the same two things. That the killer was dead, and that Detective Watanabi Junji was the hero behind it all. The cold morning that came with that newspaper smelled nice to Cameron. And when he picked it up to read the headline, he burst out laughing. Kurtis, their new plant, rustled some leaves alongside him to fit in.

Kellie stood in another dressing room, feeling out her dress. It was of Elvish design, floral and bright. She wore a crown made of rose gold wiring. Peace lilies poked out. A smile did the same.

"Do you think Jon is just sitting in the lobby waiting for Martin to help out Cam?" Elle asked.

He was. He drank ginger ale.

"Probably."

The thought made them cackle, but Jon was having a great time. The trumpet player in the band hit on him, to which he politely declined but was greatly flattered.

"Since I'm getting married, do you mind telling me where you were during, you know?"

"That's for a later date."

At 2 o'clock, people began showing up in the theatre.

--

"Kellie?"

"Hey, hey, hey. You can't see me until the ceremony." She said back. The door opened completely.

"Don't worry, I have my eyes covered."

She sighed, tired. "What is it that couldn't possibly wait?"

He leaned in and kissed her.

She giggled in her thin dress.

"Thank you, Cameron."

"Of course. I love you. Like a lot."

"I love you, like a lot, too. Is it full out there?"

"Pretty full. I think I saw a few agents out there, probably scouting for young studs."

"Fuck, I was hoping they wouldn't be here." She said. It was hard not to smile as they continued the bit, leading to another kiss from her to him, to get them both to shut up.

"Now go wait at the alter for me, we're getting married today in case you forgot."

"You've got it hambone."

--

Love is, well, it's love.

There doesn't have to be any complicated way to say it.

Because when you say it, and you feel it, it exists, and that's all it has to do.

Magic, so to speak, didn't exist, for a very long time. In the year 1900, a little girl was born with such abilities, and time tells the rest. But that's traditional magic. Story book magic that comes with out of this world capabilities and so on. Knacks didn't invent magic, they simply carried it with them into the world as they were born, whether they wanted to or not. Love is created, and is that not magical in itself?

But Cameron never felt it until he heard a saxophone play over the intercoms of the old theatre, and watched as Elle, almost looking to be the one to swoon the groomsmen, came walking down with Kellie in her hand. It wasn't until that moment, that he felt magic.

Martin and Jon smiled to themselves in their velvet tuxedos.

A few years later, Cameron would admit that in that moment, he nearly blacked out. Seeing her walking toward him, rafters full of friends and family, opera boxes full of the same, and his love of nearly a decade finally on her way to wed him and make puns for the rest of her life, with him always beside her. She walked slowly, high jazz played.

"Hi there."

"Why hello, madam."

He giggled.

She giggled.

He kissed her.

She kissed him.

And people watched in absolute joy.

Cameron saw his father in the front of the crowd, tears in his eyes. His mother would've been so proud. Kellie looked at Elle and saw the same. It was almost bizarre how many people were actually there. It wasn't enough to fill up a theatre, clearly, but it was enough to have an echo that sounded like millions of howling wolves.

When Cameron realized he didn't recognize some of his distant cousins, he kissed Kellie again, and they laughed with their lips barely touching.

--

While Elle was sleeping with one of Cameron's groomsmen, the reception was in full force.

One of Cameron's ideas, that seemed better in theory, was when he hired someone to play Abraham Lincoln to sit in one of the opera boxes. About halfway through, he had someone pretend to shoot him in the back of the head as he watched. The gunshot was a little too loud, so they had to calm down the crowd, and in fifteen minutes they were back to eating cake balls and listening to the DJ go through his playlist. The DJ was Martin, and he stuck to jazz only. Cameron was curious if he had any rock music, he said no, and kept at it.

"Cam my boy!"

He turned around and felt the breath leave him as his dad took him up in a huge hug.

"Oh damn, hey pops."

"My boy got married."

He hugged back. "I sure did."

"And what a looker she is!"

"She sure is." He couldn't find her in the crowd. She was halfway across the theatre at the moment, talking with some old friends of hers from school. Friends she hadn't seen in years. "Sorry it took so long for you to meet her."

He swished his glass in his hand. Cameron and Kellie had an open bar in the concessions stands. "Don't worry about it kiddo. I'm just glad you invited me."

"Was mom busy?"

Cameron's father put his hand around his shoulder. "When is she not busy? Now, let's have a good time."

Old dog, new tricks. That's how Cameron saw his father. The man that he hadn't spoken to in nearly a decade, acting the same as always but with more confidence and more empathy. Always good to see. Except when he decided to show some of the guests a quarter trick he learned in boy scouts nearly fifty years ago. What a guy.

"Cameron!"

It was Martin, he had a glass of white wine.

"Hey Marty."

"Don't call me that."

"It's my wedding old man." He snickered, and Martin just let out drunk air. "Anyways, Jon is having a headache so I think we're going to head home."

"Oh no, I hope he's alright. I've got some ibuprofen in my bag, would that help?"

"Maybe?"

"Come on, we gotta try. You've got to stay. You haven't even had cake yet."

"Get me the meds and we'll see."

"Deal."

Martin Whitewood. The man that Cameron saw as more of a father than a boss, and more a friend than a colleague. They saved a city together, how about that? His ears listened out for him as he left the main reception hall. His suit jacket was getting a little hot, so Cameron left it on a chair by the big doors.

He thought about the last year and a half.

He thought about Kellie in her dress.

He thought about a lot of things.

Too many to count.

And when he thought about everything that seemed important at the moment, he turned off his brain and walked backstage.

When he found the ibuprofen and walked back out to the crowded floor, the noise welcomed him with open arms.

Excerpt: Nick and Knacks; Vol. 1; pg. 142

Chapter 10: Night and It's Many Friends

. . .there was no reason to believe such things, but I was a kid, and found myself dry of companionship in the city that was supposed to grant it.

To make up a city, you need people and community. To make up Night, you need history and people. Community has been lacking here ever since 1903, and in the past forty years since then, the only thing that has changed is that people can go bring milk to other towns. To other states and countries. Night has many friends, but all of them reside within Night, so they've heard the stories it wants to tell time and time again, and after a while, that kind of thing gets boring.

You want more stories.

You want more memories to gleam life from.

When I was a kid, living in the concrete suburbia built near the shore, my mother would always tell me fables and fairy tales to get me to sleep. Knights and wizards fighting dragons and rescuing princesses. My mother was a woman who grew up in a time before people like me even existed, people that could've lived in books that were now out in the world. She grew up during a gold rush. I grew up locked in a city. And those stories she told me gave clarity to who I was, and not because of the words, but because of how my mother told them to me. When I was ten, she died in a hit and run.

Night's Knack is that it can take memories away, when handled by the wrong people. When people separate the word ‘human’ from the word ‘knack’. It’s a descriptor, and people forget that. I've grown up seeing both sides, those heavily Knack and those heavily 'human', as they put it. You have to put yourself on both sides to coexist, or else we all falter as a whole. If we don't live as a whole, we fall as a whole. . .