《The Dying Detective》


 The Pledge

    ¡°Detective Peter Kipling.¡± The detective outstretched his long arm with an open palm.


    ¡°Paul Barnaby, thank you for seeing me this late in the evening.¡± The guest¡¯s entire body moved to meet the detective. His elbows remained pinned to his torso as he swung his hands to grasp the handshake. He jostled the ball of appendages up and down with nervous enthusiasm.


    Despite the reserved effort, the guest¡¯s grip was weak compared to the detective¡¯s. His muscles were tired and strained. Tendons and blood vessels flexed under the infirm grip.


    Barnaby felt a ring on the detective¡¯s hand. When he uncoupled his hands and saw the ring, it looked nothing like a normal ring of gold or silver. It had a dark, marbled appearance.


    The two took their seats in the detective¡¯s apartment living room-cum-office. The room itself was messy and lived in. Countless feet had worn a path in the carpet. Two piles of unmarked DVD cases stood side to side between the detective¡¯s chair and a small TV. On a small round table lay a large bowl full of sunflower seeds. Half the bowl was empty shells.


    Printouts of news headlines, framed certificates, and bric-a-brac lined the walls. A radiator protected the room from the brisk winter wind as it beat on the walls outside.


    The room became quiet. The potential client adjusted his tie and waited for the detective to proceed.


    The detective¡¯s mind appeared to be elsewhere however, absorbed in thought. With his hand pressed against his mouth and his body frozen, the detective took his time analysing his subject.


    Barnaby¡¯s body was tense with the recent built-up stress and the nervousness of being in a stranger¡¯s home. The detective¡¯s lackadaisical vacantness only exacerbated this for the potential client. The guest struggled to think of how to get the detective¡¯s attention. His eyes began to wander across the walls in front of him, inspecting their decoration.


    The certificates were from local police stations and businesses. They honoured Kipling for solving a case or catching a criminal. A few of the headlines caught his attention. ¡°Assassin Caught in Connection to Crypto Money Laundering Ring.¡± ¡°Mass U.F.O. Sighting Hoax, ¡®It was just a social experiment bro.¡¯ Perpetrator Claims.¡± Barnaby remembered the U.F.O. scandal, it was a big deal at the time as it caused a lot of panic.


    ¡°Gang of Baby Vampires Face-Off Against Rival Geriatric Werewolf Pack.¡± The last headline was from a very irreputable publication, The Wednesday West Feed. Most would consider it a joke tabloid. It was strange to see it amongst the more legitimate sources.


    ¡°You don¡¯t get awards and headlines like these by being nothing more than a Wednesday West Feed crackpot,¡± Barnaby thought to himself.


    The shelves of knick-knacks had no sense of organization or order. A glass bauble, a silver spoon, a framed photograph at least seventy years old, and a stained water filter all lay side by side. They¡¯d just as well be the shelves of a compulsive hoarder as those of a detective.


    ¡°What was my first murder case?¡± asked the detective as he sat back relaxed in his lounge chair.


    ¡°W-what?¡± the guest asked as he sat, body stiff as a corpse, on the edge of a small worn-in sofa. He was too taken aback by the abrupt questioning to register what the detective had even asked.


    ¡°That is what you considered asking me, is it not?¡± The detective asked with assured confidence.


    It took a second for Barnaby¡¯s mind to catch up to the conversation. With a wavering half-formed smile he stammered out, ¡°Y-yes how did you..?¡± His posture had loosened a little, impressed by the detective¡¯s prediction. Not that he would admit that to himself. ¡°It was just a lucky guess,¡± he thought


    Without looking back, the detective pointed with his thumb towards the wall of headlines. Centred perfectly behind the detective''s head hung one blown up larger than the others. It read;


    Private Detective Solves Newlywed Couple Slaying


    ¡°It¡¯s a common question among new clients and you couldn¡¯t keep your eyes off the wall behind me,¡± the detective explained in a dry matter-of-fact tone.


    ¡°Ah, I see.¡± The detective¡¯s guest expressed an instinctual, trepidatious fake smile and gentle nod. Something about the detective¡¯s answer felt dismissive, though he couldn¡¯t put his finger on why.


    In Barnaby¡¯s profession, he had become unfortunately accustomed to picking out liars and cheats. It would have been rude to call the detective out on nothing more than a hunch. And there was no way Barnaby was going to risk offending the man who was his last hope.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    The detective could see the change in mood on his guest. ¡°Something I love about detective work, people¡¯s natural inquisitiveness. They all want to solve the mystery, but I¡¯m the only one smart enough to do it! Haha¡­¡±


    The detective¡¯s forced laughter deflated as quickly as it began. With the back of his finger, he brushed the side of his neck beneath his left ear. ¡°So what is a down on his luck banker calling on me for?¡±


    Barnaby¡¯s posture slackened more as the poor bid at a joke lifted some of the tension. This time he was truly surprised. ¡°How did you know I was a banker?¡±


    Kipling knew he had him. The detective knew if anyone was going to cancel the job at this point it would be him, not the client. He crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers together.


    ¡°Simply, despite your worried and dishevelled appearance, your clothes are trim and fit. But not expensive, the threading betrays its simple manufacture. And despite it being very outdated technology a pocket calculator is leaning out of your breast pocket. Sentimental?¡± The detective¡¯s explanation was calm and cold. He was neither impressed by his own deductive skills or embarrassed by his unguarded description of his guest¡¯s person.


    ¡°Dishevelled?¡± Barnaby thought. He had to concede the detective wasn¡¯t wrong. His guest had been too worried to pay attention to his appearance. When was the last time he shaved? He ran his hand over his cheek. Not quite a full beard. He had grown a little something more than a five o¡¯clock shadow.


    He was still wearing the shabby trench coat he had entered the flat in. He likely didn¡¯t see himself staying for too long, or was he perhaps too preoccupied to notice he hadn¡¯t taken it off?


    The inner monologue continued, ¡°Well, he at least has an eye for detail.¡± He thought back to the wall of achievements. It reminded him he could put his faith in the detective and his unfiltered words.


    ¡°Very observant, so.¡± He cleared his throat to dislodge the discomfort his upcoming statement produced in him. ¡°I heard you have a speciality for the unusual, Mister Kipling?¡°


    Kipling¡¯s eyes narrowed along with the slight upward tilt of his head. He never felt insulted when someone mistitled him but his pride demanded they never get away with it.


    ¡°Please, it¡¯s Detective, and what would you define as unusual? We live in strange times. For decades now we have watched the progress of scientific and technological discovery sprint forward with only minor impedance from the law. It has been to great benefit for humanity. But so too has it helped the bizarre to flourish. Afforded clout to many niche groups that could otherwise never hope to achieve it.¡±


    ¡°Well, I had heard you¡¯ve helped in unusual cases of a more traditional sort. I had heard some of your cases were p-paranormal in nature?¡± The banker cringed as his inquiry squeaked out of his mouth. He could hardly believe what he was asking. But it had to be asked.


    The detective playfully looked off to the side. ¡°I have had cases that my clients believed to be paranormal, and I have solved them. Do you believe in the paranormal Mr Barnaby?¡±


    Kipling held all the power in the conversation. Exactly as his guest had heard, weird and paranormal cases were his speciality after all. Like a lion toying with a mouse, he had this song and dance down to an art.


    ¡°Me? of course not, under normal circumstances I wouldn¡¯t tolerate such nonsense.¡± Barnaby straightened his back and puffed out his chest to demonstrate his intellectual pride. An action that never made much sense but something so many do all the same. It was a move Kipling saw time and again whenever he had outwitted someone lacking in humility.


    ¡°Quite right Mr Barnaby, as they say, ¡®seeing is believing¡¯. And with consideration to the thorough understanding of the world we currently hold, is it not only logical to believe this is all there is? In spite of this, as I said, we live in strange times. Whether it be by paranormal or technological means. Our perception of what is possible and even normal is being challenged. So what seems to be the other than normal mystery?¡± the detective asked.


    Barnaby¡¯s pose sank back to a slump as his reserves of energy dwindled. Worry weighed on the features of his face, creating an all-encompassing frown. The light around the man almost seemed to dim. The reality of why he was there returned to the forefront of his mind.


    ¡°It¡¯s my niece, you see. She¡¯s gone missing and my wife is worried sick. We don¡¯t have children of our own and they are very close. The stress and dread are taking their toll on all of us. You can even see it in our pets for Christ¡¯s sake. Something has to change otherwise¡­ well, I don¡¯t know, and that¡¯s nothing to be said of the mother and father.¡±


    Kipling leaned forward. ¡°Alright, how old is she? How long has she been missing? What¡¯s her favourite colour?¡±


    ¡°Thirteen, fourteen next June. She went missing last Tuesday, and um blue I believe?¡± Confusion blended together with the client¡¯s sadness.


    ¡°A whole week? And you¡¯ve contacted the proper authorities, yes?¡± Kipling confirmed with his client.


    ¡°Yes of course.¡±


    ¡°One last question, what makes this disappearance so fantastical?¡± Kipling asked as his hands separated and held palms up as if in a lazy half-shrug.


    Barnaby wrung his hands, desperate to massage his worry out of them, like dirty water from an old rag.


    ¡°She disappeared at the house while they were all there. They could see she didn¡¯t use either door. Th-th-there was no sign of disturbance or forced entry on any of the windows. They say she vanished in an instant. Walked out the living room and was just gone.¡±


    The detective arched his eyebrows. It wasn¡¯t much but it was enough to pique his interest. He sat back and folded his arms. ¡°Strange indeed. Do the parents have a copy of the police report and the forensic sweep?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s prepared,¡± Barnaby answered.


