ã€ŠThe Beauty In Deathã€‹


 Chapter 1: The Proud

    There is a comfort in normalcy, felt by humans in their daily lives. Where if anything were to change, to disturb that blind perfection, humans will crumble and resort to their most ignoble response: To fight, flight, or more likely, to freeze.

    Change is not justified even when their Courtly systems rule in favor of growth. They will revoke themselves from ever seeing beyond their narrow minds. To bear witness to their reflection in the eyes of us so-called ¡°monsters¡±, and to stand before what they have wrought.

    Your kind, humans, refuse to change. You are insects beneath the feet of us otherworldly because of it. One day the sun will rise as black as void, and you will refuse to look upon it, saying it as golden as you remember it, denying the truth. Then, when existence is wrenched into the Outer Chaos, and only then while in your deepest madness will you turn your cries to us, your salvation.

    And we will laugh.

    <hr>

    The carriage ride is mundane as ever. The humid summer months continued to make Oliver St. Roche¡¯s handsome features muggy, his handkerchief used to pat away the sweat with hasty attempts to be dry. It still gathered at his collar, changing the pristine white fabric into a dreary stain that the sensitivity of his vanity would be appalled over were he to see it. His arrival is expected, a gala event to carry the artwork of a famous few. It is only out of formality that he shows his face, the St. Roche''s name had its own branding, which let him have the power to grant any piece of artwork a possible boost in popularity, were he to be so generous.

    Arriving at the front of the three story brick building, tepid in it¡¯s aged brown color with white framed windows that are quite large to allow for reasonable lighting indoors. Oliver¡¯s carriage door is opened by a servant, giving himself a grace period to button up his tailcoat and adjust himself, another pass of the handkerchief before exiting. Surprised, once he enters the building, to find so many more faces than he expected. Perhaps he is not wasting his precious time then, greeting his fellow tailcoats and art enthusiasts with proper etiquette. Oliver, the eldest of three, had the world set on his shoulders by an elitist father and mother, wealth stolen from the backs of their hard working slaves.

    Once he had satisfied his announced arrival, Oliver would begin to walk the edges of the exhibit, to view the paintings and sculptures alike. None of this had his interest, he found art to be a useless form to make oneself be noticed. Too many commoners attempted to find their way to fame and wealth through art, rather than working hard as they should. Oliver did not see the poor as people, in his eyes they were faceless beings eating and shitting in the streets, useless, harmful to people like himself.

    A pause in his step, having bumped into a passing lady who expresses a breathtaken awe of a particular art piece. Doubt heavy in his mind, Oliver weeds his way through the little gathering to find a single life sized marble white sculpture. His dark brown eyes skeptically begin to move along the piece, and he feels himself growing somewhat aroused by what he sees. It took the shape of a female figure, the sculpture hooded, face panned down with long curly hair draped from its cowl. It stands with only a minor slouch, and from what he can see of the face is a little smile upon full, elegant lips. At its feet around the bottom of the sculpture, are hands rising up, reaching towards the figure, in beckoning? He wondered.

    ¡°You seem concerned, Lord St. Roche.¡± A voice calls his attention, it is barely heard under a layer of muddling in his thoughts. Is the heat getting to him? His mind felt hazy for a brief moment, recovering himself with a clearing of his throat.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± He manages with a turn, finding himself in the company of a rather lovely young lady.

    ¡°The sculpture, is there something wrong with it?¡± She inquires to him modestly, perhaps it is hers?

    Oliver looks back to the piece, then down and up, from base to head, ¡°I find it appalling.¡± His first words of review and those around them tilted their ears towards it, ¡°It is like a Witch calling on the Demons of hell.¡± He furrows his brow at it, gestating at the figure, ¡°I would not be surprised if this thing were cursed.¡± Even if it called to him, he had value to his name he needed to save. Giving praise to something like this? It would be a scandal. A mark on his family name.

    ¡°Truly?¡± The woman observes it as well, shifting the glass of champagne in her fingers, twirling it by the stem. ¡°I find it enchanting.¡±

    ¡°As do I!¡± A large man, Lord Birggan, sounded off in exchange to the conversation. ¡°Those could be the hands of beggars, reaching for a savior.¡± Lord Birggan had no volume control, the party around them listening with either agreeing whispers, or disapproving head shakes.

    Oliver grimaces at such words to a sculpture so shameful. The smile on the statue''s face, the vagueness of its features, the lack of even a placard detailing its meaning, ¡°Then we will have to agree to disagree.¡± Staunch in his reply, the small gathering watched St. Roche veer off to go look elsewhere. And yet, he did not leave immediately.

    The duration of the gala is uneventful, with frustration his mind kept going back to that statue. He stayed the entire day, he must be out of his mind. He dared not say he is obsessed, he just wanted to see it again without the hovering gazes of others to weigh upon him. When the hour of day spilled into night, the mostly drunk patrons began to leave, giving Oliver his chance. Once more he approached the statue, giving it all of his attention now. No placard still. He frowns at its existence, skulking around it to examine the amazing amount of detail that went into it. The item did not even have a price? Confused, irritated, he felt himself becoming unreasonably agitated, and he turned to look for the event holder to question them with heavy rebuke.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    In this particular section of the exhibit however, he would find himself mostly alone. Of course, it is late, and people had gone home already. One soul remained, an old woman wearing a fine gray dress, accented with a vibrant blue hemming. Her white hair up in smooth twists and curled at its ends. When she meets his gaze, her eyes are as vivid as the accents of her gown. Not the faded tones one finds in those old and shriveled beyond their days. The blue is a hue he had never seen in the eyes of another person. Taken aback, he has to right himself mentally, but before he can speak the woman is crossing toward him to as well observe the statue.

    He stands himself tall, a hand gripping stoic to his coat seam as the old woman takes in the piece, ¡°And you,¡± He begins to the old mare in a firm confident tone, ¡°What do you think of this piece?¡± He nods to it.

    Silence fills the air between them, she sips from her glass with a slow calm, as if time were not a factor to her. Eventually she answers him, turning her head to the side to look at it from a new angle, while her voice harmonizes a strange dialect he is not familiar with, ¡°Underwhelming.¡±

    Oliver feels a spike of triumph, on the edge of his seat and ready to minister his distaste of the sculpture, but she continues, ¡°It is all wrong. Nothing should be reaching to her, if anything she should be pulling them up by their roots.¡± Meaning the hands reaching upward from the base.

    That perplexed him. He looks at the statue again, ¡°How is it wrong? This is just some random piece of work, is it not?¡±

    ¡°Not at all,¡± She smiles pleasantly, ¡°This is a very old legend. Of a being that held the key to life and death.¡±

    Oliver scoffs, looking at the statue, ¡°No wonder I dislike it.¡±

    ¡°Do you?¡± She out right questioned him, such audacity brings a disgusted curl to his lips, ¡°Yes. I do not believe in such stories of mysticism or false creations. These types of work put thoughts into the minds of our young that poison them. The other pieces of art are of villages, people, things that we can see and are real.¡± Oliver continues on his rant, sure he would sway this old woman''s understanding to why the statue is so harmful to be in existence, ¡°This should be crushed in the streets.¡±

    ¡°Then you do not believe in the Old Gods? Those Elder that were mentioned in our own religious texts.¡± She questions him once more, to Oliver''s growing fury.

    ¡°No. Our Gods are the true Gods, and those Gods mentioned in the Biblical Testimony are only a test to see if we truly have faith for those in the scripture, and only them.¡± He proudly raises his chin, but he can clearly see she is not entirely impressed with him.

    The old woman takes another slow sip from her glass, and in the dim lighting of candles assorted around the room, accompanied by the waning lamp light outside the windows, he wondered if the shadows were playing tricks with him. Her eyes seemed wrong for an instant, his vision must be fatigued, it had been an awfully long day and the pupils of her eyes naturally would not be elongated like a feline. Unless she is one of those bastard races?

    ¡°I will see that this thing,¡± He motions to it, ¡°Is destroyed. How dare they even have it in this proper community!¡± Oliver bows curtly to the old woman, not even waiting for her farewell as he takes his leave.

    He refused to look back at either her or that statue. Heading straight out, he climbs into his carriage and undoes the buttons of his coat and collar, exhaling a grunt of frustration. He would write the lengthiest letter to the King and Church, publish it, forcing the statue to be destroyed. People like him had that power, and he would use it accordingly.

    The ride home is long and hot, yet he does not notice the sweat beading down his face. Over and over his thoughts are plagued with the statue. Then of the memory of that old hag standing beside it, they both mocked him! That is how his mind interpreted it, the growing obsession, the need to be rid of it. Arriving at his mansion, he steps out with determination, heading straight in to write his letter. Greeted by his servants, offered the evening meal to which he dismisses until he is ready. Taking a seat at his desk, he inks his quill and prepares to scribble away his anger.

    The ink well is dry.

    Stabbing at it, picking up the well to tilt, the ink suddenly pours out all over his desk, an absurd amount he did not think that little bottle could contain. It had been dry. Oliver stands befuddled, papers soaked, the ink thick and ever so slowly absorbing into all of his other papers. He calls out for a servant to bring a damn towel! At his wits end, thinking he would go mad with rage. Movement draws his sight back down to the ink, where he finds it increasing in volume and spreading out along his desk to begin dripping along his floor. Alarm fills him and he takes a step back, bumping and sitting roughly back into his chair. Unable to look away, he calls again for his servants with a quiver in his voice.

    In the ink forms a bubble, then another, slowly more arrived simmering to the surface and begins to burst. A stench of something foul comes with it, Oliver covering his nose as the aroma of death. It fills the spacious study quickly. He manages to stand up, the ink crawling up onto his shoes. Panic begins to set in, it is not long until something large begins to emerge from the ink on his desk. First, it is a mass of a head, then shoulders, arms clawing upward with long talons digging into the wood of his desk. It wrenches up from the ink fast, he barely has a second to think of running when a pair of glowing eyes forms into the face of the creature.

    Blue. Such a beautiful, brilliant inescapable blue.

    The humanoid shape takes a crouching stance with two legs and two arms, staring at him. A mouth forms and it grins with stretched inky flesh, its teeth sharp with upper and lower canine sets far larger than wolves.

    ¡°Get back, monster!¡± Oliver manages out as he looks for his sword, hung up on the wall at the far end of the room by his study door. He flanks, running for it, gripping the hilt to unsheathe he turns and the thing is already in front of him. It had not made a sound, standing just a few inches shorter than himself. In a panic he stabs straight forward into its chest, and the blade enters its form with the ease of cream. No resistance. He tries again and again, stabbing, cutting, slicing, but nothing came of it other than the ink spattering his floor and walls. Fear, tasted in his mouth, felt under his skin, his heart painful in his chest, beating at such a fierce pace that he cannot find the ability to breathe properly. Dropping the weapon, the whole time he can see its grin, never changing.

    ¡°Are you done?¡± Its voice ripples through him with a perplexing feminine duality, a warmth like a mothers nurturing, and an edge of seduction that tightens his loins, to his shame.

