Witch Hunt

As it turns out, scampering up a fire escape while invisible is a more difficult task than it seems. Though... everything is more difficult while invisible. It is so easy to take for granted the foibles of the flesh; the grounding effect witnessing one's body can have.

Although, on some occasions, witnessing my own body has caused me to feel altogether less grounded. I'll look into a mirror and come away confused, like I was expecting someone else. If I let myself fall through that feeling, I'll end up outright disconnected. Like a thing made of thoughts, floating through space, confined within a prison of blood.

Invisibility often leads to this kind of thinking, only amplified. I cannot see my arms when I swing them, have even less perspective than usual for how wide or slight my form is. This is not my first time disappearing from sight; I must test my own potions on occasion, after all, and invisibility elixirs are a best seller. Each time I do, I reappear with more than my fair share of bruises, from bumping into corners, bars, chairs. People.

"Watch it!", calls Alabastra from... somewhere vaguely ahead of me. If I concentrate, the rainfall paints a space with which I can divine the absence of persons. Into one such space, I think I must have kicked my leg out too far.

We surmount the top of the metal stairs, joining with the sloped roofs. I realize with a start how much exercise I'm in for, and how little I am practiced for it. Suddenly I find myself jealous of fully-fledged vampires, walking along walls like spiders.

With laborious effort, I follow the sound of clambering, up and down the roof slants. Each ascent a mountain climb; each descent a sliding brush with death. I quietly wish misfortune upon whoever designed these damned houses. My arms and legs begin to scream with pain, my hands assuredly slashed over with scrapes from the scratchy tiles, slickening fast with rain water. Who would subject themselves to this on a regular basis?

No one sane.

Finally, we reach our destination, and the descent onto the roof of the odd-house out seems now like a drop into a canyon. What a difference distance makes, to turn six feet from an architectural quick to a bottomless free-fall.

At the bottom of the man-made ravine, I hear two sets of paired collisions on stone, complete with grunts of effort from the more practiced thieves. In a hushed but directed tone Alabastra says, "Hey! Moodie! Get down here."

I return in a likewise whisper, "And break my legs on the fall? No thanks, I'll stay here!" As if conspiring against me, my foot slips against the wet tilework, and I have to scramble to catch myself.

Piled on one corner of the roof, a stack of bricks is disturbed without source, the topmost block picked up and floated through the air. The brick is set down close to the bottom of my current perch. "I'm standing in front of this brick. I'll catch ya."

"You're going to catch something you can't see?! Are you insane?" I don't know why I ask; I clearly know the answer.

"Don't ya trust me?" Even though I can't see her, I hear the smile splitting her cheeks. "I'll count you down. Jump on one."

The rain continues to loosen my grasp on the roof. She knows how to back me into a damned corner, if nothing else.

"Three... Two...", she counts. I look to the brick she's placed on the ground, let one hand loose, and aim despite my lack of any mooring sensation. "One!" I leap.

If moving invisibly was disorienting, falling invisible is an entirely different affair. I'm dizzy and spinning before I hit the ground. Or, more accurately, before I hit something else. My body collides with rain-soaked limbs, knocked around and flailing amongst my own like an elk colliding with a tree. I feel the momentum of my own fall pass to Alabastra, and she swings backward, the last knock of the cradle, carrying us both to the ground.

For a moment I simply lay there, unsure entirely if the juts of bone and clammy skin I'm feeling are my own or hers. Perhaps I stay a moment too long, because I then feel an exploratory patting around the top of my head, as if a hand shot through darkness looking for the light switch. Alabastra's voice practically coos into my ear, "Buy a girl dinner first..."

I scamper backwards, regaining my footing in a flurry. Blood rushes to my ears, and my face feels hot. I take a moment to regain my composure.

Alabastra laughs, and I only barely hear over the sound of the rain, clinking glass, a bottle uncorked, and the gulping of liquid. "Hit my damn head. Told ya I'd need those healin' pots, didn't I?"

If I'd known all this time that the healing potions I'd been selling her were facilitating these kinds of escapades... Well, I probably could have guessed that myself, in all honesty.

Faylie's voice chirps from the back of the roof, "Think we caught a lucky break!"