    The detective handed his new client a business card. It read;


    Detective Peter Kipling, Private Investigator


    Printed on the back were his contact details and a QR code. From the card sprung an elaborate hologram of a short-stemmed glass with a shadowy figure lurking in its waters.


    ¡°Have them send a copy as well as their address to this email post haste. What¡¯s the earliest I can review the home for myself?¡±


    The scruffy man pulled out his phone as he replied, ¡°Well we should all be free tomorrow, I know it¡¯s short notice but-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s perfect, we¡¯ll meet there at approximately 2:30.¡±


    The two men stood up and shook hands. The detective lead his new client to the door and they parted ways.

 The Turn

    2:28, Mr Barnaby and his sister-in-law stood at the front door of her home. His body held itself up in a tired slouch, hands in his pockets. Her arms and legs clutched inwards at nothing, trying to console the rest of her fragile frame. Together they looked tiny against the lofty backdrop of the terrace house.


    You could tell the standing of the home with little more than a glance, despite it being quite deep into the city of London. From left to right, round, and back down again, the whole street was intact and uniform. None of the terraced housing had suffered a conversion or demolition to make way for another flat complex.


    All the homes sported the dark sandy finish of exposed brick accented by pure white framing around the windows, doors, and roof. Even the lampposts with their metal bodies stuffed with modern, energy-efficient inner workings. From base to tip, they retained their classic design, unchanged since the Victorian era of gaslight.


    The lack of neon smart displays or crowds of urban populace gave the street a feeling almost out of time. As if forgotten since the 1990s, if not for the modern smart vehicles dotted up and down the road.


    Barnaby and the woman turned towards each other. He checked his watch with unnecessary worry.


    ¡°He¡¯s not late, is he?¡± asked the woman, showing greater anxiety than the tired banker.


    ¡°No, no, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be here any moment,¡± he replied. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.


    As they turned back around the detective was standing there. Barnaby jumped. He hadn¡¯t heard anyone approach.


    The client thought back to his first meeting with the detective. How Detective Kipling looked younger than he had expected, appearing to be only in his thirties. The detective was a slim, fit-looking gentleman, of average height. The dark, short, uncombed hair atop his head was contrasted by his neat style of dress.


    He wore a pinstripe button-down shirt underneath a matching waistcoat and trousers, held up with suspenders. A worn leather duster and canvas messenger bag over the shoulder completed the ensemble.


    All that was missing was a trilby and he¡¯d have been right out of an old pulp novel. Barnaby wondered if the detective were trying too hard to look the part.


    ¡°Mr Barnaby,¡± the detective said with a rigid, straightforward tone. A chill ran down Barnaby¡¯s spine as if he had just been addressed by an old school teacher.


    ¡°Detective.¡± His Adam''s apple bobbed up and down with a hard, dry swallow. ¡°You''re uh quite light-footed. And here. On-time. That¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°Of course I am. It would be improper to not be.¡±


    ¡°Quite.¡±


    After another moment of silence, the detective¡¯s attention moved to the woman standing next to his client. She must have been in her mid to late thirties. She wore a knitted dress and leggings. In contrast to her high-strung counterpart, the woman was too drained for the detective''s abrupt appearance to alert her.


    Barnaby tried to wipe the ingrained tiredness off his face and said, ¡°Right, uh, this is my sister-in-law, Mary.¡± Mary said nothing but stared at the detective with desperate eyes, close to tears.


    The detective tried to ignore the woman¡¯s emotional state and spoke with an artificial upbeat tone. ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure ma¡¯am. Now, let¡¯s get started, shall we?¡±


    The three moved to the living room where the husband was waiting. Mary sat down on one couch and leaned into her husband while Mr Barnaby and Detective Kipling sat on another.


    ¡°So how about we go through the events once more for me?¡± the detective asked as he pulled a pair of glasses out from one of his pockets. The glasses were a style of wearable computer. He made a few swiping gestures with his hand as he navigated to his copy of the reports. The parents told him a very similar albeit a more upset version of events. The forensic scans and smart device footage corroborated their story.


    Kipling removed the pair of frames and told the couple with a hollow smile, ¡°This is where my investigation begins. I ask that you leave the area, go upstairs, take a nap. We¡¯ll want to be undisturbed during our search.¡±


    The husband jumped forward out of his seat. He spoke up, his voice raised in anger but was too strained to make the impact he wanted. ¡°Now just hold on a minute we want to help. And how are you going to find something the police missed anyway? You haven¡¯t told us anything.¡±


    Kipling raised himself to meet his angered host. With a motion of his hand, the detective said in a commanding voice, ¡°Get some sleep Mr and Mrs Galow we¡¯ll be done in an hour or so.¡±


    The faces of the two parents lost all expression, even the intense worry they carried. ¡°Yes detective, let¡¯s go, honey,¡± the husband said before the two turned to leave and walked upstairs.


    Mr Barnaby''s mouth was agape. ¡°What did you do to them?¡±


    ¡°Do you remember what I said about the paranormal Mr Barnaby?¡± the detective asked. ¡°Well, you¡¯d best start believing, because you¡¯re going to see some serious shit.¡±


    Barnaby, confused and angry, stood up, getting in the detective¡¯s face. ¡°Excuse me!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re excused if that is what you prefer,¡± Kipling replied with condescending dry wit.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mock me, Mister Kipling.¡± The detective¡¯s joke did nothing to dissuade his client¡¯s anger.


    ¡°Detective Kipling, Mr Kipling bakes cakes. Magic Mister Barnaby, I¡¯m speaking of magic!¡±


    Barnaby turned a bright pink shade of red as he pushed a pointed finger towards the detective''s chest. ¡°Now listen here, I¡¯ve seen quite some many things in my years but you expect me to simply believe you when you tell me magic exists? Do you take me for a fool?¡± he asked.


    The detective swatted his client¡¯s hand away. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous, I already told you, Mr Barnaby, seeing IS believing. Behold a mere glimmer of what has been lurking outside your view. Arise!¡± As the detective raised a flat palm upwards, the empty sofa began to float.


    ¡°That¡¯s absurd! That¡¯s impossible, it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Magic Mr Barnaby. Now I understand this is a lot to take in but for clerical reasons, it is useful to have a client like you know what is going on. Please inspect the sofa if it would assuage any feelings of denial.¡±


    Still angry, the mundane banker said nothing as he walked around the sofa three times and patted down the sides. He fell to his knees and laid the side of his head on the floor. He proceeded to swipe at the air beneath the furniture piece. His search for any tells or mechanisms was fruitless. He was angry at himself for even bothering. He knew full well the pointlessness as there would have been no time to set up such an elaborate prank.


    ¡°Do something else,¡± he demanded.


    The detective returned to his seat. ¡°You could use a drink,¡± the detective said. He placed two fingers to his mouth, whistled, and with his other hand made a come hither motion. Two glasses marched into the room from the kitchen with a rhythmic bounce. ¡°What would you like Mr Barnaby?¡± the detective asked as he reached into his bag.


    Barnaby took his place on the recently aloft sofa opposite the detective. With an expectant look, he watched the pair of glasses station themselves upon a small coffee table that separated the two men. ¡°An Old Fashioned,¡± the client said with a confident voice.


    ¡°Good choice.¡± Kipling retrieved a thermos and unscrewed the cap. ¡°An Old Fashioned.¡±


    The detective began to pour. Out dropped a soaked sugar cube, one in his glass, then in the other. He motioned two fingers in a swirling action. The cubes compressed and spread around the glasses. He repeated the pouring action and each time was greeted with the measured ingredient for each glass. Two ounces of a golden-brown liquid that had the unmistakable scent of whiskey followed by a sphere of ice. He motioned his fingers again and the drinks stirred themselves.


    ¡°Cheers,¡± said the detective as he handed his client a glass.


    ¡°Cheers.¡± The client¡¯s gaze lingered on the detective''s hands. He exhaled deeply to decompress and took a sip of his drink. The whiskey cocktail went down smoothly. It was a good drink but it lacked a certain rustic quality as if it were mass-produced. With a defeated energy Barnaby asked, ¡°Do we have the time for some questions?¡±


    ¡°I believe so but make it quick,¡± replied the detective.


    Barnaby laid one arm across his lap and leaned in to ask, ¡°So how much is real?¡±


    Kipling took a familiar position, one leg crossed over the other and laid back. ¡°As in the media, movies, fairy tales? Most of it, in one way or another. There¡¯s an entire world hidden beneath the one you¡¯ve been living in.¡±


    ¡°What do I call people like you? People with powers.¡± the client asked.


    Kipling rolled his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t make it sound so much like I¡¯m an alien. We¡¯re still human. Well, the human ones are. There¡¯s no singular term magic users use to describe themselves. Wizard, mage, sorcerer, caster. It¡¯s all preferential. Some people live so deep into magic society they forget to distinguish themselves. To them, magic is everything.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you need a wand? I mean it¡¯s so common in stories.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to explain. There are two classes of tools, channelers, and catalysts. Channelers are common and well, they channel magical energy. Catalysts not only channel energy but enhance it, these are rarer.¡±


    The detective rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a wristband. ¡°You see this ring on my finger? It is paired with this cuff on my wrist. Together they are my catalyst. Sure some people prefer the feel of a classic channeler in their hands but I require something a little more inconspicuous. Besides those old wands and orbs are a pain to carry around everywhere with you.¡±


    ¡°Okay what about words? I¡¯ve only heard you say one or two English words so far, don¡¯t spells need some ritualistic voodoo speak?¡±  Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Please, Mr Barnaby ¡®Voodoo¡¯ as you put it is a sacred form of practice to certain African groups.¡±


    ¡°My apologies,¡± he said before taking another sip of his drink.