    ¡°What are you?¡± Oliver pants out to it, watching it reach out to grasp him by the face, its talons prickling into his skin.

    "God." It answers him. Pressure mounted in his skull from its grip, he struggles, trying to pry himself free to no success.

    Oliver would live his last moments no longer angry and fueled by the thought of the statue. Instead, he could only gaze into those torrential eyes as the thing began to eat him alive.

 Chapter 2: Ever So Greedy

    Mister Oliver Roche became a part of history. Neither a body remained, nor a ghost with it. His study is come upon as a scene from a carnival gone wrong, where the bits and pieces of viscera still clinging to his shelves coagulated together as watermelon smashed to bits and left in the sun. His blood darkened into a stain where flecks of red garnished his possessions, clothing lumped moist together in a strangely neat pile. Yet, no bone fragments were left behind, all internal organs were not among the remains. It seemed only clothing, fat, and tissue were left and done in a way that seemed deliberate.

    The maid is the first to arrive upon this scene, and uses their telegraph to contact the authorities. A one, Detective Davit Safaryan, arrives by horse and carriage with his partner, Senior Detective Gary Louis. Not many in the Precinct could take Detective Safaryan very seriously, he is younger than the other detectives but had graduated at the top of his class. He had not many years to experience scenes like these, but he did have quite the mind in perceiving terrible events. This? Detective Safaryan had to take himself back away from the clutter of other investigators to truly understand.

    ¡°Well?¡± Safaryan¡¯s partner, Louis, approached Safaryan with a hardened expression on his stubbly round face. Arms folding with himself positioning to look at the scene and Safaryan still quietly analyzing.

    ¡°It is on purpose,¡± Safaryan began with a low voice that made Louis look at him confused.

    ¡°What ya¡¯ mean?¡± Louis grunts, motioning a hand at the area, ¡°Looks like someone got their block knocked off with one too many beatin¡¯s, to me.¡± Making his own deduction with less patience than Safaryan. Louis had seen much, much more than his fresh faced partner.

    Safaryan gives a slow shake of his head, ¡°This looks like a single perpetrator went out of their way to leave this kind of mess.¡± Safaryan pivots to the desk behind them, covered in a lot of spilled ink.

    ¡°There is a residue of magic coming off the desk.¡±

    ¡°What kind?¡± Louis begins a slow pace around the furnishing, letting Safaryan have his way.

    Safaryan nears and removes one of his gloves, reaching a hand outward to hover over the ink. It is not a welcoming feeling, a deep bone aching chill erodes up into his entire arm, and something old grips at him causing his hand to suddenly recoil, ¡°Extremely powerful,¡± The aura alone quickened Safaryan¡¯s heart, feeling himself wanting to leave immediately, ¡°Ancient.¡±

    ¡°Fey?¡± Louis had known quite a few in his day, they had that arrogant, nose up-turned privilege of magic. They were worse than the Zealots sometimes from the Spiritual Block, Fey were higher class and held wealth Louis would never know. Honestly? He could wholeheartedly say he hated the Fey.

    ¡°No, this magic is an abandonment of light all together.¡± Safaryan tries to express the sheer lack of any good in the magic, but Louis grins and knocks on a clean corner of the desk, ¡°Them UnSeelie, then?¡± Again pointing the guilt towards the Fey, but the UnSeelie faction had their Courts far away from this Kingdom.

    ¡°Again, no. This feels more like the work of a Demon.¡± Safaryan concludes, and Louis groans with a hand rubbing at the back of his thick neck.

    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ Demons. We will have to get Father Thiago in here to assess the scene. He might be able to do some holy prayers to bring the Demon here and we can properly read them their rights.¡±

    As Louis talks, Safaryan cannot look away from that ink. Something felt terribly wrong. He wanted to convince Louis to scrap this whole thing and call it a Supiocide, where a supernatural being kills a human, with an ongoing investigation to put on the backburner and never look at it again. The feel of the magic alone made all of Safaryan¡¯s self preserving alarms ring loudly. Unfortunately, that is not an option when it came to Justice, Law would prevail in the end, and Safaryan decided he needed to toughen himself up. This would not be the only scene he ever came across with dark magic. Certainly not the last.

    <hr>

    Another long carriage ride back to the city, returning to the precinct where they discuss their findings to the Chief. Orders were made, a telegraph sent to the Church of Saint Ferlieth, and then a strange silence followed. Detective Safaryan had been expecting at least a message returned, or to be asked to come with the Priest to visit the mansion and give his own testimony of their findings. Nothing came, and when Safaryan asked Louis about a follow up, his partner just shrugs him off and explains it as, ¡®The Church will handle it when they get to it.¡¯

    A week passed, all the while Safaryan spent nights awake, reading over the other investigators'' findings at the scene. No other updated records were being added, had this been the dead-end he wanted to come from such powerful magic?  However, this weighted silence, it did not last very much longer. It would have been too good to be true, had everything slipped between the cracks to disappear. Safaryan and Louis are eventually summoned to the Chief¡¯s office, finding the man behind the desk, their leader, looking quite unsettled.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°I need you two to head back to the Roche estate. The Church messaged us, they say that Father Thiago and his fellow priests have not returned contact or even attempted to reach out to them.¡± The Chief leans forward in his desk, stabbing a thick finger against the aged wood, ¡°Get in, see what you can find, leave immediately. Take backup with you. I got a bad feeling about this, Gentleman.¡±

    Missing Priests are not a joke in this city. They are renowned for their beliefs and magics, assisting in exorcisms and helping the Law find answers when things become too thickly intertwined with the supernatural. Either everything is fine and the Priests had just missed the telegraphs, or something did go very badly. The Kingdom would be in an uproar if this were the case, a majority of the populace depended highly on the Churches blessings. Davit had his own opinion of the Church since his earlier years starting his education in the Justice system. You tended to see things that the normal population would normally not witness. Some of those things left their mark deeply carved into the fabric of your being.

    <hr>

    They arrived back at Roche estate, seeing the carriages for the Priests still here with the horses roaming free as if someone had taken the time to release them. Safaryan and Louis had backup of five other officers, reaching the door of the estate to find it swinging open freely in the humid gusts of wind. Blades are drawn, revolvers unholstered, the group quietly moving through what felt like a shell of a former mansion. Louis is the first to call out, ¡°Anyone home?¡± A grin on his face as Louis seemed to be eager for a fight. Safaryan is less keen on getting his hands bloodied, he liked peace over war.

    Downstairs is entirely untouched. Outside of a few stray dogs eating cold food, there did not seem to be anyone even here. That is, until they began to travel up to the second floor where Roche¡¯s study resides. The higher they climbed, a smell would begin to strike them. Sickeningly sweet, death. The wallpaper had melted along the walls, warped into a greenish black paste that one of the men unfortunately touched, nearly retching with the smell that came with it. All candles were burnt out, windows were shattered, the floors feeling damp and making a deep squelching sound beneath their leather soles.

    At the door of the study, Louis lets out a long whistle, moving aside for Safaryan to see. Everything had been destroyed, bodies mangled and contorted along the floor where they had fallen. A single individual still lived, laid out with their back against a wall, and they breathed wet, gurgling lungful''s of air that exhaled reeking with that same disgusting smell. Hastily they approach him, reaching to touch him but Louis grabs Safaryan before he can. Louis nods to him, ¡°His skin¡¯s fallin¡¯ off him like a baked pheasant.¡±

    Kneeling down, Safaryan attempts to at least raise the veil from the Priest''s face, shaking slightly as the cloth is lifted and all the men wince at the sight. Emaciated, he looked like the undead. Sunken eyes and withered lips, the Priest coughs bringing up a tar like substance to speckle his once pristine white robes.

    ¡°Can you talk?¡± Safaryan gently asks, then waits with Louis behind him snorting, ¡°Be fuckin¡¯ lucky enough he can breathe.¡±

    ¡°M..istake.¡± The priest manages to gurgle out from a constricted windpipe. ¡°Father.. Thiago..¡± As much as he struggled to talk, the priest just did not have the answers.

    ¡°Can anyone mind-meld?¡± Safaryan looks at the other officers. The men nervously glance to one another before a female officer comes near to crouch before the Priest, ¡°I am not comfortable violating a priest''s privacy.¡± She admits to Detective Safaryan. ¡°We have no other choice, he is going to die and we are going to head back empty handed.¡± Safaryan reasons with her, convincing her to enter the Priest''s memories.

    Closing her eyes, she focuses on the Priest''s mind. The other officers try to search the room for survivors, not even quite sure how to get the bodies back without them falling apart. A calm silence is pierced by the woman letting out a scream, yanking her hand back with a look of terror, ¡°Father Thiago, oh Gods!¡± Dropping on her backside she begins to pray, ¡°What happened?¡± Safaryan hastily tries to get her to focus, grabbing her shoulder to give her a bit of a shake.

    ¡°Father Thiago, he.. They created a symbol of ¡®Hold¡¯ to capture whatever that thing is. Father Thiago, I cannot believe this, but he wanted to bring the creature back to the Church for something.¡± Her sobbing words had all the men quiet, looking on at the center of the room where that symbol would have been made, it needed an open space. In that space now is a gaping hole, wood torn asunder, leaving only the foundation for the ceiling of the room below them.

    ¡°Where is, Father Thiago?¡± Louis questions the detective, the woman gives a shake of her head, ¡°Gone. Dead. The creature just..¡± Her hands raise and make ripping motions in the air, ¡°Tore him apart, and ate him.¡±

    Why would Father Thiago want to capture a monster? More and more this began to fill Safaryan with unanswered questions. He looks to the priest before him, still breathing but likely to not make it back to the city before dying. And also, why did the creature leave him alive and not anyone else?

    ¡°Why did the Demon leave you?¡± Safaryan, talking more to himself.

    ¡°He¡¯s a warning.¡± The woman stares at the Priest, ¡°If we keep sending Priests, that monster is just going to keep killing them.¡± Making an educated guess of the matter. Louis can be heard nearing them, standing over Safaryan to consider the whole situation, ¡°This is too big for us. We need to head back to Chief, per his orders. We¡¯ll take what we can of the bodies.¡± It is the most rational decision to make in this circumstance. Safaryan¡¯s gut had been right, that the magic, this whole thing is far beyond their means of work.

    ¡°We¡¯ll let the Church know too. I aint sure they will help, but¡­ Gotta let the professionals do what they do.¡± Professionals that worked with the supernatural, Heaven, Hell. Safaryan does not argue or press. He rises and begins to help the others wrap up the bodies in bed sheets and stack them into the Priests carriage. The one still partially alive is loaded into one of their own carriages, and chauffeured with only one other officer on board to keep him comfortable.

    As they depart, Safaryan looks back through the window of the carriage to the mansion. It looked like a corpse more than ever, emptied of life, rotting from the inside out. May the Gods have mercy on them, and not let that thing, whatever this is, come for them too.