With Alabastra's steps behind me, I walk towards the edge, feeling and looking for the faun-shaped empty space. Over the lip of the roof next to where she might be, I peer down. The alley we'd come up from stretches out, and if I crane my head I can just see the space where Tegan is likely still waiting for us. And directly below us sits a balcony into the building, with a broken open window.

"Well, well. That we did", says Alabastra.

I add flatly, "Your stance on luck is demonstrably inconsistent."

Faylie ignores my comment. "I'll wait here to teleport us all outtie when you're done." A surprisingly wise plan, if Faylie's card-magic is consistent with the usual rules and pitfalls. So many rookie spellcasters forget the limits of invisibility; the first spell breaks before the new is cast. Best indeed she stay here, lest she render the entire exercise moot.

"Just us then, Moodie", says Alabastra. "Try to keep up."

The balcony is a much smaller drop down; hanging off the lip of the roof edge should just allow me to touch my feet to the railing. Assuming my balance isn't completely devastated from the rising vertigo, or I don't slip from the rain, or the Gods don't decide now would be an amusing time to finally strike me down with a heaven-sent lightning bolt. I maneuver over the side of the building, positioned over the balcony. I'll need a damn bath after this, that is most assured. What I wouldn't give for some light reading and a cup of blood-infused macchiato, to listen to this rain patter from inside my flat. Instead I'm subjecting myself to urban gymnastics, soaking myself in water and dirt, surrounded by loudmouthed thieves, hunger pangs rocking my midsection with dull regularity. The indignity is unbearable.

My feet meet the railing, and I still have the good sense to not look down. Brick by brick, I lower myself until I can step onto the balcony proper. As I do, I bump into something unseen. "Gods' sake", Alabastra whispers, "Next time, we're usin' a seeing spell first, so you can watch where you're goin'!"

I am about to launch into a tirade on the unlikelihood of there being a next time, when through the window, I catch movement. A police officer stands, looking every which way, balancing back and forth on the balls of his feet.

In a whisper so faint she must be inches from me, Alabastra says, "Stay low, stay quiet. Stick the right; I'll take left. Only move somethin' when no one's lookin'. Three minutes; count down from 180. Then we bail. Repeat it back."

"Righthand side, stay quiet and out of sight of the officers. Three minutes, then we rejoin", I whisper.

I feel a pat on my collarbone that I assume was meant for shoulder. Without further sound or sight, the space before me fills with rainfall.

* * *

179.

Fitting my hidden form through the window wreathed in shattered glass is the first challenge. I wish I'd gotten to see how Alabastra managed, so that I might attempt at least a poor imitation. I look through the window to the floor beyond to see the inside carpet is coated in glass, a long pattern reaching halfway across the room. Broken from the outside.

A safe spot to the side seems relatively free of glass. I bend over, contorting my frame through, from outside left to inside right, mindful of the jagged edges. It takes me longer than I'd have liked, but it's likely best to be cautious on the entry.

157.

I flatten to the adjacent wall, finding myself in a small bedroom. The room is bare of any decoration, or even furniture beyond the simple, unmade bed, rocking chair in the corner, and single bedside table. I suppose I cannot judge; mine is little different.

153.

The officer stands beside the frame of an open door. Beyond it, stairs disappear into darkness, turning around on themselves. I assume Alabastra is already halfway down, and I take the initiative to descend. Passing closer to the officer, I see a young man, likely a rookie put on guard duty for the least interesting part of the break-in. My senses kick in; I can smell his nervous sweat, see his neck just above his shirt. My stomach yearns. No. I concentrate, pushing the thoughts down. I have no time to divulge such hungry fantasies.

The stairs meet my feet just as I remember that I am dripping in rainwater. I decide to take them slow, lest I trip and alert the police in the most embarrassing way I could.

108.

The first floor looks to be an office, wooden floors, the only light the scarce rays of the sun peeking through the storm clouds and illuminating the frosted glass window of the door. Backwards black letters are cast against the white, "Nathaniel Latchet - Private Investigator".

Two more officers stand stationed here, but neither are paying any more attention than the young man above. One is asleep in a chair pulled into a corner, and the other writes in a small notebook.