    ¡°Magic, common magic, is merely the manifestation of intent. Words are only useful in defining what it is you wish to happen. The best-trained mages will their magic into being with nothing more than a thought.¡±


    Barnaby¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°Trained? so do you go to special magic schools to be taught to use magic?¡±


    ¡°Pft, maybe if you¡¯re from some fancy elite family. Idiots the lot of them. Those private schools are so focused on teaching magic the students hardly know basic arithmetic. And don¡¯t get me started on their complete cluelessness to the mundane world. Wouldn¡¯t know a rubber duck from a pipe wrench.¡± Kipling ended his short rant. ¡°Satisfied Mr Barnaby?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I suppose I am,¡± Barnaby answered.


    ¡°Then let us begin shall we?¡±


    The detective finished his glass. From his bag, he pulled out a digital camera. It looked the part of a camera used for high budget film production. Impossibly large for where it was just hauled from. Atop the body was a head of lenses pointed in all directions crammed close together like a compound eye. The projector''s body had rough shapes cut out from it giving way for dials, switches, and sliders.


    ¡°Hold this would you? And be careful, it''s one of a kind,¡± the detective said as he thrust it into his impromptu assistant¡¯s arms.


    The detective continued to pull more impossible items from the small bag. First, a stand, it''s frame thick and bulky, more than capable to hold its camera. Next, a projector. Another compound eye of lenses gave the front an uneven weight. Lastly, a set of thick, long cables and a handful of large mirrors fitted on stands.


    The detective placed the camera stand close to a wall and ensured it was stable. He reclaimed the camera and fit it within its frame. The projector was set up in a corner on a small table.


    He Muttered as he wrestled with the thick cables connecting the two devices, ¡°All the magic in the world and they still haven¡¯t figured out wireless communication.¡± The detective finished his elaborate setup with the mirrors stood in the corners of the three connected rooms.


    Dials with numbers marked by days, hours, and minutes were fiddled with. A metal switch on each machine was flipped. Nothing seemed to happen. Barnaby looked towards the detective with a twinge of worry. The detective offered slight adjustments to one of the dials and a faint blue light burst throughout the room. He tuned a couple of sliders until the light became sharp and the images clear.


    Two vaguely human figures sat on the couch and a third smaller one stood to the side. "What are we looking at Detective?" Barnaby asked.


    "The past Mr Barnaby. Light and sound dissipate in but an instant, but magic, magic lingers." Excited the detective continued, "This is revolutionary! The camera receives magical energy like one would photons. Then the projector extrapolates the age by the rate of their decay."


    "But why would there be magic here?"


    "It is my hypothesis that magic has this tendency to bleed into the past. We''ll see the source in but a moment." The detective pushed a button and in complete silence, the projections began to move. The small figure made a few exaggerated gestures before it walked into the other room. The other two remain seated only moving their heads to acknowledge the third.


    From the opposite doorway came a flash, two new figures stood were rendered on the spot as the flash receded. "There are your culprits," claimed the detective.


    If you were to look close enough, you''d almost think the muscles on the intruder''s face twisted into a cruel smirk. The trespassing pair pointed towards the seated figures and light travelled from their hands to surround the sofa. The glow lingered and all movement on the sofa ceased. Even the small idle motions were now absent, like a still image. "Some kind of paralysis spell."


    The vision of the intruders made its way to the other doorway. The detective and his client crept towards the projection as if wishing to avoid disturbing it. The mirrors continued the projection into the hallway.


    One of the figure''s hands reached out and the silhouette of another spell hit the child¡¯s form. More light claimed her as she fell limp and carried her into the invader''s waiting arms. A final bright flash surrounded the three before the projection ended.


    ¡°W-what now? Where¡¯d they go? Can you track them?¡± Barnaby panicked.


    ¡°Unfortunately not. This is where magic ends and old fashioned detective work takes over. But fear not, we have a lead and some simple assumptions we can make.¡± Kipling began to pack his things. ¡°Are you busy Mr Barnaby?¡±


    He shook his head ¡°No, I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°Good, you should return with me to the flat. If luck would have it I¡¯ll want your assistance later and we¡¯ll be able to resolve this whole ordeal in quick order.¡± The detective put his hand on his client¡¯s shoulder and the two disappeared.

 Behind the Curtain

    Not a minute later they reappeared in front of the detective¡¯s humble flat. Barnaby was dazed from the trip. Kipling had to practically drag his client inside and onto the sofa.


    Twice he snapped his fingers and in a raised voice he said, ¡°Miss Tilly we have a guest.¡± He turned to his repeat guest. ¡°Tea? Coffee?¡±


    Responding to his signal, a portion of the wall slid out of sight to reveal a space the size of a whole other apartment.


    Barnaby¡¯s momentary look of shock and amazement was quickly replaced by one of, ¡°what did I expect.¡±


    ¡°Uhm c-coffee, thank you,¡± he said.


    ¡°Did you hear that Miss Tilly, prepare some coffee¡±


    A few minutes later, from the secret doorway walked out an android in a traditional maid¡¯s outfit. She carried a tray with two cups, a small jug of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and the bottom half of a siphon coffee pot.


    The android was an astonishing sight. Hard ivory plates divided into individual muscle groups covered her body like skin. In the shadowy seams between them, you could catch a glimpse of the internal robotics. Gears and servos spun and whirled with minute movement. Hydraulic tubes pumped back and forth like blood vessels. And wires laid like nerves to and fro connecting it all to unseen circuitry. She moved with such natural motion she would pass for human if she were covered in some form of synthetic skin.


    She spoke with a French accent as she poured the coffee. ¡°Would Monsieur like cream or sugar?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Uhm, cream, no sugar, thank you,¡± Barnaby said.


    The android handed the gentlemen their coffee and left with the tray of items.


    ¡°Thank you, Miss Tilly,¡± said the detective.


    The hot coffee snapped Barnaby out of the dreamy state the jump across town had left him in. ¡°What am I doing here drinking coffee so contently!? What about Mary and Joel? What about my car?¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, perhaps I should have left a note. Not to worry, Miss Tilly would you come with me to recover Mr Barnaby''s vehicle.¡±


    ¡°Of course Monsieur Kipling.¡± Miss Tilly returned, hat and coat in hand.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry old chap, I¡¯ll be back in but a moment.¡±


    As Miss Tilly placed the hat on her head a magical disguise bound itself to her. She appeared as an attractive young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes.


    Kipling rattled a set of keys at his guest, his own keys. The detective had successfully pilfered them without Barnaby noticing. Kipling wrapped his arm around the beautiful woman and with a deliberate nod, they vanished.


    Barnaby tried to relax and enjoy his coffee as he waited for the two to return. He didn''t have to wait long however as the detective returned alone just a few minutes later. ¡°Right, Miss Tilly will return with your car in due time. And fret not about the in-laws. I left them a note as well as a post-hypnotic suggestion, so they won¡¯t find our leaving suspicious. As I said, I hope to make use of you later, in the meantime make yourself at home. Might I recommend the library, second door on the right, in the other half of the home¡±


    ¡°What will you be doing?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Research. So long as you¡¯re not a nuisance feel free to come find me and look over my shoulder.¡±


    The two men split up. Barnaby found the study Kipling had spoken of. It was more befitting a large country house than an apartment complex. Every wall was flush with bookshelves and books of all manner of subject. He scanned the shelves for something of interest.


    Atlantis Visitors Guide by Ekon Onyilogwu, translation by The Baconiana Co. On Bruxa and How To Safely Mate With Them, The Collected Notes of Baron Sorin III before the mysterious fall of House Sorin in 1414. Avatars of Speed; Historical Evidence and Theories. Barnaby settled on Coinage and Currencies of Magical Empires Throughout History.


    Barnaby was unsatisfied sitting comfortably in the study waiting for Kipling. He made his way around the flat. ¡°How many rooms are in here?¡± Barnaby thought to himself. How many adjacent flats did the detective own? Three? Four? The entire floor? It was hard to say.


    Door after door Barnaby encountered things he scantily could believe were real. Things that could not or should not exist as they do inside a London flat. As he felt more and more lost so too did it feel as if the architecture were expanding and multiplying around him. Had he gone up two sets of stairs or one? Since when were there multiple floors. He was trapped in an illusory funhouse. The castle within a pocket.


    As panic was just about to set in, Barnaby made it to Kipling who was sitting at a desk in a sparsely furnished office. Looking back Barnaby saw the hallway had returned to it¡¯s more reasonable state.


    Kipling looked up from his terminal. ¡°You look more like hell than usual,¡± he said. ¡°The house giving you a bit of trouble?¡±


    Barnaby simply returned a shaken nod.


    ¡°Sorry about that. The place does get a little excitable when someone new shows up. Mischievous bugger,¡± Kipling said.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°What are you looking at?¡± Barnaby asked the detective.


    ¡°Browsing the dark web for illicit news in the city¡±


    ¡°The dark web?¡± Barnaby pulled a spare chair up to the desk and sat himself down.