 Chapter 3: Our Wrathful Mercy

    Father Thiago had quite the reputation. Over the decades he had been called upon to perform exorcisms, and to heal the impoverished sick. Those that did not have the financial means for healers, potions from their local apothecary, their families became desperate for the wellbeing of their loved ones. These were the targets for gathering more followers, all at the cost for their devotion, tithe, and arrival for weekly mass.

    Oftentimes those that were sick just needed medicines, herbs, a very simple form of healing. Father Thiago saw their lack of education to be the perfect type of people to seek the Gods, His Gods, and if he could perform convincingly enough, they would believe unwaveringly in him, and tithe away whatever they had left. It built him up in the community to be a trusted, highly demanded Priest, and some of the city looked to him for help when the local authority had a crime that went beyond their understanding.

    A man of his word, and God, he would be elated to please the local officials, and to bill them as necessary. There were other Churches, other spiritual practices that did honestly help the community, but Father Thiago had imprinted himself very deeply, and very quickly over the years. Then, there is Father Thiago¡¯s main interests. The Supernatural. Exorcisms are a good way for him to find potential specimens to collect. Evil spirits, Demon possessions, creatures that the Father had managed to spellbind and collect as one would trinkets, some form of a hobby. He then would experiment upon them, their magic, stripping them apart layer by layer until nothing is left and he would incinerate them in holy flame. A prayer later, and he had already forgotten the beast, leaving detailed findings in journals he stowed away beneath the floor of his chamber.

    Years of harvesting the supernatural, he encountered so many evil beings. He believed deeply that he understood them all, the magic, their biology, even the spirits that manifested. He also knew how to destroy them. This knowledge could only make him more necessary to this city. The latest message from the precinct had potential. A wealthy man murdered in his own home, with magic that went beyond the simple minds of the officers. It seemed typical enough, until they mentioned old magic. Ancient. This could prove worthwhile, especially if he did come upon something new to pique his scientific interests. Gathering together a band of lower ranking Priests that would be forced to listen to his demands, Father Thiago rode out to the mansion, taking stock of his bag of trinkets.

    The mansion is unremarkable to him, a basic littering of gaudy architecture filled with things he did not believe this Mister Roche even used, or read. Reaching the second floor to find the deep remaining stains of blood, where most everything else had been cleaned up by the maids. Father Thiago moved about, having remembered the details about the ink on the desk. It had been instructed by the authorities to not clean it up, since it held the residue of the magic used.

    Approaching the ruined papers and dried up black ink, he gazes upon it skeptically. He reaches a bare hand to hover the stain, murmuring a few archaic words, and almost instantly his hand is struck by a force of dark residual energies. Scowling at it, he moves his hand to turn and see his flesh along his palm and fingers with the beginnings of a blistering rash. Disgust welled up into him, this is powerful magic after all. Rarely did spells, old and sitting for almost a week like this, have this lasting effect. Whatever this thing is wanted to linger here, perhaps haunt it, he presumed.

    Unacceptable, ¡°Lay down the runes of Karzcophe, we will be summoning this wretched entity.¡± Turning his demands to the other Priests, the group would begin to use blessed chalk, newborn animal blood, and their God¡¯s symbol to create a summoning circle in the middle of the study. The ink is a good conduit, the creature seemed overly arrogant and made the mistake of letting their magic remain active here. Once the task had been finished, each Priest took point around the circle, standing just outside the markings. Standing inside of it would make them directly connect to the activity, and anything that came through. Father Thiago stands to the North of the circle, facing it, taking papers that were soaked in ink he tosses them into the circle as the final necessity to link to the creature.

    ¡°Our Lord Karzcophe, God of all that is True and Sacred, we call upon thee,¡± Father Thiago began, arms outstretched in praise, ¡°We beseech thee to call forth this damnation that has defiled your people, so that we may purge Your world of its existence and bring ourselves closer to you!¡± The Priests began to pray in unison, following scripture that had been written many generations ago. Father Thiago begins to focus his arcane on the ink, blood, the chalk, divine magics beginning to wash through them, feeding it to create a blinding white pool in the summoning circle. The other Priests prayed from the bottom of their bellies, using all their abilities to aid in strengthening the Fathers'' incantation.

    Light fills the room, forcing their faces to raise to the Heavens, and not notice the fragments of bone shards gradually piercing through the edges of the circle. A dozen or so form into the markings, fading the magic at each punctured location. By the time Father Thiago felt the magic from himself buckling, it''s far too late. The bone shards in one fluid motion rip through the light, and as all the bone shards meet in the center of the summoning spell, the light shatters and darkness erupts as a geyser of black fire.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Abyssal flames spill along the ceiling, eroding into the walls, and rapidly spread downward to reach towards the Priests and envelope them into the flames. It is not the normal fire humans had learned to create from flint and stone, it is instead a plague of death that withers the men of their lives, essence, tearing the screams from their mouths. Their robes turn to wax and melt along their bodies, burning them as they deteriorate. Father Thiago is somehow untouched, forced to watch his brethren be overwhelmed in a blaze he felt all around him. Whites showed all around his aged brown eyes, his lungs beginning to burn with the stench of rotting flesh. He begins to cast his spell to counter the abyssal fire, a single hand raising in the air ready to throw into the fire a sphere of light.

    ¡°Liam Thiago¡­¡±

    A voice calls to him in tones of sensual mockery, and from the black flames he witnesses the entity begin to form into a humanoid shape, its lower face remarkably similar to that of a young woman, while the body drips with a consistency of syrup in a inky robe without exposing hands nor feet. It knew him? Perhaps his fame had gone beyond the city, directly into the gates of damnation. Father Thiago does not wait, instead thrusting downward the sphere of holy and it instantly shatters into fragments that quickly dissolve uselessly. How? How is this thing able to negate his holy magic?

    The entity advances upon him, reaching past the summoning barrier to grip him by the throat. He struggles against a hand as black as a starless night, its claws digging into his vertebrae. Choking, it leans close to him, lips like that of a whore in their supple design, and spreading further to show sharp carnivore teeth, ¡°You were far more easy to find than this one had anticipated.¡± The voice from it is warm and inviting, speaking in third person, with that edge of taunting in its sensuality.

    ¡°It seems you cannot resist your own hubris.¡± A trap had been laid with the basic tools to interest him, unusual power and uncertainty of the thing it came from.

    ¡°Why?¡± Father Thiago manages to choke out from the creature''s grip, one of his hands moving behind his back as he starts to conduct a stronger spell while it''s distracted in conversation.

    ¡°Maria De Le¨®n.¡± A name. Father Thiago rifles through the names he knew. It sounded familiar, but.. wait. Maria. A memory from a little less than a year ago, of a prostitute who worked in the red-light block of the city. He had come across her while traveling to a sick call, a beautiful red haired girl, with striking green eyes. Unable to rid her from his thoughts, even just from one look at her, he began to feel haunted by her. As a man of the cloth, this is unacceptable.

    He had taken the time to ask around the red-light block about her, and learned that Maria is a pure blooded Succubus. It set the Priest on a mission, where he abducted Maria easily during her shift on that same corner, attempting to purify her, before dissecting her as he had done all the other supernatural beings. A dissection that did not go purely, as he did things with her he had not physically with the others. He perverted his own work, but felt he had been forgiven after he burned the remains. Familiarity is in his gaze and the creature then smiles wider, grotesquely stretching the skin of their face, ¡°The Succubus,¡± Father Thiago disgustedly spits the words out, causing the creature''s smile to fade.

    ¡°Maria, belonged to this one. Your City grants the inhumans to live among you safely. Your laws protect them, yet you found your own volatile addiction to mutilating and snuffing out their lives to be the higher authority.¡± It spoke eloquently, each word while thickly accented, is spoken in a way so that even an infant would understand.

    The grip at his throat tightens, revoking him the ability to speak now as the thing leans closer, their lips barely a fraction of an inch from brushing together, ¡°This one has come to cleanse you from this world, so that you may join the countless others waiting for you in the pits of true salvation.¡±

    Father Thiago thrusts his hand forward with the spell completed, finding the magic and his hand lurching into the liquid mass of the creature''s form. He grins triumphantly, waiting several moments to see the inevitable burst of power tear it apart. However, somewhere in the black flames all around them, he can hear a maid somewhere in the mansion scream an awful sound. The creature had transferred his spell, forced it in the maid where they would combust into holy light and burn out of existence.

    The entity is amused by the maids death, hoisting the Father off his feet as the being reaches to his shoulder with its other hand, ¡°God has forsaken you, Liam Thiago. And She will be your mercy.¡± Father Thiago had no ability to curse the being, he could only seize as it began to tear him apart, limb from limb, and ate him piece by piece. The creature did not allow him to bleed out, instead keeping his heart and brain functioning so he is forced to watch. He prayed in his mind as hard and intently as he could, but nothing took his pain away, he felt perhaps his suffering would grant him the Great Eternity. No, in the last moments of his mortal life his soul is stripped from the chunks of his remains, and forced into a storm of immortal suffering within this entity.

    Bloodied hands lowered to the beings sides, and it turned to look at the remaining Priest who had dragged themselves to prop against a wall. The Priest chokes as it watches the entity stare at him, is it assessing him? Determining what to do with him? The thing steps back into the flames, melting into it, bringing the black fire to shrink and simmer out of existence. It had come and gone like a nightmare. Except this had been no dream.

 Chapter 4: Envious of Her Death

    Maria De Le¨®n. She had been no older than fifty, considered in the community of other Succubi to be young with the whole of existence before her. A ravishing smile, a confident and playful personality that so many were attracted to. With a contagious laugh that could hush a room full of voices, just so they could listen too. The red-light block had found itself a precious person to promote their work, and Maria did it shamelessly.

    Her corner is fought over frequently now, an opening for a new person to take her place. Her death had also left a hole in the red-light community, reminding not just the humans that worked there, but also the supernatural, that they were all vulnerable and at any given moment could go missing. It drove them into a silent uproar, because what could the degenerate community do to be heard by a City with so many devoted to this one religious sect. Sinners, fallen souls, no one would stand up for them. They would have to protect themselves, to be more wary of who they took on as clients.

    Coldiron thigh-high heels struck cobblestone with a metallic crack, a notorious sound to those who lived in the red-light block. The vast multitude of species here expanded from Human to Undead, Devils, children born with animal attributes that were highly sought for as servants or pets, even while illegal. Those of them outside on this summer day watched the figure with a respectable distance between themselves and she, whispering amongst themselves about her in reverence, fear, and desire. Wearing the adornments of a long raven-fur cloak, even in this heat, no jewelry evident on or in their flesh. They cross between carriages and head straight for the Headquarters of the red-light block, not bothering to knock as they enter the old heavy wooden door and let it close behind themselves naturally. Coming to a stop in the foyer, her gaze travels along the intimate decorations, dim lighting, a thin haze of smoke, bodies in the shadows of workers dressed in near nothing. The place reeked of perfume, fermented tabacco, and sex, for her she easily dismisses the strong scents.