I stick to the side, bent low into a crouch, taking in the detective's workspace. My back nearly brushes against wall-to-wall bookshelves, stocked with leather-bound tomes, dying plants, and cobwebs. If this Nathaniel disappeared only recently, he was hardly a devoted steward of his workstation. In the center of the room, a long mahogany desk looks to have been ransacked, papers flung from inside drawers, paperweights and a framed photo strewn about on the floor beyond. A broken globe lies bent and twisted toward its base; a makeshift bludgeon, perhaps?

96.

My eyes go to the strewn papers. I bend over to read the first one. Letters written with a typewriter on a stock sheet of yellowing paper.

Case File #246. Missing person, elven female. Floruary the 28th, 917.

Two years back. Waste of time.

91.

There are too many to look at all of them. I try and imagine my own desk. Anything I was currently working on would've been what was closest to the chair... Nothing remains on Latchet's. I look towards the ground-messed paperweights, and backtrack toward the desk, following the carnage of trinkets and writing utensils. The carpet is stained with a wide spray of ink. A wide spray. Someone must have knocked everything off deliberately, sweeping from left to right. Nearest to the desk, right side, I catch a file laying on the ground, splotched and stained in black.

80.

Case File #413. Stolen Item. Octobrea the 18th, 919. $250 Payout.

Only days ago. This is it.

Client came to me looking for help retrieving a "lost family heirloom." Creepy jackass in a long coat, complained about my office.
Description: A brass pocketwatch, simple design, missing its hour hand. Should radiate powerful arcana.
He said the item would likely end up in the hands of collectors, antique stores, pawn shops, that sort of thing. I'll ask around the usual haunts.
UPDATE/ Oct. 21st. Found the "heirloom" (see photo)... at an Iron Syndicate controlled pawn shop. Met with the client and told him to forget the payout. Not worth messing with those gangbangers. Case closed. Client was not happy. On a whim, asked him about details relating to Cases #409 - #411, and especially #412. Client got defensive, and stormed off. Know a guilty face when I see one.

A smaller note stapled to the main file reads in scrawled handwriting: attach to case #412 evidence file.

62.

I look frantically for this photo mentioned, or the other cases. There are piles of paper, and several turned down on their faces. I cannot check this whole room without disturbing the officers. I look back down at the case file, and my heart leaps into my throat as I see a drop of rainwater drip onto the page. Dammit all.

I look back up toward my traversed path and see that I've left a trail of soggy footprints. The officer continues to jot away in his notebook, but it would only take him a single glance and a half a brain to realize something is not right.

54.

Time to cut my losses. I can only hope Alabastra found more. I turn, and begin my crouched gait back up the stairs. Already my knees are protesting; how does she do this every day?

25.

I reach the ascent once again, rushing to make my meeting time. The young officer still stands guard, now drumming at the side of his pants. I'm unsure how he hasn't noticed the footprints-

"What... what is that?", he says.

I am fortune's fool.

I pull to the other side of the door frame as the cop bends over to inspect the damp tracks.

20.

He follows them back to the window, hand on his weapon as if he expects them to come alive.

15.

Move, damn you, or your life is forfeit.

The officer turns, looking over the space with wide eyes. Finally, he marches away from the window, heading down the stairs. "Fellas-", he begins.

But does not finish. A slip of his boot against the wet floor, and he tumbles and crashes down, his clumsy cacophony filling the office. I look back to see the young man ass over tea-kettle down the steps.

Well, at least my curse of foul luck spreads, I suppose.

5.

I rush to the window. 4.

No time for caution, I step right on the glass. The sounds of the cop's wailing hopefully covers my auditory tracks. 3. I press my hands to the sides, feeling the crunch of broken window pebbles under my hands. 2. I pull myself through without the dexterity of my previous journey. It costs me in blood. 1. A single shard digs through my leg, leaving a small stain of blood along the sill.

On the balcony once more, I whisper, "Alabastra?"

A beat passes. Then another. Is she still in there? I turn in a panic. Should I go back for her? Is she already being arrested? Gods, if she gets caught this entire venture will have been for nothing, not to mention the consequences if Nottham finds her. What if-

"Not gonna lie", her voice says from nowhere, "I almost lost it when that cop fell on his face."

Ah. I stand, shivering now from the rain re-greeting my dampened form. "Find anything useful?"

"We'll debrief in a sec, Moods. Lightning Bug!"