    Kipling continued to scroll through posts as he spoke. ¡°Well, the magic dark web. You¡¯re familiar with the normal dark web I take it? A web of illicit sites not indexed by search engines and requires special means to visit. Magic folk have their own hidden web. Mechanically it is very similar to the normal internet but has magic security gates to prevent normal access. Well, below that is our own dark web, countless wards keep out the general magic public and authorities.¡±


    ¡°And what are you looking for on there?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Anything new and local really, signs of trafficking, cannibals, dark rituals. Your niece is a virgin, yes?¡±


    ¡°How can you dare to say such vile and disturbing things in a situation like this? And how should I know!? Christ sakes!¡± Barnaby said, aghast.


    The detective apologized. ¡°Sorry, that was uncalled for. Those are hardly everyday occurrences and I¡¯ve found nothing worrying,¡±


    Barnaby breathed a belaboured sigh of relief.


    The two worked in silence for another half hour, Kipling scanning illicit forums, Barnaby making his way through his book. During this time Miss Tilly returned.


    ¡°Your keys Monsieur Barnaby¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Miss Tilly,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°Can I get the monsieurs anything?¡± Miss Tilly asked.


    The two men looked at each other. ¡°I¡¯m fine, thank you,¡± answered Barnaby.


    ¡°Same, that will be all Miss Tilly,¡± Kipling replied.


    Once the android left the room a new conversation began. ¡°She¡¯s an absolute marvel isn¡¯t she?¡± the detective asked.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve never seen a robot move so naturally or display such intelligence.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because... she¡¯s not a robot¡±


    Barnaby put his book down to look at his host with confusion. ¡°What do you mean she¡¯s not a robot?¡±


    ¡°Well I mean come on, I assume you¡¯re aware the laws on robotics forbid advanced artificial intelligence?¡±


    ¡°A.I. must serve a singular purpose and must not display individual thought,¡± Barnaby replied.


    ¡°Exactly, A.I. are all single utility-based and can only use basic call and response scripts when conversing with people. Only A.I. built for nonprofit study are exempt from this.¡±


    He continued, ¡°Miss Tilly is no simple robot. She was an automaton given life through wildly complex magical ritual. Over the years I¡¯ve replaced her mechanical parts with modern cybernetics. Piece by piece, little by little, like the ship of Theseus. All except for her heart. Thousands of tiny gears, springs, and crystals, engraved with a litany of minuscule runes.¡±


    ¡°Did you build her?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Oh no, I inherited her from the great-¡± he corrects himself. ¡°From the estate of the great director of the silver screen Georges M¨¦li¨¨s.¡±


    ¡°A director built her?¡±


    ¡°Not just any director, the man was a visionary, a mechanical genius. I adore directors like him, part of a rare breed that see a whole different world of magic all their own. He didn¡¯t look to the camera as a magic box you could put in front of an image and capture it. It was a gateway to enchantment. He was an illusionist before film. He brought his spirit for illusion to cinema and pioneered many filmmaking techniques.¡±


    ¡°He was that great of a mage then?¡± Barnaby asked.


    With excited reverence, the detective¡¯s focus was now fully on telling his story. ¡°No! That¡¯s just it, he wasn¡¯t a mage at all! People like him have a magic all their own. Not real magic. Not this energy manipulating the universe stuff. But a vision and drive to push the ancient ritual of storytelling forward. To take an audience on breathtaking journeys that will shock and amaze. To breath life into the inanimate.¡±


    ¡°So if he wasn¡¯t a mage how did he do it then?¡±


    Kipling explained, ¡°Well, as far as the story went. After a chance encounter, an unnamed man introduced him to the world of magic. M¨¦li¨¨s became obsessed, immersed himself, studied countless books on all things magic. Then inspiration struck. He built the physical body, every engraved emblem on every gear, masterfully handcrafted. He brought her to his magical friend, and together with the knowledge and insight he had amassed and the mage''s power they brought her to life.


    ¡°An absurd story, no? Like a blind man shepherding a flock. She was his life''s greatest work.¡± Kipling¡¯s voice grew forlorn as he finished reminiscing.


    He cleared his throat. ¡°I did some work for his estate and was gifted Tilly as payment, cared for her ever since. But that¡¯s a story for another time.¡±


    The room remained quiet for the rest of the hour. Kipling was starting to feel drained from his scouring of dark forums. His regular proper posture was replaced by a slanted leaning to the side, resting his head on his fist.


    Only one post had caught his attention. It mentioned a recent improvement in a local dream den but failed to mention where it was set up.


    The detective leaned back in his chair and stretched his upper body. ¡°I believe that¡¯s all I¡¯ll learn from that. Good news Mr Barnaby the trail has yet to go cold. I¡¯ve whittled down the possibilities, if you¡¯ll excuse me I¡¯ll be phoning a contact for more details.¡±


    The detective pulled out a phone from his pocket, an older model by at least several years. An odd-looking attachment was fit to the base. Made of copper and leather with several coloured gems set in a row that lit up in sequence like LEDs. It didn¡¯t look very safe. The detective made the call to his informant.


    ¡°Y¡¯alright Deckers it¡¯s Kipling. Yeah, see I¡¯m lookin¡¯ for a hot tip. Got word a dream den¡¯s been poppin¡¯ off lately, want to know what it¡¯s called and where it is. Yeah, yeah, express delivery as usual. Within the hour? Good stuff, good stuff mate. Cheers.¡± The detective¡¯s accent had changed completely to that of the city¡¯s lower middle class while speaking with the man on the phone.


    He switched back to his original inflexion just as fluidly when the conversation ended. ¡°That was Declan, an associate of mine, he¡¯s exceptional at collecting info on seedy back alley goings-on. Now, all we have to do is wait for him to pretend like he¡¯s doing any actual work.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°He already knows exactly where the dream den is. He is a useful man but he cannot resist his vices.¡± Kipling¡¯s face basked in a condescending know-it-all-ism.


    ¡°Why not just tell you upfront?¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°He¡¯s a good man at heart. I¡¯d never openly approve of such behaviour and he wishes to save face with me¡±


    ¡°So what is a dream den?¡±


    Kipling sprung up from out his chair. ¡°Get your coat, let¡¯s make the most of your time, have a walkabout town while we talk¡±


    The two got their things and were ready to set off.


    ¡°Hold down the fort while I¡¯m away Miss Tilly¡±


    ¡°As always Monsieur Kipling.¡± Miss Tilly said as she waved them off.

 The Turn Part II

    Kipling placed his hand on Barnaby¡¯s shoulder and they were off. They reappeared in the mouth of a dark alley, out of view of any onlookers. Barnaby couldn¡¯t help blinking rapidly like he had been startled by the bright flash of a camera.


    ¡°Spare some credit bruv?¡± The voice of the drunk came from behind them. Half of the man¡¯s face drooped and a basic stripped-down replacement took the place of one of his legs. He had a cardboard sign that read; ¡°Kindness for a army vet?¡±


    Kipling flipped a plastic disk towards the man like a coin. The prepaid credit disk bounced atop the drunk¡¯s fingertips as he struggled to catch it. While the drunk was distracted Kipling waved his hand and the drunk passed out. The detective crouched down in front of the drunk and snatched the half-empty two-litre bottle that sat beside the man. With his other hand, he rummaged around his bag before retrieving a small glass bottle of violet liquid. The detective emptied the philtre into the drunk¡¯s plastic bottle.


    ¡°That¡¯ll treat you better than any amount of credits,¡± he whispered as he patted the drunk on the shoulder. ¡°Excuse the distraction, let¡¯s continue.¡±


    The detective and his companion stepped out onto the average looking inner-city street and began to converse as they made their way onward. ¡°We¡¯ll be walking from here, hidden streets disallow blink travel,¡± Kipling said.


    ¡°Where are we even going?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be upfront with you, Mr Barnaby. You¡¯re a smart man you¡¯ve probably figured this already. There is a very high likelihood of me erasing your memory after this case is resolved.¡±


    ¡°I did suspect as much. Hard to keep such a big secret otherwise. And you do seem to enjoy putting me through this. Not once have you shown any sort of concern for the consequences involving me could have. It¡¯s like this is some game to you or an indulgent treat,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°I¡¯ll admit it does put a smile on my face. I could have put you in a trance, like the parents, hopefully, recovered the girl by myself, made up a story, and had you believe it. But as I said, having you involved is useful. It¡¯s a waste of magic otherwise. The point is we¡¯ll be on the move soon enough anyway. I might as well treat you to a once in a lifetime experience while we¡¯re waiting.¡±


    The streets were lightly crowded. This was by far a more central urban area than the picturesque peacefulness the Galow home resided in. Not only was there a security camera on every street corner but every few minutes an automated police drone would fly overhead making its rounds. Storefronts had stickers advertising their reinforced glass. Smart advertisements assaulted all who looked upon them with their curated product placements. Most of all, for every average looking person there were two covered in cheap cybernetic prosthetics or signs of genetic modification.


    ¡°This used to be such a nice area. What do you think of the mutant movement Mr Barnaby?¡± the detective inquired.


    ¡°I know some larger genetics corporations have come out in favour of it. But it seems awfully reckless. Obviously, that isn¡¯t made any better by the cheap illegal practices either. I mean, it¡¯s all well and good to cure genetic diseases and prolong life but animal hybridization? excessive cosmetic alterations? It¡¯s all a bridge too far if I must say so,¡± Barnaby replied.