    ¡°Madam Sheiro.¡± The Mistress of the establishment, Vivica, a Dark Elf that finishes the money count of her most recent customer, addresses the woman.

    ¡°I did not expect you.¡± Vivica waited for the woman to make some form of demand but found the look in Sheiro¡¯s feral eyes to be telling.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Vivica grows tense, the other workers in the area straightening up with looks between themselves, and their Mistress, waiting expectantly in silence.

    ¡°She is dead.¡± Sheiro¡¯s voice carries the burden of honesty to weigh upon the shoulders of those in the room, a sob heard among them, murmurs of pain with it.

    Vivica lowers her gaze to the unbuffed hardwood floors, red eyes brimming with anger but she does not lash out. Instead, she comes around the counter towards Sheiro, ¡°And?¡± The Dark Elf narrows her eyes at the woman with an assertive tone, an obvious want to hear anything else at all. Dark Elves were quite foolish when it came to predators, seeing them less likely as frightening, and instead a potential adrenalin rush in a fight. Even if it meant an imminent death.

    ¡°The one who put her down is dead.¡± Sheiro¡¯s words are apathetic. Rarely did this woman show any of them much emotion, but on occasion they could get her to smile, which is a reward in itself.

    Vivica stands strong, fists balling at her sides. She looks to her workers who are stunned, that after all this time, they finally had an answer, and no longer a vague assumption. Vivica swallows down her pride and bows before the woman, a flick of her wrist and her workers move to mirror the respect, weeping still heard, the pain in the room stifling. ¡°Thank you.¡± Vivica speaks for them, as one voice for so many others.

    Sheiro watches, impassive vision traveling along the bowed bodies, and kneeling flesh, able to clearly sense their grief. The woman turns to leave but Vivica raises up, ¡°Madam. I know Maria was close to you, would you care to have her possessions?¡± It felt only right to give it to this woman who had spent so much time with Maria. Sheiro takes pause at the door, her back to them all. ¡°Maria had no family to speak of. Her inheritance should be a contribution to those here. Use your judgement to whom what goes to.¡± The declaration in the beings'' accentuated tongue has Vivica nodding, ¡°Yes, Madam.¡±

    Leaving the business, the woman found the stewing of sorrow hidden deep within beginning to swelter now that this is done. None knew that the emotions she experienced were far more potent than their own. In her years as a grub, it caused such devastation, enacted upon without thought. Now? She micromanaged what she could, walking now instead of taking a carriage to expend some of the burdensome emotions. Maria had laid with her on many nights, and she listened to the Succubus talk endlessly about her life, where she came from, what men she pined for after laying with them. Maria had intended to ask one of her more special clients on a serious date, to which Sheiro encouraged her. The world does not wait, and Marias¡¯ chance to do this had been stolen from her. The man she pined for would now find out where her disappearance had taken her. His grief would be etched into his soul.

    The Church would attempt to investigate further into what Father Thiago had possibly confronted. Father Thiago¡¯s journals were eventually unearthed, a memo having been sent to the Precinct rather than the Church. Think it a love letter of spite. The Priest who laid in critical care to dream of her. He would either die, end his career, or this event would encourage him to rise up in the ranks of the church, thinking he could find revenge for his fallen predecessor. As for the ink with her magic? Over time it faded its potency, leaving a vague magical residue that the Church would be incapable of using effectively.

    The Detective would be left alone, the woman had no interest in them. They had gone as far as they could go, and would not delve deeper into the supernatural. They did begin an investigation on the church with the journals as evidence. The Church would be a scandal, coins would be offered in exchange to attempt to silence any journalism. To the woman¡¯s surprise, the newspapers would have their next big headline, and the authorities denied the Church''s bribery. Detective Safaryan had promise, intelligent and detail oriented. The fact he recognized her magic as ancient is quite interesting, so many here in this city were far below the totem of wisdom for what even qualified as ancient magics. There were Great Mages in the Kingdom, they did not speak of such old magic and most advanced users did not even recognize it, or feared dabbling with it at the least. Old magic is too wild, unpredictable, and could spiral them into madness.

    Lifting her face towards the sky, the woman slows in her walk to observe the sparse clouds laggard overhead. Having spent months doing her own investigating, it took time to follow the tracks of missing persons, to ask for information from sewer dwellers and homeless. It had been by chance that she found a Witch with the ability to speak with the dead, where Maria¡¯s last words to Sheiro were the Priests name. The woman would have given the Witch anything to hear Maria¡¯s laughter just one more time, but the s¨¦ance had its limits.

    Sheiro had lost count of how many of her chose were taken by the true death, caused by an individual. Yet another to add to the tapestry of spirits she did not want to forget. Lovers, friends. Immortality, she reasons, is suffering. An equivalent exchange for eternity, your happiness revoked just so you may be there to watch worlds crumble over the eons. This is why some immortals lost their minds. That day Sheiro would go to a stonemason and have Maria made a glamorous headstone. It would be placed in the small park near the red-light Headquarters, where Maria enjoyed taking walks. A network of vines with flowers of the color of Maria¡¯s hair would grow around its edges, eternally blossoming, as Maria should have been.

    <hr>

    The scandal of the Church placed a black mark on its history. However, to the disgust of the supernatural community, the people most devout to the Church would not be deterred by the murders. Some did excommunicate themselves, but not many. Those that stayed felt Maria and the others killed by Father Thiago had been blasphemers first and foremost, forsaken creatures that deserved to be executed and returned to the pits they had come from. In the following days the Church would find its community had grown in number, overfilling its pews during mass. Tithe flooded in, and while the Bishops¡¯ felt relieved by the rise in popularity, it did beg the question: What kind of people were now seated in their house of God?Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    The journals were locked within the precinct. The Chief made sure that the evidence would be held with strict rules over who may pull the documents. If the Church had someone on the inside, the Chief imagined they would attempt to destroy the evidence in favor of the Church. The events leading up to the conclusion of Father Thiago¡¯s death had Detective Safaryan wondering just who the anonymous tip had come from? A Priest from the inside? A partner that Father Thiago had not named in his documents? And what of the magic at the mansion, the monster that had killed him. Had it been not a coincidence, but done in a way the Father would be drawn in?

    Safaryan, lost in thought, vision unfocusing as his mind continued to repeat all the evidence he knew of that case. How Roche had left the gala, alone. The gala event holder, a Mister Worscha, having not witnessed Roche leave that night. He could have been with someone. Murdered in his home and left with the ink spiked with magic, and not just any magic. Safaryan tries to regroup his thoughts, and the focal point of his gaze is unconsciously set on to the end of his quill. Hovering above parchment, having been in mid sentence. The ink, he¡¯s fixated upon it, unable to look away as he felt his head gradually starting to feel hazy, the world muffled in his ears as the ink forms a bead of black at its tip.

    He begins lowering the quill to the parchment, watching the ink immediately spread outward on contact and be drawn into the dehydrated paper. It formed through fibers, like veins blackening from their starch white, to something more sinister. His heart began to beat faster, the white fading to that empty darkness, the smell of burning flesh returning to his nostrils, twined together with noxious residual smells. He¡¯s strangling the quill in his fingers then, knuckles paling as his mind suddenly, and with such clarity could hear someone say, ¡°Found you.¡±

    Lurching back in his seat, the raking of wooden chair legs shrieking out, his breath lost as he tries to pull air in while his eyes veer about in panic. A few other officers at their desks are looking at him confused, ¡°You alright there, bud?¡± One of them checks, Safaryan looking sharply to his desk, seeing his quill not in his hand. It¡¯s in the inkwell, and the form he had been filling out is set aside neatly, already completed. What the hell?

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Catching his breath, ¡°Yeah, I think I just fell asleep.¡± Smoothing out his shirt, he rises up, ¡°I¡¯m heading out. If Louis is looking for me, tell him I took an early day.¡± Taking his hat from the coat rack beside the entrance door, he adjusts it on his head, thankful it would collect the sweat that had gathered along his brow. He sets out into the city, unnerved, and a little paranoid.

    Who found him? Had he been dreaming?

    The Kingdom of Coldfalls has been a melting pot of a variety of species for many generations. Their King, Gaurav Ironjaw the III, a Dragonborn whose'' fathers-father had warred in this land, and won its valuable resources. The landscape is one of mountain ranges and deep forests, and in those mountains are their two most sought after materials, coal, and oil. Electricity is something they harvest through the severe storms that pass through summer and spring seasons, a large factory holds the beating heart of energy that keeps these stone buildings alive.

    From these are crafted ¡®horseless¡¯ drawn carriages, one of which Safaryan watches pass by toting a lovely couple that uses such transport just to flaunt their wealth. Most likely they belong to the Kings Court, a group made up of a singular person from each racial sect. They believed this would help with racial strain, for that person to represent the needs of their race, and fight for their rights. In Marias¡¯ case, a Demon on the council is now drilling away at the rest of the Court about what had happened and how to prevent it from happening again.

    There are also the more questionable parts of the Kingdom, where a Blackmarket sold illegal items, but had yet to be located successfully. Someone powerful gave it life, and were able to avoid being investigated for very long. It moved around the city, never in one place for too long. Safaryan could only guess that it might have a ¡®back door¡¯ to get in, a place marked with a rune to transport people through a gateway. No rune or symbol had been identified to confirm this.

    Hunting, fishing, farming all contributed to the lives of the people here. Trading can be done in the markets, whether with coin or bartering. Liquor is expensive, having to be imported from two other Kingdoms located around the world. Safaryan enjoyed this Kingdom, he had grown up here, and while his parents had passed on, and him the eldest son of two other sisters who lived outside the Kingdom, he had made long lasting friendships. Unwed, no children, his free time is spent at bars to bring home nice company, or loitering around the Mage¡¯s libraries to learn more about the magic written throughout history. Magic enthralled him. He did not give himself credit that the ability to feel, sense, even determine types of magic may just be that. Magic. No, he would rather chalk himself up as a lecherous brute Detective who¡¯s hobbies were questionably dull. What¡¯s the purpose in learning about magic if he could not wield it, after all.

    A few paces is all it took and he reached the closest bar to the precinct. A glass of watered down booze might not be ideal for most, but after what he thought he just heard, saw, and the case closed, he felt like he earned the mild buzz. Seating himself at the bar, his hat removed and fingers combing back his ill kept brown hair, he set the hat on the empty stool next to himself. Itching at the stubble along his jaw, fidgeting, the bartender takes his order and sets out a line of shots. One after another is downed with a visible cringe, not at the strength, just the sour aftertaste that came with cheaper liquor.

    ¡°Sorry, Detective. Unless you got the extra silver to spare, you¡¯re just goin¡¯ to have ta¡¯ brave it.¡± The bartender, a large balled orc, grins lopsided at him. Making jokes.

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t be as bad as the shit you called ¡®moonshine¡¯ that you served me the other day.¡± Safaryan parries, causing the orc to glare at him, slamming his meaty greenish gray fist on the countertop, rattling the dishware from the hint of strength behind it.

    ¡°Tha¡¯ was homemade, ya pissant!¡± The orc growls in offense, Safaryan unable to help but grin from his outburst.