Faylie says from above us, "Already on it!" Just over the lip of the roof, the glowing image of a woman draped in cloth surrounded by a laurel wreath shines in brilliant purple, four-corner faces rotating around and around. In the blink of an eye, we are whisked from roof to alley.

* * *

Despite Faylie's incessant questions, we decide to wait on sharing information until we are well and truly away from this neighborhood. We speed fast through city streets, dodging foot traffic, and arrive once again at a skyway terminal, too crowded and silent to comfortably speak.

It is only after we load onto the tram and find ourselves a relatively quiet corner that Alabastra says, "Alright. Let's get into it." She cracks her knuckles, shaking rainwater out of her coat, stretching. The invisibility spell having long dropped, I look down at my own hands to indeed find new sets of cuts and bruises, joints aching. I must look like I lost a fight. The blood under my own hands makes my stomach growl. I push the thought away.

"I left a set of footprints through the office. Will that be a problem?" Now that I think on it, in fact... "And how did you not, Alabastra?"

She shrugs. "Not my first rodeo?" I stare, unamused, and she chuckles. "Took my shoes off."

Tegan answers my question, "Eh, cops aren't smart enough to follow through on shoe tracks. So they know someone broke in; doesn't mean they know it was us."

"Enough stalling!", whines Faylie, "What'cha learn, Allie?!"

Alabastra stretches her arms to grip the sides of the table, one arm crossed in front of me. "Well, my hunch was right. Natey Boy definitely knew somethin'. Read a couple of his case files; he was lookin' into some disappeared folk. One of them turned out to have been some confused druid kid, couldn't control his beast shapes. The other one Nathaniel never did find, but was apparently half-devil, and suddenly picked up a penchant for megalomania."

"Just like Mrs. Matricia's daughter..."

The half-elf nods to the faun, then looks across the table, an overfilled lake of concern in her eyes. "And more."

A thought occurs to me. "Did you happen to read what case numbers the detective labelled these as?"

The half-elf leans back, peels her not-quite dry coat from her body, and pulls from underneath two manila folders. "Didn't need to." Of course. I didn't think to take anything from the office. Here I was, worried my tracks would lead a trail, and this supposed master thief is walking around with clear evidence in her pockets. I sigh, holding my forehead with one hand and motioning she put the files down with the other.

Sprawled across the table, Case File #409 and Case File #410 are dated just two and four days after my own quarrel began. The boy, especially at night, would transform at random into whatever beast he most felt like at the time. The half-devil, likewise after dusk, apparently disappeared after making ominous threats of world domination.

Then it really is the case; whatever is causing my intense hungers is an affliction shared in some way by others in the city... those with shapeshifting abilities, or with stereotypically wicked heritages.

There is little use in asking why with the little information we have, and yet the question bites at me all the same. If whatever drives these similar cases is at all like my own blood thirst, then without a doubt, this will only get worse with time. Is that deliberate? The detective's disappearance seems to indicate malice... But then, who benefits from this chaos?

Just who has set my hungers to slaughter? To carve, to drink deep of the blood of mortals, to rip flesh from bone?

I grip my stomach, an aching pang rocking through me.

Perhaps it is occurring faster than I even thought. Is someone's hand at the wheel of this sanguine sacrament? Driving us all like the beastmaster with the whip, driving me mad with hunger.

"Well", says Alabastra, "Don't keep us in suspense, Moods." I'll keep her in more than just suspense. I'll keep her head as a prize.

My vision starts to blur. No, no! I look out the window at the setting sun. My breathing is laborious, my head is dulling. And I am ravenous.

"...Moodie?", Alabastra says, her voice dropping with fear. Good.

Dammit, no, not here, not now. Not in front of them.

There's no time to panic. I have to act. My hand goes to my back pocket, and I weakly slam my notebook onto the table. "The encircled recipe...", I say. My throat is going dry, every instinct in my sick body yearns to sate my thirst. My fangs poke into my lower lip. "You'll find everything you need in my shop. It'll... subdue..."

"No, no no no, stay with me Moodie." I feel Alabastra's hand pat at my cheek, but a dark ring encircles my vision, dulls my senses. I barely feel her. I barely hear her. I am barely here.

I try to mumble something, but all faculties are fading. My head slumps forward, and their muffled voices, the rattling of the train cart, and the pitter-patter of rain beating on the metal roof all whisk and merge into pure, white noise.