    ¡°Indeed under normal circumstances, I would agree. But let me offer you an alternative perspective,¡± the detective said with a raised finger. ¡°The mutant movement has allowed non-humans to escape the shadows. Many magical species work within our hidden society. For centuries they have had to disguise themselves to walk among men. Recent developments have given them a new never before seen opportunity to walk the world of man without fear. Look over there.¡±


    The detective swung his arm in front of his companion stopping them with a light thud to the chest. A pointed finger aimed towards a man of short stature. He was no more than 5 feet in height and his skin was pallid almost to the point of looking green. His facial features had exaggerated curves and points.


    ¡°That there is a Brag, a species of goblin. And that one.¡± The pointed hand curved to highlight another passerby. A burly gentleman with excessive ginger hair and feline facial features. ¡°That is a Bodmin Puca, a feline shapeshifter. Oh and that is a rare sight!¡±


    His gaze shifted to a pair of young women. They had tall and slender frames, reminiscent of runway models. Their skin was a ghostly white and their hair was a shimmering platinum. Sunglasses obscured their eyes even though the weather was overcast. ¡°I can bet you anything that those are a pair of Nixie, water spirits. Pretty unusual to find in the city.¡±


    ¡°Okay Detective, I get the picture. There aren¡¯t any dangerous types around are there?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°No more so than the potential danger a human could endeavour to be. This city is well protected from the shadows, I can assure you,¡± Kipling said.


    ¡°You still haven¡¯t told me what a dream den is,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°Ah, yes, best to get that out of the way before we make it to our destination. We don¡¯t want to alarm anyone by publicly talking about dream dens.¡±


    Kipling retrieved a bent cigarette from his coat pocket, placed it between his lips, and shrewdly lit it with a flame that sprung from his thumb. He asked his client, ¡°Care for one? Vintage 2020. Just before the tobacco ban.¡±


    ¡°No, thanks. Having to quit once was enough times for me. Dream dens are that bad then?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Well, it would be like talking about drug dens in a crowded mall. Have you read ¡®The Matrices of Zion¡¯ Mister Barnaby?¡±


    ¡°The story about machines enslaving humanity in a virtual world? Using them for batteries? I know of it. It was quite the bestseller during the 2000s.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the one. Did you ever find it was odd the humans were being used for batteries?¡± the detective asked.


    ¡°Well now that you mention it, it¡¯s not very logical.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And the reason for that glaring plot hole? It was changed in editing. The publisher believed audiences at the time wouldn¡¯t grasp the original concept.¡±


    ¡°Which was?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Humans were being used for their processing power. Their brains were connected to the vast computer network that hosted their mechanical overlords. But what does any of this have to do with your niece you must be thinking? What if fiction became reality?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not about to tell me we¡¯re in a computer simulation, are you? Because there is only so much I can take in one day,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°No, of course not. Though that would be a rather exciting journey to take you on wouldn¡¯t it? As I¡¯ve already alluded to; dream dens are similar to drug dens. Patrons pay up and the den workers hook them up to virtual reality machines.


    ¡°These are obviously no ordinary VR systems. Patrons can do what they want, as they want, with some caveats. It¡¯s like being in a dream, hence the name. The more processing power a den has, the closer to the feeling of a lucid dream the patron can achieve. This is where the situation becomes legally grey.


    ¡°A den could be using animals, but the experience will be more limited. Less colourful, less control. Or a den might use ¡®volunteers¡¯. Drug addicts promised a constant supply of their favourite narcotic.


    ¡°Sooner or later, a volunteer will burn out and need to be replaced. The human mind is not designed to run like that 24/7. As you might expect, the type of addict that would volunteer isn¡¯t likely to be in the best state. Leading to a need for more frequent replacements.


    ¡°So sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, a den will cross the line. They''ll boost their business with the freshest, most active, pliable minds they can. Healthy young teens. If my suspicions are correct that is why your niece was taken. She might not be the first and she won¡¯t be the last until the business is uprooted.¡±


    ¡°Burn out? Is Sarah going to be okay? Shouldn¡¯t we involve the authorities? The magic police? People in the shadows or whoever?¡± Barnaby asked.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°She¡¯s young, healthy. She should make a swift recovery so long as we get to her soon. Which answers your second question. It would take at least another week for the proper authorities to put together a full investigation. We¡¯re here.¡±


    The two men found themselves in front of an alleyway. It looked completely unremarkable. It might as well have been the alleyway they started their trip in. Kipling locked his arm around Barnaby¡¯s. ¡°Deep breath, there¡¯s a perception filter on the entrance. This will feel rather uncomfortable but push through it and it¡¯ll be alright. Trust me.¡±


    Kipling began walking towards the alleyway. Barnaby followed stride, not wanting to be pulled along by the arm. At the boundary marked by the adjacent walls, the men started to feel their vision warp. The alley appeared to stretch on forever. The walls began to close in around them. With each step forward the suffocating atmosphere worsened. Just as it felt like they could go no further, the two broke through the barrier. Barnaby bent over, his hands on his knees, he was sweating and his breathing was ragged.


    ¡°You okay old chap?¡± Kipling asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, just give me a moment,¡± Barnaby replied through laboured voice.


    ¡°Welcome Mr Barnaby to Portobello Road.¡±


    ¡°The market street?¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, the real one. The one you know is a recreation. Not a bad facsimile I suppose,¡± the detective said.


    The two stood at the end of a wide street paved with cobblestone. The alleyway lingered behind them with a dark aura surrounding it. Buildings of stone and brick with first floor overhangs towered shoulder to shoulder on both sides. Each boasted its own storefront hawking all variety of wares. Between the pop-up stalls, overloaded carts pulled by unfamiliar beasts, and the clustered crowds of busy shoppers, personal space was something of a luxury.


    On each side of the street, atop a short pedestal, stood a stone statue of a soldier. To Barnaby¡¯s surprise, the soldiers began to move and talk in unison.


    ¡°Oi!¡±


    Left, ¡°You can¡¯t-¡±


    Right, ¡°-bring a-¡±


    Left, ¡°-Frack-¡±


    Both, ¡°-in here.¡±


    Kipling pulled a metal badge the size of his palm from his coat and held it out towards the two statues. He told the two, ¡°I can, have, and will deal with the consequences later. By Astraea authority let us pass.¡±


    The statues had left their pedestals and approached the detective and his guest to get a closer inspection. One scanned the badge while the other looked over the out of place banker.


    The left spoke up, ¡°Can he do that?¡±


    ¡°I dunno can he?¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I think he did.¡±


    ¡°He did, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    The detective cleared his throat to get their attention. The statues stopped, looked at the detective, then to each other before straightening themselves and speaking.


    ¡°You¡¯re free-¡±


    ¡°-to go.¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°-let him-¡±


    In unison, ¡°-out of your sight.¡±


    ¡°Will do. As you were,¡± Kipling said. The two saluted and went back to their posts.


    ¡°I¡¯m a what?¡± asked Barnaby.


    ¡°A Frack, short for the Latin fractum, meaning fractured. It¡¯s part of an old myth about how the world came to be as it currently is.¡± Kipling¡¯s voice took on an air of mystery. ¡°In antiquity, the world was whole. Nature and magic, man and myth, were one and the same. Then something tore the world apart. Beast and spirit, mundane and magic,  were left divided. And man; the embodiment of both, was split in two. Those that kept their connection to magical energies, Totum, and those that were cut off, blinded, Fractum.¡±


    ¡°Why keep it a secret? Wouldn¡¯t everyone benefit from knowing?¡± Barnaby asked.


    ¡°Eh well, it¡¯s some old messy politics. There are some good arguments for keeping the secret. Prejudice, political struggle, weaponization. And well, the mundane world has a history of having a short memory. For the past century, the world has been on the cusp of something, of having knowledge at our fingertips. Perhaps a merger could work this time. But,¡± the detective paused unsure of his own words. ¡°Even now time and again, humans prove to be unreliable, forgetful, deceitful. Enough of this dreary exposition. Let¡¯s enjoy ourselves as I said we would.¡±


    The two whittled away the time they had browsing stall after stall of junk, oddities, and antiques. After a while, they settled on taking to some of the food and drink on offer.


    They sampled golden rainbow trout sashimi freshly prepared by the skilled hands of a Japanese Tengu. They were thankful the tengu used a knife and not his sharp talons as tengu are known to traditionally. The clean and bright flavours paired considerably with the stall¡¯s ginjo sak¨¦.


    At a stall run by two German hunters, they savoured the rich and robust prosciutto style ham of the ghost boar, found only in Germany¡¯s black forest. It washed down well with a half-pint of German arenaria ale.


    Kipling and Barnaby were beginning to feel pretty satisfied. But before they could call it a day a brightly coloured cart caught their attention. Its sign hung arched overhead with bold red and white lettering.


    Dr Ambrocor¡¯s Gourmet Confectionery


    Names of all manner of candies were painted all over the cart in a hand-drawn cursive. Stepping up to the stall the older gentleman greeted them. He was wearing an apron over a red and white striped shirt and modelled a stylish handlebar moustache.


    ¡°What can I get for you boys?¡± asked the confectioner.


    ¡°You much of a sweet tooth Barnaby?¡±


    ¡°I uh can¡¯t say I am,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°Normally I¡¯d say the same. But I can bet this will be something special. Like that which you¡¯ve never had.¡± Kipling turned to address the merchant, ¡°Would you be so kind as to offer a recommendation?¡±


    ¡°Oh indeed I could, I like to think I have an eye for people, you know?¡± The confectioner looked the two over for a moment pondering what out of his bountiful, handcrafted selection each would enjoy.