    Safaryan raises his hands, still grinning but showing he is defenseless, ¡°I¡¯m joking, Mog!¡±

    The orc snorts, turning away from him to dry something, ¡°Me ma¡¯ made it.¡± Safaryan can hear the orc mutter. He has to struggle not to burst out laughing, and likely lose his teeth in a punch to the face.

    Leaning into the bar Safaryan tries to relax, arms folded on the counter with his thoughts like poison seeping back into questioning the incident. He had to let it go. The Church more than likely would go questioning the red-light block about the girl that had been abducted, to see if they knew any powerful magic users that could be suspects. They did not have the authority to question anyone against their will, and Safaryan overheard the Chief tell the Bishop over the phone that any suspicious activity or information that came to light would need to be brought to precinct immediately.

    Thumb and fingers rub together, staring off as his thoughts return to the ink once again. He never obsessed like this, he could be a hard worker but nothing stood out to him like this had. The magic in the ink, the way it felt that day, like a hand had reached out through the ink to mirror against his own hand. Radiating with power, angry-violent magic. Looking at his hand, he could not use his experience to ask Mages about what it could be. Ink magic alone seemed unlikely, it had just been a conduit. Something to use as a disguise for something more malevolent.

    Tapped on his shoulder, Safaryan swore he could feel his bones try to leap from his skin. Sharply turning to see a lovely mature woman beside him, an avian-person, she grins and wags her feathery fingers, ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to scare you!¡± Safaryan smiles at her, not one to discriminate; he invites the woman for a drink, then eventually a walk to his place. An apartment on the top floor of a livable complex, the owner at least repaired things. It might have been done with clay and a prayer, but they did their best.

    He indulged his base interests that night, and waited for her to fall asleep before getting up to take a seat at his kitchen table, still in just his skin. Having hoped this would take his mind off things, a nice distraction, and she really had been, but it seemed to not be enough to quail his growing infatuation with the case. Rolling up a cigarette with tobacco, he draws his tongue along the paper to seal the cigarette.

    ¡°Did you find what you¡¯re looking for?¡±

    As plain as day he heard that voice again. It hurt his mind to hear, a dull blade cutting into his skull. Dropping the cigarette he unsheathed a kitchen knife immediately, wielding it while darting his vision around. ¡°Who are you?¡± Nothing is out of sorts, the windows were open because of the summer heat but there is no one else here. Moving to the one window in his living room, he reaches out to close the panels and stops short. Down on the streets below someone is staring up at him, wearing a cloak with their cowl drawn. He could not make out their face in the dark.

    ¡°Hey!¡± Safaryan shouted down to them, ¡°Who the fuck are you!?¡±

    ¡°Davit?¡± The avian-woman¡¯s voice pulls his attention for only a second, seeing her in the doorway staring at the knife in his hand, he looks immediately back outside to the street below but the person is gone. Just, gone. Is he losing his mind?

    ¡°Yeah, uh¡­¡± Closing the window panels, lowering the knife, he looks to the woman, ¡°Everythings fine, just some damn kid throwing rocks.¡± Making up an excuse so she wouldn¡¯t have to worry.

    ¡°And the knife is for...?¡± Skepticism in her voice, not looking convinced, instead she seemed a little nervous and for good reason, but Safaryan grins reassuringly at her. Using his charm to distract her.

    ¡°I was getting ready to make something to eat. Are you hungry?¡± His stomach turns over at the thought of food, the anxiety in him fills him enough, while simultaneously eating at his insides. It worked though, to his relief, the woman headed into the kitchen to talk while he made them both something to eat. She had been good company, staying up until morning. She left when the sun started to rise, never having given him her name. Not that he could blame her.

 Chapter 5: Lust

    Thunder rolls in the distance, a fair warning to the locals. If one could find access to climb up the tallest buildings, they would see the bloated dark clouds hovering just beyond their mountains, sparking with jagged currents of green energy. The closer it drew, the sooner protective measures were taken, and the iron conduits were erected throughout the city. A carillon tolled above one of the Churches to alert citizens to head indoors and remain there until the storm had passed. It is not ideal for shop owners, but it is understandable that most would not be able to endure the violence of the storms.

    While the streets would begin to empty, only one location continued its responsibilities through the tearing winds and rattling thunder. The Castle of Coldfalls, where the King has already sent out invitations and begun the festivities of a banquet thrown in honor of his sons coming of age. The next in line to rule when Ironjaw the III takes his last breath. The child is reserved compared to his boisterous father, but to any who understood politics, it meant the child had promise, to be a good advisor in the coming days.

    Lord Phy¡¯drin, the appointed Demon to sit within the King''s court, had taken this as an opportunity. The castle would be busy with the festival and guards on duty would be scattered about the grounds. Most of them focused on the events, others standing in corridors and archways in emptied locations. The King would be distracted, the storm is also a splendid accident he intended to take full advantage of. The Lord hurried along while offering polite greetings to any who passed.

    Stopped by Lord Xogz, a goblin who had outlived most of his own kind through sheer force of will, and the head of the Merchant block. The goblin had a knack for finding rare items, and his contribution to the King has been quite favorable. Greeting Lord Phy¡¯drin with a slight bow, Lord Xogz adjusts his gold and jeweled rings, ¡°A splendid evening, Lord Phy¡¯drin! Especially for a coming-of-age party, don¡¯t you think?¡± His grin reminded Phy¡¯drin of sharks, sharp toothed and tongued when Xogz is in a poor mood. Attempting small talk with the Demon Lord who is too impatient at the moment, ¡°Yes, the storms will herald in the Prince. If you will excuse me, Lord Xogz.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, of course-of course, Lord Phy¡¯drin! We¡¯ll catch up later.¡± Lord Xogz gives another bow, the jewels on his person making him stand out like a pimp. If told as much, the goblin would be flattered. A short bow and Lord Phy¡¯drin is watched heading not lower down towards the festivities, but higher up, much higher to one of the Castle''s outermost spires. Curious. Lord Xogz brushes it off to the Demon being stressed after the Church scandal, probably still trying to clean up such a huge mess.

    It is not an entirely incorrect assumption. Lord Phy¡¯drin bypassed corridors with the small transport spell that allowed Court officials to get around the massive castle a little quicker. The King and other Court members could keep track of one another, in case foul play is had. This day would be the only day that Phy¡¯drin would have a chance to do this, without having to leave the castle and bring up suspicions of his whereabouts. Or anyone else paying enough attention to see where he is going.

    The stairs are ascended quickly, the narrow passage leading all the way up to an empty room that is just another forgotten part of the castle. It could be changed into a storage space, or a tiny room for a servant if needed. Lord Phy¡¯drin waited for the storm to fully consume the world, the single window rattling as the winds howled, threatening to tear the panels from their latch. Rain in great fattened drops began to crash down against the roof of the spire, and then the lightning struck. Intense flashes of jade illuminate the world outside, strobing wild before thunder raked the skies causing the very earth they lived upon to shudder. The storms were never caring, mother nature unmerciful, attempting to cleanse them all from her foundation.

    A lamp is given flame with a tap of Phy¡¯drins¡¯ finger tip, finding now to be the right moment. Taking out a small mirror from his coat, he utters a string of profane words. His reflection in the mirror is a mature white haired male. Three horns protruded from his temples, his hair pulled back in a tail to be neat and well groomed, exposing the slight narrow of his ears. Appearances were kept to their natural state for Demons, or close enough to it. Size in humanoid form is tempered to not destroy smaller areas, and if they have too frightening of an appearance, they attempt to tone it down or use masks and hoods. With cloven hooved feet, the Lord kept his wings within his torso, just for practicality purposes.

    The mirror cracks, this is expected. Waiting in silence as the mirror dimmed his reflection and soon no light even refracted from the shard surfaces. The storm made it a little difficult for his keen hearing to pick up on anything minute, but he only need listen for a voice. The mirror''s change should be the evidence that it had worked, yet there is only silence.

    ¡°Are you going to say anything?¡± Phy¡¯drin became annoyed, had it not worked?

    ¡°No.¡± A voice hushes through the mirror''s magic.

    ¡°Normally under different conditions I might find your sense of humor amusing. Right now, I could do without it.¡± Snapping at the individual on the other side of the mirror. ¡°I imagine you are aware of the Church''s activity?¡±

    Silence.

    ¡°Did you have anything to do with this?¡± He adjusts the mirror in his grip, holding it up away from his face but focused visually on its darkened nature.

    Continued silence.

    ¡°I am going to take that as a ¡®yes¡¯,¡± He shakes the mirror slightly, wanting to strangle them. ¡°I have been throat-deep in conferences and trying to keep the journalists from digging around. I have the King demanding answers, and while he is relieved that these murderers are stopped, he wants to know who killed the Priest. He brought in the Mage College, he has sent out his messengers to question known powerful magic users about the death. He expects me to find whoever did this and bring them in for law bound judgment. Are you trying to be noticed? Are you finally bored enough to weaken your protection?¡±

    Another span of silence, but this time it felt as if they might be considering what he said.

    ¡°Your concern is quite charming, Lord Phy¡¯drin. Be careful, the stress is going to ruin your complexion.¡± Teasing him, he can feel himself grow tense as this person plucked at their nerves.

    ¡°You are doing well. The King will give up after a few more weeks, certainly. The Church will be empty handed, the journalists will move on to the next best thing. Were you able to convince the Court to establish more laws on the church?¡±

    ¡°We are in recess. I have written up a document specifically outlawing the Church from harming or encouraging harm to non-human races.¡±

    ¡°But?¡±

    ¡°But we are off by three votes. We need the whole Court to vote in favor, or else it will force me to rewrite the law more loosely.¡±

    ¡°Who are the ones not in favor?¡±

    Lord Phy¡¯drin hesitated. If he told them, would they kill them also? If he did not tell them, would they suffer him too? Yes, is the answer to the latter. To the former, maybe it would end differently.

    ¡°Lady Cascus, Lord Brington, and Lady Tempest.¡±

    ¡°The elf, the dwarf, and no surprise, the human.¡± They did not sound at all impressed with who were the ones pushing back. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°The next season of voting in Court representatives won''t happen for another two years. I am not sure who they are in the pocket of, but the many others in the court might try to vote to push out their votes entirely.¡±

    ¡°The church, more than likely. In any case, see that the voting does go through and they are nullified. If such does not come to pass, then this one will take care of it.¡±

    ¡°Sheiro, no. I never question you, but right now you need to lay low until all of this has moved on. Even if the document does not go through, the Church will still be held accountable for any ill actions to the public.¡± An attempt at reasoning with her.

    ¡°No?¡±

    Lord Phy¡¯drin goes mute, biting his tongue as he regrets immediately saying anything.

    ¡°She understands, Lord Phy¡¯drin. Your concern is unlike you, perhaps she should come by and offer you some appreciation.¡± The sensual vocalizing has him trying to guard himself, she could easily get under his skin and sometimes he wondered if that is what he wanted her to do.

    ¡°This one will take a sabbatical, alleviating your stress levels. However¡­¡±

    Of course.

    ¡°If it does not go through, and the votes begin to all turn against you. Or they do not nullify the other votes, and it does not pass. You -will- tell her.¡±

    The dip in her voice elicited a pins and needles feeling through his system, rarely did he fear anything, an immortal also, but when it came to Sheiro he had to bow his head.

    ¡°Yes, I will.¡± What other choice is there, because if he denied her she could level his entire world. Him with it.

    ¡°Now go. Enjoy the Kings¡¯ son¡¯s party, she hears they have the best souffl¨¦.¡± A chortle of laughter and the mirror brightens, its glass reforming back together.

    Lord Phy¡¯drin slips the mirror back into his coat, looking to the window rattling on its hinges. The woman is impossible, having captured his loyalty through a debt from many years ago. She helped him climb the system, to be able to win the vote and earn his seat on the Court. While she is violent and arrogant, she knew how to get what she wanted. Not everything with her ended in death, only when something came too close to knowing of her did she bring down her sublime judgment. He had to wonder as well, how did she leave after the Priest, unscathed? No damned could be around Holy without feeling it. And Father Thiago had proved himself as well a violent character.

    A hand rested above the breast of his coat where the mirror is pocketed. He realized it then. That is why she so easily agreed to lay low. She¡¯s injured.

    <hr>

    Descending the stairs, Lord Phy¡¯drin attempted to ascertain the situation at this point. He would never have someone to present to the King as a guilty party to the Priests death. All Phy¡¯drin is able to do is pretend to continue to look, perhaps find someone he can brainwash into believing they had done it, and use them as a sacrifice. But then the person would have to share the same magic as Sheiro, which would be impossible to mimic.

    Music began to fill the corridors the closer he arrived to the festivities. Voices overlapped, creating a nuance of tangled noise he is not in the mood for. The guards observe his approach, and he is greeted by the slew of privileged, bowing and exchanging cordial welcomes as he weaves through the sea of rabble. Seeing Guinevere is perhaps the only pleasure he would have tonight, approaching the sonsy figure wearing a honey colored gown and jewelry that compliments her dark complexion so beautifully.

    Once she meets his eyes, Guinevere smiles helplessly, extending her hand to Lord Phy¡¯drin in expectation, ¡°You look ravishing as ever, my Lady.¡± Lord Phy¡¯drin takes the hand to raise and place a chaste kiss to her knuckles, her cheeks warming feverishly.

    ¡°Oh spare me, Lord Phy¡¯drin. Your charm will only make the others have to work that much harder to win me.¡± Guinevere encourages his advances, clearly the two of them knowing one another very well. ¡°Your lips say, kiss me. But your eyes.. Is everything all right?¡± She could read him so well, Lord Phy¡¯drin thought it a curse but also a fun little game.

    ¡°Yes, of course. Should we dance, or are you too busy fending off the other vultures seeking your hand?¡± He kept a hold of hers, pulling her towards himself with a vicious confidence in her expression.

    ¡°Lord Phy¡¯drin.¡± A servant approached, interrupting their flirtations. ¡°The King is expecting you.¡±

    A deep unnecessary breath and Lord Phy¡¯drin cannot say a word just yet, as Guinevere gives the servant a damning scowl. He smiles at the fire within her, squeezing her hand and offering it another kiss, ¡°My Lady.¡± Whispering to her. Guinevere is unimpressed, snubbing him with an upturn of her nose, but her smile returns, ¡°Another time then.¡± Leaving her on the floor to be tempted by the other men. Guinevere, while human, could make them bend knee to her whims. She is neither a witch, nor a sorcerer, she simply knew what she wanted, and how to get it.

    Approaching the throne where the King and his son are seated, Lord Phy¡¯drin kneels and bows his head to the two royals, ¡°Good evening, your majesties.¡± Both Dragonborn watch him with great scrutiny, Ironjaw motioning for Lord Phy¡¯drin to rise, ¡°I wanted to introduce you to a guest. This is King Runihura, he rules over the desert lands East from here.¡± The King motions to a tall robed older man. He could easily be mistaken to be Elven, his long narrow ears and a thin figure, but his skin showed a hue of gray that seemed sickly, contrasting the normal elven radiance. That, and the King did just say he came from the desert lands?

    Lord Phy¡¯drin bows to the other King, and King Runihura does not reflect the gesture, his solid white eyes burrowing into Phy¡¯drin, graciously only offering the Lord a smile. ¡°You are the Demon Lord on the appointed seat of the Court, yes?¡± King Runihura¡¯s milky eyes could be felt roaming Lord Phy¡¯drin.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Outside of current events, King Ironjaw has been singing you praises. In a land of numerous species, it must be taxing to keep the Demon¡¯s in check. By nature, they are not very subtle.¡± King Runihura seems to be understanding, his voice dry and coarse.

    Lord Phy¡¯drin chuckles and nods, ¡°We definitely are not subtle.¡± Throwing himself into the brimstone for the sake of his own pride of the Demon Nation. ¡°However, King Coldiron has created a population willing to speak up where rules are broken and unfortunate violence to take place.¡± Singing praises to his King.

    ¡°Outside of current events.¡± King Runihura repeats, an edge to his voice that causes Lord Phy¡¯drin to feel attacked. The Lord however continues to smile, while King Ironjaw looks to the fellow King with disapproval. An uncalled for comment.

    ¡°Outside of this, yes.¡± Lord Phy¡¯drin humbly echo¡¯s.

    ¡°I will be looking forward to your progress then. Whoever killed that Priest should be brought to justice immediately.¡± King Runihura reaches to stroke his gnarled fingers through his beard, ¡°It would look poorly for King Ironjaw to have a lingering stain such as this.¡±

    Pressure, the foreign King is putting pressure on him. Is it on purpose, where King Ironjaw had discussed his displeasure and King Runihura saw it as an opportunity to make Phy¡¯drin squirm? The Lord would not put it past them, Kings had their own ways of handling situations that could potentially lower the morale of the people. When the people become disheartened with their King, it leads to voting them out, or even a revolt.

    ¡°I am confident I will be able to bring justice to the Church, your Majesties.¡±

    Both King¡¯s nodded to him, King Ironjaw looking at the festivities, ¡°My son is interested in partaking of flesh tonight to complete his coming of age celebration. He shows interest in two females, would you bring them to the front for the Prince.¡± A common ending to the night of one coming of age. Lord Phy¡¯drin bows and waits for the Prince''s choices, then goes to speak with the girls who are eager to be with the Dragonborn Prince. No surprise there.

    After delivering the Princes¡¯ ladies of choice, Lord Phy¡¯drin heads back into the swarms of people to find Guinevere. The woman is uncanny, surrounded by a group of males who listen to her tall tails she just loves to spin. He would drift to the outside of the barrier of men, pacing around them until she could see him. A look here, a smile there, Guinevere ends her tails and gracefully breaks through the barrier of bodies to reach a hand out for Lord Phy¡¯drin. The man grips her warm touch with his own gloved fingers, and proceeds to walk away with her, to the rousing disappointment of the other bachelors.

    ¡°You are shameless.¡± Lord Phy¡¯drin pulls her into a dance.

    Guinevere brandishes a smile at him so ruthlessly, moving to the lead of his steps, ¡°That is why you like me so much.¡± It is her that leans upward on her toes to kiss him, sparking surprise in the demon''s face. It is a quick peck but enough for him to brim with desire, his gaze baring down at her with a heathen''s depravity causing a pleased laugh to arise from her. The waltz of his steps would take them past everyone else and into the halls, where they would meld into the shadows and explore their affections much deeper.

 Chapter 6: Insatiable Gluttony

    Muffled screams faded beneath the storm''s reign, the thunder devouring the growls of monsters. Teeth gnashing bone, tearing flesh from the innocent. Homes were being invaded under the veil of the storm, something unleashed to pick away at those having taken cover. The lower-block where the poor clustered together is suddenly invaded. People were being pulled from their beds, cast to the maws of horrendous beasts.

    Some were dragged away into the night, and those that fled into the streets were hunted as game. It centralized around only a small block of apartments, just enough to satisfy the intent, feeding until they were bloated on fresh bodies. The few city Guards that still patrolled only noticed something is wrong when a child ran out to them, wailing, too young to express themselves. The heavy rain dampening the smells of gore from being picked up. The thunder''s roar thickly coated over the signs of desperation.

    That small unit of guards drew weapons and advanced, hastily entering the child''s home to find a massive beast devouring what was left of the child''s guardians. They fell upon the beast, striking with swords, the monster turned to them with its wounds, discharging blood that smells disgusting. No pain, it felt nothing as it reached out with multiple emaciated limbs to grab a guard and bite into them, while another monster broke down through the ceiling from the bedroom above to pluck away at the remaining guards.

    The child out on the streets can only see just a hint of the outcome, staring, frozen in fear as even the adults could not stop this. The little boy looked up towards the skies, to the rooftop where a massive being stood, staring down at the child. Only visible when the green lightning sliced through the clouds. No one would be left, something had come and carved out the life in this block, and what remained is horrors untold.

    The following morning, neighbors witnessed the broken doors and blood smeared windows. And a lost child who could not take his eyes off from the rooftops, unable to speak, entirely forgo in the memories with no signs of waking from his nightmare. Only a spell ago had the Priest been killed. And now the deaths of several dozens had returned the city to mourning. Were they cursed? Had the death of Father Thiago enraged their Gods to smite them?

    <hr>

    Detective Safaryan woke up to the sound of the telegraph. The brassy clicks stirred him, rousing to find a strip of paper indicating for him to arrive at certain coordinates per the precinct. Such restricted information is to protect themselves from strangers reading their codes and gathering information that is meant to be privy. It¡¯s his day off, annoyance crept up slowly, and soon is overtaken by his stomach sinking abruptly, he felt like vomiting from what this might entail. ¡°Looks like you got to go.¡± The warm body in his bed shifts with a groan, ¡°Already?¡± The woman¡¯s voice is wooly from sleep, he cannot even tease her right now as he nods and gets up to change, ¡°I have to go to work.¡±

    The woman left without much more than a few flirtatious words. He bathed with a rag and soap, real quick wash. Then dressed and left, taking a rickshaw, the man who pulled him down the street seemed to be part bull with his massive horns and cloven feet. Strength in such a body, he moved quickly per Safaryan¡¯s request, sparing him the small talk. Arriving on the scene, Safaryan pays the rickshaw and then heads over to Louis waiting for him outside one of the apartments. ¡°How bad is it?¡±

    ¡°Well, ya remember St. Roche¡¯s place? Kinda like that, but less ink.¡± Louis snarks, looking to the apartments, ¡°Eighteen families, dead, some missing. A kid was found outside by himself, but he¡¯s in shock. Can¡¯t question a scared little fella like that and get sensible answers.¡± Louis had a big heart for kids.

    ¡°Anything similar to Roche''s case?¡± Safaryan hoped not but, this couldn¡¯t be a coincidence.