    ¡°You the good sir to my left.¡± He pointed towards Barnaby. ¡°You must try a piece of our Ticklish Star Fudge.¡± With a gloved hand, he slid open the door of a compartment, reached in and pulled out a single piece of fudge. It sparkled in the light as he handed it to Barnaby.


    Barnaby didn¡¯t hesitate to pop the sweet in his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s a quality fudge but gourmet?¡± Barnaby thought as he chewed.


    It was only until after he had swallowed it he felt a little strange. His body began to glow with a gentle golden light. Without warning, Barnaby bleated out a short, sharp chortle. He slapped a hand across his face, embarrassed by his bizarre involuntary reaction. But he couldn¡¯t stop. A smile grew across his shielded face. He burst out in a full case of the giggles as he felt flashes of tickling randomly across his body.


    ¡°I- c-can¡¯t stop.¡± He said among a wash of laughter.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, it¡¯ll only keep you busy for a minute or two,¡± assured the confectioner. ¡°And for the famous local detective. I bet you¡¯re a liquorice man.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯m averse to it,¡± Kipling replied.


    ¡°Then I think you would appreciate our Surprise Salted Licorice. Here take a piece.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind if I do.¡±


    Kipling had a feeling, as he reached for the liquorice, this would not be a pleasant sort of surprise. By the grin on the confectioners face whatever he had in store would pack quite a punch.


    Luckily for the detective, he was a glutton for punishment. He threw back the liquorice with reckless abandon. Kipling was initially hit with the familiar taste of salt, as you would expect from salted liquorice, followed by the bitter anise-like herbaceousness. As he began to chew the first surprise hit him. It was sour, very sour. You could suck on a hundred lemons and it wouldn¡¯t be this sour.


    Kipling fought tooth and nail with his facial muscles to maintain his composure. With all the competitive spirit the detective could muster, he refused to give the merchant the sadistic satisfaction they were waiting for.


    The detective had only yet suffered half the ordeal the confectioner supplied. He had no time to celebrate his assumed victory as he dramatically swallowed and watched the merchant¡¯s face. But the stall owner was unphased. There wasn¡¯t even a flicker of doubt in his conniving smile.


    It finally hit the detective, a peppery sour heat. His face turned red and his eyes watered as the Scovilles continued to climb in his mind, and they showed no signs of slowing.


    Barnaby couldn¡¯t help but continue to laugh. ¡°S-sorry my good detective b-but are you feeling alright?¡±


    Maybe it was the detective¡¯s growing delirium but he could have sworn his companion¡¯s laughter had grown more boisterous at his expense.


    ¡°Buy a bag of the liquorice right now and I¡¯ll throw in a bag of our milk gushers completely free. Guaranteed to help soothe even the fieriest of spices. I will remind you, this is a limited time offer and won¡¯t last forever,¡± the confectioner said smugly.


    Unable to speak, the detective raised a pointed finger and nodded to signal the sale.


    ¡°That¡¯ll be one moon,¡± the merchant said.


    Kipling thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved a silver coin.


    ¡°Pleasure doin¡¯ business with you, sir,¡± said the confectioner.


    As soon as the detective was handed the two paper bags he hurled two of the soft white chews into his burning maw. His mouth nearly spilled over with the soothing sugary cream that sprung from the gnashing of the sweets.


    Kipling had regained his composure and with a sniffle said, ¡°That was an audacious read, but not a wrong one. I have to wonder if you receive a lot of disgruntled demands for refunds with stunts like that.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I do. It¡¯s in the eyes see.¡± The man gestures with his two fingers to illustrate the point.


    ¡°How much for a bag of his?¡± Kipling asked as he pointed to his companion.


    ¡°That¡¯ll be another moon,¡± the confectioner said.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s quite alright, you¡¯ve treated me well enough today,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°I insist,¡± said the detective and traded another silver coin for the third paper bag.


    The detective¡¯s phone buzzed in his coat¡¯s breast pocket. He read the message¡¯s contents to himself with a sober face.


    ¡°Alright, enough dilly-dallying. We¡¯ve one last stop. This way, Mister Barnaby.¡±


    Barnaby left the confectioner with a ¡°Thank you,¡± before chasing to catch up with the detective.


    ¡°Any time,¡± the stall owner said with a smile and a wave.

 Talking Shop with The Ing茅nieur

    After a turn off the main road and then another the detective and Mister Barnaby found themselves in front of a garage at the street¡¯s end. Like the storefronts of the market street, a large sign stretched across above the entrance.


    Casper¡¯s Mechanics and Tinker Shop


    A bell rang, alerting anyone in earshot, as the detective and Barnaby walked through the front door. A woman with short black hair and oil-stained overalls popped her head out from underneath an old jalopy.


    ¡°Detective!¡± The woman disappeared back under the old car before springing up from the other side and jogging to meet the detective. ¡°Well shit, if it ain''t my favourite private eye. It¡¯s been too long. You gotta drop by more often. Here to see Percy, I assume?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Afternoon Cassandra, perceptive as always I see. I¡¯m here today with Mister Barnaby, my present client. I was hoping to make use of Percy for some last-minute preparations. Is he in?¡±


    ¡°How do you do?¡± Barnaby said.


    The female mechanic lightly batted at the detective with the oily rag she held. ¡°You¡¯re never here to see me,¡± she pouted. ¡°The Great Detective has no need for England¡¯s best mechanic? You know you¡¯d be getting a fantastic discount. Plus, priority service on the house just cause I like you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t think your services are worth anything less than full price my dear,¡± Kipling replied.


    She punctuated her howling laughter with the wiping of a tear from her eye. ¡°Okay, okay. Be careful, Mr Chivalry, or I might hold you to that. Percy¡¯s in the workshop like always.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Cass.¡±


    ¡°Anytime, Kippers¡±


    The workshop was a congested organised mess. Rows of machines and apparatus occupied two of the walls. Another was stacked top to bottom with cabinets and drawers. The last was home to busy work counters and hung tools.


    Some pieces looked normal enough, saws, drills, hammers, and the like. But others were clearly more magically inspired. There were Machines plated with copper held up by wooden benches with assorted carved runes running down the legs and tools topped with gems giving off a faint humming glow.


    In the centre of it all was a young man hunched over one of three surrounding rolling worktops. His overalls matched Cass¡¯s, only less dirty. A harness on his head carried with it adjustable lenses on metal arms.


    ¡°Fuck me, Kipling, it¡¯s been a dog¡¯s age. You had me worried you¡¯d bit it or something. Who else is gonna buy my shit? I was thinking of opening up an Etsy page if you didn¡¯t come round again soon,¡± Percy said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t even joke Percy. You know how dangerous it would be for any one of your gadgets to make its way into Frack hands. I could report you like that-¡± He snapped his fingers. ¡°-for selling without the proper licence. That being said.¡± The detective¡¯s face lit up with an electrified smile. ¡°What have you got for me?¡±


    Percy rushed to rearrange and reorganise his worktops into a display counter for his one-of-a-kind inventions.


    ¡°Oh and I¡¯m looking for something to assist in an infiltration,¡± the detective said.


    ¡°You planning a heist? Some real movie shit, crawling through air ducts, hanging from the ceiling, dodging lasers?¡± Percy asked as he zoomed around the workshop.


    ¡°No nothing so bold this time around. I¡¯m going to pull off a reverse kidnapping,¡± Kipling told his tech dealer.


    ¡°Cool, cool.¡±


    Spread across the counters was a display of curated tools custom made by the brilliant young man. Each one was a genius amalgamation of magic and technology.


    ¡°A¡¯ight so, I guess a couple of these could be useful. The rest are just fucking dope. Starting over here you¡¯ll find The Pickpocket''s Compact.¡±


    The item had the appearance of a thick-rimmed emblazoned mirror about the width of a stretched out hand.


    ¡°The short version is it¡¯s a small short-range portal.  It¡¯s a bit tricky to handle. Might work best with two people. Mirrors on both sides, as you can see. Use this side to aim where you want the portal to come out. Dial it in with the slider on the side, and push the button to lock it in.¡±


    As he explained, Percy picked up the mirror and flipped it around once or twice to show his audience. One side lacked a normal reflection. Instead, it mimicked the other sides reflection, like you were looking straight through it.


    He pointed the mirror at a bare spot on the wall and used the slider to zoom the image in, further honing in on the target. With a click of a button, a hole opened up on the wall and connected to one side of the mirror. The other side held an image of the target even as it was being moved around.


    ¡°And like that, one side is now a portal to your target. You can sorta use the other side to see what your arm is doing even when you break line of sight. It just - takes some - practice to pull off.¡±


    He continued his live demonstration as he threaded his arm through the gateway. Using only the mirrors second side, he struggled to reach for a hung up tool and bring it back with him.


    ¡°Effective range is as far as you can comfortably see in the mirror. About ten meters maybe?¡±


    Kipling took the mirror and the tool from Percy¡¯s hands. He took a minute to examine it from all angles, testing its viewfinder and targeting. Having played with it long enough, he used it to put the random tool back on its place on the wall.