    ¡°I would say yeah, but. There are similarities, like the people bein¡¯ eaten deal. We ain''t sure of any magic yet, no one here has picked it up. Hence why we sent for ya.¡±  Louis smirked at him.

    ¡°Got it.¡± The detective tries to quiet the anxiety that came with seeing the dead in pieces. He looks along the apartments, ¡°Just this sector?¡± Now he felt confused, ¡°Because Roche was a rich bloke, this is the lower class.¡±

    ¡°Yup, thought the same thing.¡± Louis motions to one apartment complex, ¡°The other detectives said the freshest blood to this hour is in that buildin¡¯.¡±

    All the buildings are identical, and had been made that way for people to know where the poor lived. Discriminatory, yes, he did not like it. Whoever made the decisions of architecture could deal with those complaints. Walking through the rain that still drenched everyone, the storm''s chaos had passed, this is just a lingering shower. Enough to soak everyone.

    Ducking into the broken front door, Safaryan takes a moment to look around from the start of a scene. Violent, but it did not give the feeling of anger like Roche¡¯s place had. He begins to walk slowly down the hall of the apartment complex, passing broken doors, doors torn from hinges, grimacing at the remains that spattered the walls, hung from ceilings, tossed around like a dog playing with toys. Gruesome, careless, casual? Whatever had done all this had done it in a way that felt like play.

    Moving into the first apartment with a string of red on the door handle, indicating its the last and freshest area for death. He cannot help but pause in the living room, a lot of blood left on the floor. Approaching it he kneels down and takes his glove off to hover it. He felt for anything, but there is no magic in the blood. Taking his other glove off, stuffing them in his pockets, he began to roam the complex then and tried to sense or feel anything.

    His head turns towards the front when he hears a indiscernible whisper, looking around, ¡°Louis?¡± No response would come, he had entered the complex alone and thought as much. Louis sometimes hung back, at least at the other crime scenes he had until Safaryan told him to hurry his ass up. The whisper came again, this time in his other ear, promptly shoving a finger into it to wriggle around. It might be just flies, he is running on only a few hours of sleep also. No coffee either.

    Pressing on, he heads to the stairwell, leading up higher through the small, cramped spaces. This place had been built only to take single families from the looks of it, the paint on the walls is chipped and peeling. Up the flights of stairs, heading for the top, he hears a heavy metallic sound and looks down the stairwell to the center where one can see the bottom floor. There is an outline of someone looking up at him, almost like the other night.

    ¡°Hello? Are you alright?¡± A survivor? He hastily starts back down the stairs, ¡°I will be right there,¡± Looking down he can still see something. The darkened complex made it hard to make out fine details. It''s someone though, they moved and it looked like they were going to climb the stairs towards him.

    Run.

    The overwhelming sensation clenched at his heart.

    Run!

    But why? He did not understand this sudden panic. It¡¯s ascending the stairs though, coming towards him. Grounding himself he waits, no he wouldn¡¯t run. Neither could he suddenly move his legs. A grown man, him, having seen so much in the past few weeks.

    The footsteps of the person are dull, wet, and heavy. They took their time, raising the bar of Safaryan¡¯s instinct to run. They eventually begin to make that final turn up the steps, and Safaryan can see them, very clearly, he just could not process what he saw. Their body is bloated and gnarled, hundreds of eyes blinking moist along it¡¯s bruised and weeping body. Male, genitals exposed with its head turned up with large lidless eyes all over its face filled with a terrible sorrow. Pleading, begging him with its mouth stitched painfully shut.

    Safaryan cannot understand the rest of it, how it even lived, did it breathe? Maybe this is an outcome of last night, ¡°Are-are you-in need-¡± Of assistance would be the words he is now looking for. From its chest cavity, flesh and bone tore open and formed a giant mouth filled with teeth. The sound that came from it is nothing he had heard before. Pulling out his gun he aims it at the creature''s head, hesitant, ¡°Are you able to speak?¡± Shakily he tries to be rational, ¡°Can you understand me? Stop, do not come closer. Are you a victim from last night?¡±

    It emitted the sound once more, and ripping from its back is a dozen sleek, oozing tendrils that lash out towards him. The gun fires, knocking it back into the stairwell wall, and it lets out a scream like a baby''s wail. Safaryan next remembers running up the stairs, and he can hear it chasing him. Slamming into a broken home door he runs for the window, it''s still closed but he grips at its pane and wrenches to open it. It''s nailed shut. Not one to give up so quickly, he smashes the window out with something close to grab, shattering outward the glass.

    The shards came away from the window, taking with it the pieces of the world. The broken opening of the window showed outside of it a red sky and an endless black sea. The pieces of glass still attached to the window frame showed his world, had he just broken through a gateway? What the fuck is happening? He can hear it behind him, the thing gripping and shoving its mass through the doorway. It let out a sob, and Safaryan could feel its sadness. The sorrow is an agonizing sensation that cuts through all his extremities to his heart.

    Stop. Don¡¯t leave me: Is what he felt it was trying to say.

    Back out the window he feels a tremendous tightening in his chest, in here he had the monster, out in that red world he felt would be the end of him, with certainty. He moved from the window, shot at the thing several more times. It¡¯s body lurched with each bullet, nearly emptying the cylinder, the bloated pieces exploding in a shower of blood and meaty bits. It still comes for him, screaming in that terrible infant voice.

    A fire iron is near the wood burning hearth, picking it up he readies himself as he also tries to get back around to the door. It tries to grab for him and he manages to strike away its limbs, the tendril spattering a thick substance across him. Gritting his jaws he makes it around back to the front and sees something in the broken window. A faceless being, with wings like an angel. It has no eyes, no mouth, no nose, entirely smooth flesh colored face. It beckons him, a slender hand, drawing fingers inward to coax him.

    Come with me.

    Safaryan wants to go. The jarring shift in this chaos, the being seemed inviting. He¡¯s frozen at the door, it¡¯s right there, if he takes just a step back he would be-

    ¡°Ya alright there buddy?¡± Louis¡¯ voice is right behind him. A blink, and Safaryan is standing in the ruins of a home still, but the window is wide open to his world outside. The rain is pattering on the open sill. No one is in the home with him, the sense of pressure, sadness, desire is just gone.

    ¡°Louis..¡± Safaryan looks down at his gun, seeing he had discharged several rounds, but not all of them.

    ¡°Yeah?¡± Louis leans against the frame of the door, ¡°We heard gunshots,¡± A gun out in Louis¡¯ free hand, held pointing down at his hip.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Shaken, Safaryan can barely comprehend what just happened. Louis makes a face and grabs his arm, giving Safaryan a shake.

    ¡°I thought I saw something. I¡¯ve also been hearing things, seeing things.¡± The Detectives look at each other, and Louis can see the color in Safaryan¡¯s face entirely gone.

    Louis grunts and takes a deep breath, ¡°Seems like you¡¯re losin¡¯ it.¡± Actually making a joke about this, ¡°You sleep at all last night?¡±

    ¡°Maybe.. Three hours.¡±

    ¡°..Hm. Go home, get some sleep. Contact me when you can come back here. We need you, not fucked up like this. And stop drinkin¡¯ for a bit, maybe your lady friends are given ya a dob of ¡®fun¡¯ in your drinks.¡± Narcotics, he means.

    Holstering his gun, Safaryan shakes his head, ¡°This is a distraction. Let me do this. Just give me a moment.¡± Taking a seat on what remained of the couch, Safaryan holds his face. Maybe it was drugs, Louis had a point. The late night drinking and parties, he did it to wind down, except it is not worth it if he kept spiraling like this. Composing himself, even with the images of those things in his mind. Louis moves aside for Safaryan to return to his investigating, but Louis now follows him, watching his young partner with an air of caution. He would have to notify the Chief of Safaryan firing his gun, and being fucking weird like this. The Chief might brush it off for now, but if it kept happening Safaryan might be pushed into psychological counseling and a leave of absence. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    As for the magic here? Safaryan picked up on bits and pieces once he had gone to almost all the homes, it¡¯s so miniscule though. Back outside he took a drink of water from a cantine Louis had with him, sitting on the steps of a random complex outside. The rain felt warm, strangely enough. ¡°Well?¡± Louis gradually approaches Safaryan after he gives the kid some time to settle down.

    ¡°I barely feel something. There was blood, where the guards had died. It was not human. It felt undead, Necromancy.¡±

    Louis spits and looks aside in disgust. ¡°Just keeps gettin¡¯ better and better, don¡¯t it?¡±

    Safaryan runs a hand over his soaked hair, his beard, squeezing it out a bit. Tired, exhausted really. He waited while Louis used his more experienced detective instincts to make a decision on their next move. Except he is very quiet. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Safaryan lifts his face to him. Louis standing before him with his hands shoving into his cloak.

    ¡°Necromancers are hard to come by. The King outlawed them a few decades ago. Said it would bring plagues and lower standards of our Kingdom. I am going to have to inform the Chief, see if he knows anyone. It also means the Church might have to get involved, again.¡± Louis watches Safaryan, seeing the guy nod in acknowledgement.

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell the Chief, ya go home and get some rest. You look like shit.¡± Louis excuses himself by sending Safaryan away, to keep anyone from being shot.

    ¡°I look good in any condition.¡± Safaryan retorts with a grin, Louis belts out a laugh and motions for Safaryan to leave.

    Not one to argue with his mentor, Safaryan gets himself up and begins to make the walk back home. A crowd had gathered outside the barriers the guards had set up, the community expressing their sadness and fears. One individual who knew Safaryan from the bars called out to him for answers. He had none to give, nothing that would comfort the people here.

    Among the flock of mourners he did notice someone out of place, or at least visibly different than the rest. Had the other individual not called he might have missed this person entirely. The cloak they wore is far too nice for this area, the hood drawn up is lined in golden against a black clean fabric, it had to be worth several handfuls of coins. Safaryan felt the urge to pry a bit, because why would a noble be mixing themselves into the ¡®lesser¡¯ people.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± He calls out and the crowd looks to him, noticing where he focused and a few looked to the person among them. They watched them, the person ignored him evidently to a point it made him feel encouraged, ¡°Hey, yeah, excuse me!¡± Safaryan begins to approach them. It seemed he would not relent, the person turned finally to look at him, bringing himself to a sudden lurching halt. From under the hood is a face his mind interpreted as alien, there is something wrong with it, but at the same time? She¡¯s beautiful. Her expression is entirely apathetic to him, she does however begin to leave the crowd, a force of nature in her very movement that draws people out of her path.

    The rain beads off her cloak with presumably an enchantment to dispel the moisture, she must be warm underneath. Warm, inviting, the thoughts had Safaryan trying to shake himself off, ¡°Yes, hello. Are you from around here?¡± Posturing himself with confidence, he looks down to her vividly blue eyes.

    ¡°No.¡± A single word, nothing else to follow it.

    ¡°I assumed as much, is there a reason why you are here?¡± Louis had excused him, but Safaryan felt he should at least get a name or some kind of information about a noble lurking in the crowd.