    With childish enthusiasm, the detective said, ¡°This is nifty without a doubt. It¡¯s adorable really. But are you sure it¡¯s not too niche?¡±


    ¡°Nah, nah, see here¡¯s the best bit. It can work through glass and other transparent surfaces.¡± As Percy continued his voice and movements took on a theatrical flare. ¡°What¡¯s this? You need to break into a place but it¡¯s locked with magic and you ain''t got the key. Well, lucky lucky that happens to be a door that¡¯s real easy to unlock from the other side. Saddle up to the nearby window and viola. Easy access. And it doesn¡¯t have to be your arm that goes through. You imaginations the limit for how you could combine it with other gadge.¡±


    ¡°Alright, what¡¯s next on the inventory?¡± the detective asked.


    ¡°Right, so, next up we have the Floating Spell Relay. This little flying orb drone can double the effective range of any spell. That I¡¯ve tried at least. Sync it up with this adhesive pad. Just make sure it¡¯s on your casting hand. The signal¡¯s a bit spotty if it¡¯s anywhere else. Go on give it a go. Swipe the pad to get it going,¡± Percy said.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The detective fixed the conductive pad to the back of his hand and ran his fingers across it. The cream white orb whirred to life and began to hover above the table.


    ¡°You can command it to move by thinking like any other levitation spell. Then just point and shoot, or whatever,¡± the ing¨¦nieur said.


    With natural ease, Kipling guided the drone around the room. ¡°How about we add some additional light to the room hmm? Light!¡±


    A panel slid open on the baseball-sized orb and from it shone a beacon of light. With subtle gesturing, he could make the light brighter or dimmer. And with a snap, the light would change colours.


    ¡°I can¡¯t applaud myself enough on that one. Utter craftsmanship. I fit so much shit into that tiny little chassis. Practically silent with the sound dampeners. And how long do you think the battery can last? Might as well be forever. I rigged the battery with a mana converter,¡± Percy said.


    Barnaby piped up. ¡°This is all very impressive but should we really be putting my niece¡¯s safety in the hands of these untested kid¡¯s toys?¡±


    ¡°How rude!¡± Percy said.


    ¡°I¡¯m well aware of your concern and frustration, Mr Barnaby, but oh please do put a sock in it. All of my tools were at some point in time ¡®untested.¡¯ You could do with having a little more faith. If all else were to fail, I¡¯d simply act unaided. I don¡¯t however wish to as it would be an increased pain in my arse,¡± Kipling said.


    With a wave of the detective¡¯s hand, the little drone flew over to Barnaby and relayed the detective¡¯s desire to silence him magically. The client could only stomp over to a countered wall and lean against it, arms crossed.


    The detective flew the drone towards his face and let out an uncharacteristic squeal as he tried to peer inside. ¡°Ooh if only I could take you apart and see this feat of engineering for myself.¡±


    ¡°Buy it and you can do the fuck you want to it. But~ I thought you might feel that way so I also maybe jotted down some schematics. Not like me to be so considerate, I know. They¡¯re all yours with the purchase,¡± Percy said.


    Barnaby¡¯s stare of disappointment was starting to burn a hole in the side of the detectives head.


    With a flick of his wrist, the detective undid Barnaby¡¯s silence. ¡°Oh fine, If we¡¯re boring you, Mister Barnaby, why not see how Cassandra is getting on. I¡¯m sure she¡¯d be happy to oblige with a spot of tea and a chat. That should keep your mind off things.¡±


    ¡°I think I will,¡± Barnaby said before marching off.


    ¡°Keep the ball rolling Percy.¡±


    ***


    Cass had finished whatever work she had been doing on the old car and was now writing something up on a clipboard when Barnaby reconvened with her.


    ¡°Oof that¡¯s a glum look you¡¯ve got. Tired of the two man gadget review?¡±


    ¡°Something like that,¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°Come on, let¡¯s have a cuppa and chill out for a bit,¡± she said.


    Cass shepherded the sullen man into the shop¡¯s office area. The chairs were comfy if a little infirm. The room was quiet. The low gurgling boil of the kettle, the ringing clink of mugs, the rounded steamy sound of hot water being poured; all could be heard to their fullest appreciation. The sound alone could warm many a Brit¡¯s soul.


    ¡°So what¡¯s got you in a frump?¡± Cass asked as she handed Barnaby the hot mug.


    Barnaby let out a long sigh before responding. ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s just. My niece is in serious danger and all we¡¯ve done this afternoon is eat, drink, be merry. And now he¡¯s back there gawking at toys like a child. I just wish he¡¯d take the situation more seriously.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s got a plan right?¡± she asked.


    Barnaby stared down into his tea as if to divine the answer. ¡°I-I think so but-¡±


    ¡°No buts. So he¡¯s got a plan. It must depend on some time frame. Otherwise, he¡¯d have done it already yeah?¡±


    Barnaby had no response. He kept his head down and gently brushed the side of the warm mug with his thumb.


    ¡°So it seems like, to me, he¡¯s spent his time wining and dining his frack client so¡¯s to keep that sad sack distracted and stop him from worrying so much. Even though his client has every right to worry. You think I¡¯m wrong? You know something better he should be doing?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Guess not.¡±


    ¡°And as for those ¡®toys.¡¯ They might not make or break Kipper¡¯s success. But Percy¡¯s gear can really cut him some extra slack.¡±


    ¡°That weird camera setup did help us figure out what had happened pretty quickly,¡± he said before taking another sip from his mug.


    ¡°The one with the projector?¡± she asked.


    He nodded.


    ¡°I remember that thing. The two of them spent weeks fiddling around with it, trying to get it to work. It was almost impossible to properly test too. Places with a lot of magic traffic are too saturated for it. I¡¯m glad it found its purpose,¡± she said with a warm smile.


    Cass¡¯s smile was short-lived as a grim expression slid across her face and the bouncy energy her legs once had died down.


    ¡°I know his childish side can be annoying but give him some patience. I think he needs it.¡±


    ¡°Needs it?¡± he asked.


    ¡°To, like, remain detached you know? It¡¯s a tough job. If Kippers admitted to himself he¡¯s as emotionally invested as he is for every case, every victim. I think it¡¯d build-up, break him. He¡¯s got, like, two faces. You might have seen it. There¡¯s the one he wants you to see. That smug, brash, excited, childish genius. Then there¡¯s the other.¡±


    ¡°The other?¡± he said.


    ¡°The one that¡¯s tired, old, world-weary, almost cold. It¡¯s in his eyes. I¡¯ve only seen eyes like those one place else. My brother after he returned from his last tour with the armed forces. He lost a lot out there and he was never really the same. He died a few months later - car crash - he was driving drunk. It pisses me off that the thing I remember most is him staring off with those stupid cold eyes. You might think Kippers is scary smart now. But if he ever looked at you in full earnest with those eyes. That¡¯s when it¡¯s truly frightening.¡±


    She shook her head violently like she was waking from a bad dream. ¡°Shit, sorry. I forgot myself for a minute there and mouthed off unnecessarily. You didn¡¯t need to hear that. Here I am s¡¯posed to be cheering you up.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s quite alright,¡± Barnaby said sheepishly.


    The corners of her mouth pinned themselves back uncomfortably. ¡°Yeah, yeah. I don¡¯t know how long you¡¯ll be around for but as long as you are, have his back. You got that? Don¡¯t let him do anything too reckless. He might have a miraculous track record but he ain¡¯t no man of steel.¡±


    Barnaby nodded with determination. ¡°Yeah, of course.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t long after that Percy and the detective arrived at the office chatting about integration matrices and flux capacitors or the like.


    ¡°Mister Barnaby, feeling better I assume, a little more mellow now?¡± Kiping asked.


    ¡°Y-yes, sorry about my previous behaviour Detective.¡±


    ¡°Quite alright. Quite alright. Nothing to be sorry about. Our business here has concluded. It¡¯s time to get serious, Mister Barnaby. It¡¯s due time we rescue your niece. We could take the bus to our destination but it would be quicker and safer to leave hidden space and blink to an entryway nearby. You think you can stomach the journey, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Barnaby barked.


    Cass¡¯s bubbly demeanour and energy had returned in full force.


    ¡°Just because you¡¯ve mastered blink travel doesn¡¯t mean you have to abuse it so much Kippers. This is why you never need a star mechanic. I swear anyone else and they¡¯d have lost a limb and learned their lesson. But not you,¡± she said.


    ¡°Oh, nonsense, I keep a perfect mental map of the city. I could teleport into the tightest crawlspace with a margin of error down to but a half-inch. Besides, how do you know I haven¡¯t already learned that lesson? Perhaps that¡¯s why I¡¯m so confident in my abilities.¡±


    Kipling¡¯s eyebrows bounced up and down with the smuggest of grins. Cass could only roll her eyes at him.


    ¡°Whatever cowboy.¡±


    Percy swung his arm into a tight shake with the detective. ¡°You tell me soon as you can how the new gear works out for you, promise?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I promise, Percy.¡±


    ¡°Alright come along Mister Barnaby, no time to waste,¡± Kipling said as he readjusted his bag and began to stroll to the door.


    ¡°Uh, pleasure meeting the two of you,¡± Barnaby said as he jogged to catch up with the detective.


    ¡°And you. Oh, and you better be looking after that maid of yours Kippers! I don¡¯t want you dragging her in here with excuses about why she¡¯s behind on her routine maintenance! I¡¯ll have your ass if you do!¡± Cass yelled.


    ¡°Perish the thought!¡± Kipling replied in volley as he exited the building.

 The Prestige

    Night had fallen as the detective and his companion snaked their way through tight back alleys. In front of them was the unwashed brick of the dream den¡¯s back wall.


    ¡°This should be the one,¡± said the detective.


    ¡°There¡¯s no back door. You have a novel way to get in from here?¡± asked Barnaby.