    ¡°No.¡± Yet another single word answer, did they understand the language? Maybe he should apply some pressure.

    ¡°May I see a form of identification?¡±

    Persistent, he can see her cloak shift and eventually an elegant hand extends with polished sharp nails and a seal is presented, an imprint of Nobility with a name etched into the steel.

    ¡°Deodra?¡± He repeats and looks at her, to which she offers a slight nod. ¡°This seal is from which House?¡±

    ¡°House of the Serpent.¡± House of the Serpent? Safaryan shakes his head as he looks back to the seal, an intricate detail of strange etchings that he finally could make out of a snake from it. It made his head ache a little after looking at it too hard. ¡°I see, Lord Phy¡¯drin¡¯s House. You really are out of the Houses¡¯ general location. Why are you here?¡± Safaryan decides to push. Deodra, in all her audacity, just gives him a simple shrug. Safaryan makes a stern face at the woman, he did not say anything more and instead waited out whatever kind of stubbornness this is.

    She did not feel like answering his questions, it occurred to her then who this man is, ¡°Detective Safaryan from the 2nd Precinct.¡± Her accented tongue is a dialect he is not familiar with, some kind of Abyssal layer she must have come from. The fact she came from the Serpent House actually did not bother him, figuring her to be a Demon then, which explained why she did not look natural. What is natural to a demon?

    ¡°I am,¡± Obliging her with a confirmation of his identity, ¡°Again, Lady Deodra, why are you here?¡± Push, put pressure on her. ¡°Or do I need to bring you down to the precinct for questioning?¡±

    The pupils of her eyes swelled large causing almost the entire blue of her irises to black out into those void depths at their centers. He recognized the behavior from animals, did that mean his threat excited her?  ¡°When you hear a massacre has happened, it tends to draw attention, Detective. In the years living here, never has there been such news. Neither is the news of a Priest dying very common.¡± Pointing out what she felt to be obvious, ¡°Those like herself would be curious to see this bold behavior.¡± Explaining herself in a way to try and appease him, it only partially worked.

    ¡°I am going to ask that you move along then and let us take care of this.¡± Making his demands, and then seeing her haughty lips spread into an arrogant smile.

    ¡°And where were you headed just now?¡± Inquiring of him now in her own way of prying.

    Safaryan seems to hesitate at this, ¡°I was heading back to the Precinct myself.¡± Lie.

    ¡°Would you like some company?¡±

    For once in his adult life he is at a loss for words when being spoken to by an attractive individual. It is usually he who is asking that question. Is she flirting with him? He did not want to jump to conclusions, but the urges of his own selfish desires had him beyond curious. There had to be a motive, Nobles are very particular about who they are seen in public with. This is just, far too beguiling to deny. ¡°If you wish, Lady Deodra.¡± Providing her with a satisfactory entitlement, which seems to be enough to appease as she moves closer to begin walking side by side.

    People in this area did seem to recognize her, individuals giving her a wide breadth in their walk. The looks, glances that were either fearful or fascinated, he just could not distinguish between one or the other. He finds himself also very stiff, shoulders and neck as rigid as stone and he could not help himself but to glance towards her too.

    She walks with grace, her heels making such an effective warning to the stone beneath them. Like teeth biting down into rocks, cracking, unsettling, ¡°Curious pair of heels, my Lady. Are those made of iron?¡±

    The young woman looks at him, and smiles with a deceptive glimmer in her eyes that he could swear is a hint of sadism, ¡°Cold Iron, yes.¡±

    ¡°Cold Iron? Would that not make them appalling to the fey?¡± He meant it as a joke.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Safaryan is taken aback by this, ¡°I gather you have a grudge against them?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    A woman of little words, unless she had something to say it would seem. Safaryan looks then to her robes, the fine velvety material with its golden seams. ¡°Would I be wrong to make a guess that your robes are enchanted too?¡±

    ¡°Do you wish to find out?¡±

    The blatant flirtation causes him to warm, but also all of his instincts seem to tell him to not encourage her. ¡°No.¡± Exchanging the singular worded response. She chortles bemused by this, noticing right away the reflection of her behavior directed back at her. Often people did this when they were nervous or feeling as though they could stir her ire. Him? He just gave himself a little longer to stand in her graces.

    The rain slows and he can see from his peripheral view Deodra look at the storm clouds, then reach to pull the cowl back. Her hair is elegantly twisted and pinned in an array of drawn back curls, tied by a golden brooch and its gems are presumably emeralds. It''s the color of her hair that makes him a little more curious, the color of flowers, if a little pale. Usually Demon¡¯s tended towards reds, whites, vibrant blondes, or a pure black.

    Her ears are elongated like a feys but with ridges that are dainty and sharp. Piercings of gold dangle to the length of just above her shoulders. And she smells.. Absolutely amazing, a sweetness he cannot put his finger on. It pulls further at the strings of his immoral interests, a woman of confidence and yet, she seemed so gentle in her every movement. He resists the urge to compliment her, staring ahead at the walkway now as the pedestrians continued to avoid the pair. ¡°Any reason you wanted to walk with me?¡± He blurts out with laxed guard, inwardly cringing at himself.

    She does not seem phased however, ¡°Because you have been working on these cases and it''s intriguing you continue on them without fear. There are many questions to ask.¡±

    ¡°And why would any of these cases impact you?¡± Any case he took came with the possibility of someone trying to stop the investigations, to avoid getting caught. Bribery, as far as he knew, did not work at his Precinct. The ones that did attempt bribery were immediately taken into custody under the suspicion of activity with said case.

    ¡°As a Lady of the Serpent, it makes all Demons suspect, does it not? A Priest killed by Abyssal craft, and now¡­¡±

    ¡°Now?¡± Did she know something? It seemed obvious at this point.

    ¡°Undead? She heard you talking to your companion.¡± Her tone spills over in mirth. She had overheard Louis and him from that far away? Safaryan did not want to divulge information to a Lady of the Court, it is none of her business. Then again, if she had information, she might be worth the risk? The magic did come from Demons, as well as other things. There were other beings that had the potential similar abilities, Witches, for example.

    ¡°Are you saying you know something?¡± He left his usual warning of booking her if she knew something and is hiding it. Instead, he waited to see where this would go.

    ¡°No. Other than what your companion said, that Necromancers have been disposed of for decades. You can think of this one as an information broker, she does keep an eye on the Kingdom and informs the Court if one of our kind is acting out of sorts.¡± This one? She? The third person speech had him wary of her. Common is never a Demon¡¯s primary tongue, they did speak fluently in common after a certain span of life. Her accent is clear, maybe the common tongue just did not set well with her own natural language. Whatever that is.

    ¡°What are you wanting to ask me?¡± That had to be the reason then, maybe she is missing pieces like himself and had her own findings to glue into this.

    ¡°Do you have any leads?¡±

    The question bent him into a silent displeasure, the Lady watching him for several seconds before placing her focus ahead of them to their path. A purposeful look away to not let him feel pressured, but to give him mental space to think. Leads, from the Roche case or even today''s disparity? ¡°I have none.¡± Admitting begrudgingly, ¡°We have been bringing in all of Roche¡¯s family, colleagues, and friends for questioning. No one seems to know a single thing, even when put under the tests of the Precincts empaths and mind detection. Not a single liar. I also have a horrible feeling that it will be the same for this mass murder, like something outside of the Kingdom has been sneaking in and then sneaking back out.¡±

    While Roche¡¯s endings were obvious to her, it is the Undead and mass murder that garners her full attention. A retaliation to what she had done? Or just an individual of power gathering more resources. She could not take credit for what happened last night, it went against the purpose of keeping this Kingdom flowing properly to her needs. ¡°Then there are these hallucinations.¡±

    ¡°Come again?¡± Her brows raise at this revelation.

    ¡°I keep seeing really sick things. Hearing whispers, seeing people outside my place. Or just back there I was chased by this bloated humanoid while flirted with through a window that had shattered out into another world.¡± He sounded insane. Absolutely out of his mind. Looking to her to see an obvious reaction, to either laugh at him or tell him he needs to be off this case. He is surprised to find her expression thoughtful, her stare elsewhere entirely. Did she just ignore him?

    Quite the opposite. These things happening to him were quite unique. If of course he is not powdering his nose with lines of crystal-dust before each shift, ¡°Whispers, hallucinations, it sounds as though you are hexed, Detective.¡±

    ¡°What? No. I-¡± Cutting himself off, he re-evaluated this. When had it started? Right after the Roche case happened. Deodra can practically see him going back in time through his memories, giving him a moment before speaking once again, ¡°A suggestion, if you will. Begin looking around your home for strange items or markings, look through all of your belongings, check your clothing, then your furniture. Do not skimp on any item you have. You would be surprised where hexes can appear. If you find nothing, then she suggests you find a Cleric to sort out your troubles.¡±

    The Church would have their way with him, put him through an exorcism and then want something in return. Safaryan hated the thought that someone had gone into his home or office and marked it with weird voodoo. That did happen, he guessed, to people like himself upholding the law. ¡°Thank you.¡± It is not hard for him to show appreciation. She does this head bow to him, surprising him with a formality rather than brushing it off.

    ¡°This one has only told you the basics. Being as new as you are, she also suggests asking your fellow officers how they treat their nights and days to protect themselves from curses, and the like. Have you protected your home? Wards?¡±

    Well, fuck. He had not. ¡°Yes. Everything is secured.¡± He could lie through his teeth, but did he do it convincingly? He thought so.

    ¡°Good.¡± Smiling at him. She would find out if he is.

    ¡°What we came to conclude here is neither of us knows anything.¡± Safaryan veered back to topic quickly.

    ¡°Correct. It is quite distasteful really, she does so enjoy being ahead of everyone else.¡± Arrogant, and now she is pouting.

    ¡°You cannot be all knowing all the time, I imagine.¡±

    ¡°You would be surprised, Davit.¡± Using his first name, now she is trying to be cheeky.

    ¡°That is Detective Safaryan, Lady Deodra.¡± Correcting her with a serious firm tone, this is not a budding relationship of friends. She chortles at him, and he almost caves in at her lovely smile, the sound of her laugh. He really needed a drink.

    ¡°Is there anything else then?¡± He tries to end the conversation, he said enough as it is and now he felt compelled to upend his entire apartment. She had a point about being hexed, and he needed to find out how, why, where it even is? Paranoia is a bitch.

    ¡°No. She had hoped you would ask her to have a drink with you. Perhaps another time.¡± Another jolt of lovely hormones and he had to squash it as quickly as possible, by severing her off any further. ¡°Perhaps. Thank you for your time, Lady Deodra.¡± He does offer her a bow, as good as he could do one.

    She stops to offer him another head-bow, ¡°Of course, Detective. She will be in touch.¡± A side step and she walks past him, diverting her own path down a different street. He felt tempted to follow her but he had a feeling she would know immediately. He did see her off though, and once she disappeared behind other civilians he made a quick shift and began a solid jog back to his place.