    ¡°In fact I do. But first, some reconnaissance.¡±


    From his bag, the detective retrieved a metal box and a small cone-shaped object. Both had adhesive pads and an antenna as part of their builds. The box also housed several dials, buttons, and a waveform graphing display.


    He attached the cone to his right temple and the box to an electrical junction on the brick wall.


    ¡°This astral jack will project my consciousness through the building¡¯s wiring,¡± the detective said.


    Once switched on the box was eager to tune itself to the building¡¯s electrical frequency. As the waveform on the graph became more stable, the detective¡¯s body stiffened and his eye¡¯s turned a milky white. His unseen spirit zipped through the copper wires of the wall, bouncing back and forth before holding a position through force of will. From here Kipling¡¯s detached spirit could peer into any of the den¡¯s facilities.


    ¡°Yes. Yes. This is good. The children are hooked up in the basement.¡±


    ¡°Children?¡± Barnaby said.


    ¡°Shhh! Three children. The room behind this wall connects directly to the lower level and doesn¡¯t appear to be frequently trafficked. Some sort of storeroom I imagine. The rest of the floor is dedicated to the reception. Above that is the clientele in dream suites. Little more than the machine, loungers, and curtain dividers. Last floor looks to be the boss¡¯s office and a couple of premium suites. I count two on reception, four tending to the clients, and three in the office including the boss.¡±


    With a jittery hand, the detective killed the connection to the box. He fell backwards as the tension seizing his body released all at once.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. Now for a door. A dimension door.¡±


    Kipling leapt back on to his feet with a single impressive motion and patted the dust from his backside. In his hand, he held a small cube of polished wood with straight seems running across its faces. With an unnecessary flair, he spun his arm in a wind-up. Like a baseball player, he pitched the cube at the wall.


    The sudden loss of inertia was unnerving as the cube froze in place after it had made contact with the brick. With the rhythmic sound of grinding gears, the cube began to unfold. Clack, clack, clack it went as slabs of charged wood spread out across the wall. The panels locked together with a deliberate clunk and the completed door sank into the wall. A knob spiralled out as the mechanical harmony faded back into silence.


    ¡°You have your night vision ready Mister Barnaby? On my mark, I¡¯ll overload the building¡¯s power with the astral jack. Speed is of the essence. Through the door and immediately to your right will be the stairs down.¡±


    Barnaby took a pair of round spectacles with green holographic lenses from his breast pocket and put them on his face. He approached the door and shakingly hovered his hand over the knob. He tried to steady himself by holding his wrist with his other hand. A dry lump hung in his throat.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready and in position,¡± he said.


    ¡°And you remember what I told you? Do as I instructed and only as I instructed. No deviations,¡± the detective asked.


    ¡°Yes, yes, I remember. Now get on with it!¡±


    Kipling flipped a switch on the side of the astral jack. Energy surged and charged until the circuit could no longer handle it. The hissing of sparks came from inside the junction box and the light in the one visible window went dark.


    Barnaby wrenched the handle of the door and pushed the door open with melodramatic force. He tripped and fumbled over displaced stocked items that now scattered the floor before making his way down the stairs.


    Kipling wasn¡¯t far behind him, only delayed by his recovery of the metal box. He took a small capsule from his pocket and depressed the button on its top. He threw the capsule towards the stairs Barnaby had run down just moments before. The stairs rapidly filled with an expanding foam. Just as quickly, the foam hardened into a concrete-like wall.


    Chaos was fast filling the rest of the building and one of the reception staff had already made their way to the back room. The half dozen patrons went from confused and disorientated to disgruntled and angry in little time. It wouldn¡¯t be long before the boss and his two goons made their way down.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°The fuck are you? Hey, there¡¯s an intruder back here!¡± the woman with the cockney accent said.


    Kipling threw two fingers towards her as her head was turned and she and her light spell were instantly knocked out.


    A voice came from behind the doorway. ¡°Give ¡®er a gift. Tragic veneer.¡±


    The unconscious body levitated away behind the door and the shimmer of a floating plane revealed Kipling and the assailant to each other.


    ¡°They¡¯re using a variation of rhyming slang to mask their casting,¡± Kipling thought to himself.


    He knocked over a large wooden desk and took a defensive position behind it before lobbing several accented finger motions towards the door. Within the mirror, the detective could see he had missed his mark. Hard impacts circled the receptionists head on the wall beside him.


    ¡°Swagger pie and mash!¡±


    Deep slashes flew across the turned over desk. Kipling grabbed a large metal hole punch from the ground and threw it towards the doorway.


    ¡°Bounce!¡± he yelled.


    He balled his fist and drew it towards him. The hole punch became like rubber and ricocheted around the doorway.


    ¡°Conduit!¡±


    The detective thrust his hand forward and from it shot a dense bolt of electricity. The extending cable of crackling energy whipped around the corner into the metal hole punch laying at the receptionist''s feet. Tendrils of bright incandescent energy wrapped around the man¡¯s legs and overwhelmed him.


    Kipling rushed over the two floored bodies, across the reception to make his way upstairs. But the den¡¯s staff and the odd overzealous customer were already making their way down.


    A moment of silence fell on the stairway as the two groups saw each other and froze. Who could react first would be crucial to determining who would come out on top. The stewards or Kipling.


    ¡°Crackling hot through the horse and cart!¡± the nearest steward said.


    Kipling thrust forward an open palm. Gale force winds rammed the opposing group back up the stairs and disarmed two of their channelers. This was not without cost as the steward¡¯s spell had blown a hole clean through Kipling¡¯s shoulder.


    While the group clambered to get back on their feet from the pile they were in, the detective pulled what was clearly supposed to be a grenade from his bag. He pulled the pin and tossed the canister upwards. The stewards'' eyes were all fixed with fear on the canister as a plume of vapour began to hiss out.


    Kipling didn¡¯t let this opportunity go to waste and sealed the stairway with another concrete foam capsule. The sounds of yelling dulled to a murmur as the gas took effect and put everyone on the upper floor to sleep.


    The room began to spin as the detective stumbled back towards the two unconscious bodies. The colour began to drain from his face as blood continued to pour from the wound on his shoulder. Still, he managed to check the two reception workers vitals, ensuring their lives were not in immediate danger.


    The lights flickered back on as power was restored to the building. With the smug satisfaction of a job well done, Kipling pulled himself back on his feet to begin his retreat. His victory was short-lived however as one of the bosses goons blinked down behind him like a clap of thunder.


    Like a bad premonition, the detective sensed the magic that was about to deliver all two hundred and thirty pounds of trouble to his position. Time slowed as massive amounts of adrenaline began to rocket through his veins.


    The detective¡¯s head had swivelled around just enough to see his assailant had thrown a right hook before even fully materialising. Kipling fell to one knee with a thud that threw heavy shockwaves through his body. He thrust his palm forward and launched the attacker back. The goon smacked against the wall with excruciating force but he did not keel over.


    The situation only turned grimmer as the second of the bosses fixers landed on the scene. The first began a charge towards the detective while the second threw a gloved fist in their direction.


    ¡°Just fucking kill him already!¡± the second hulking man yelled.


    Kipling held his hand to the floor and launched himself upwards and over the charging muscle. The second attacker''s spell ripped through the first. Shreds of clothing and flesh were blown up and away from the charging man''s side and arm revealing the existence of dense, heavy cybernetic plating beneath.


    ¡°Dammit, you blew half my arm off you fucking dickhead!¡± the injured man screamed.


    ¡°Yeah well your mum was blowing something of mine last night and it weren¡¯t my arm. But it was just as big. Hehehe.¡±


    The second assailant grabbed his crotch aggressively with his gloved hand.


    ¡°Fuck you. And what happened to ¡®we need to beat some answers outta him?¡¯¡± the first asked.


    Kipling struggled to get to his feet or steady his hands long enough for a cast. As the two men argued he rummaged around in his bag for a hail mary; anything that could get him out of this tight spot or at least buy him some time.


    ¡°Fuck answers. This cunt¡¯s done enough damage for one lifetime.¡± said a third disembodied voice.


    A third man began to materialize as the words rang out. The runt of a man with buzzcut hair and grey suit waistcoat was the boss of the dream den - and he was pointing a pump-action shotgun right at the detective.


    The boss wasted no time in pulling the trigger on the detective. The detective could do nothing as the buckshot flew across the room and perforated his body. He fell forward as blood continued to run from his injuries and soak his clothes.


    The boss took a deep breath and calmly walked over to the wounded detective. Standing over Kipling, he flew into a rage and began stomping on the detective¡¯s head.


    ¡°You don¡¯t get to fuck with another man¡¯s business without there being consequences!¡±


    The boss¡¯s infuriated words mattered little as Kipling¡¯s consciousness had already faded beyond hearing them. The detective rapidly slipped further into oblivion with seemingly no hope of recovery. His heartbeat slogged on, getting slower and slower.


    At the moment his heart stopped, Detective Kipling¡¯s fading mind was terrorized by vision and sound. His mind filled with familiar laughter. A sick and twisted inhuman shrieking that clawed at one¡¯s sanity. It was the last thing he had heard the first time he had died. More accurately, it had penetrated his very being in the seconds after he had died. A time in-between existence. Fractured images of rain-soaked cobblestone, stab wounds, and a cloaked figure walking away lit up in the darkness of the detective¡¯s mind.


    His eyes shot open and a sharp, deep gasp drew air into his lungs with starved vigour.