Jake and the Syren's Call

Chapter 1

Jake closed his eyes and sighed at the ceiling. He itched his crocked nose with the cracked nail of his thumb, and grinned.

‘Whatcha grinning at?’ Asked the silver haired beauty with whom he had shared his evening.

‘Just can’t get over how good you are.’ He chuckled back at her.

She rolled her eyes and rose with the grace of a dancer. Her sheer robe flowing about her body like mist.

Jake admired her lissom form as she stretched her arms above her head. ‘Round two?’

She returned his smirk with a half-smile. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ She pointed at the glass coffee table to their right. ‘Leave the money on there.’

He snorted. ‘You trust me to not cheat you?’

She looked down at him through long dark eyelashes and, for a moment, the room seemed to darken about her, as though her pearlescent skin absorbed the light. ‘You wouldn’t be that stupid.’

Her tongue snaked out, long and forked, from between four bright white fangs, before retreating back behind what had once more become perfect full lips. ‘And I could kill you before you reached the door.’ She winked at him.

Jake, who’d seen demonstrations of her demonic power before, chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘No ma’am, I would not.’ He pointed towards the bathroom. ‘Mind if I pee first?’

She stepped up to him, leaned down and kissed his forehead. ‘Yes.’ She had a mischievous look. ‘Come see me again soon, ok?’ He nodded his assent, and she pinched at his cheek. ‘And eat something, will you? You’re looking skinnier than ever.’ She straightened and slinked into the bathroom.

Still smiling, Jake rose creakily from his seat and scratched his Van Dyke.

​

Van Dyke? What’s a Van Dyke?

It’s a beard, named after an artist. Or a movie star. I forget which.

Can’t you just call it a goatee?

Sure. No problem.

Jake rose creakily and scratched his goatee. There was little denying her words; he had lost weight. His high cheekbones were stark in his hollow cheeks set above a narrow jaw. His ears, though not large, appeared more prominent against the slightly sallow skin of his neck and thinly cropped brown hair. He looked less a private detective more a down and out comedy act, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d not had much business of late. Certainly not enough to justify anything more than the basics. Food, electric, rent, time with her.

He pulled on his tattered grey suit jacket over his stained shirt and looked about the room for his trilby. It was lying next to the hat stand where, in a failed attempt to impress, he had tossed it and missed the hook by a clear three feet. He placed it low over his blue eyes and felt armoured against the world.

He took two 10 Krona notes from frayed cotton wallet and placed them on the corner of the coffee table. For a moment, he thought about letting her know it was all there, but she would know. She could see him even now.

As he turned, he knocked her rook and knight off the board where they had just pinned his king in mate. He smiled once more. One day he’d beat her.

He left her apartment to the sound of running water and singing so sweet it could give you diabetes and made his way around a corner and down the stained and graffitied corridor to the lifts.

He nodded amiably towards the scarred dwarf in the leather jacket who leaned against the frame of a door from which the heavy dümph, dümph, dümph, dümph of Kronig Haus house music rattled the thin plastic.

‘Hey baby, you wanna try something naughty?’ He heard the voice before he saw her. She had been hidden behind the Dwarf’s long nose and swished into view with a flurry of sparks.

No more than 12 inches tall, the pixie wore a tight red miniskirt and boob tube. Her long ago dyed blonde hair curled down over one eye, while the other held the telltale green tinge of a salaff addict.

‘No thanks.’ Jake tipped his hat to her, trying to be friendly.

‘Come on baby.’ She winked at him, coquettishly, and ran one tiny hand up her shrunken leg, ‘You know you want to.’ She leaned forward in the air and winked at him. ‘You’ll never have felt so big.’

Jake tried to hide a grimace and to ignore the dwarf’s hand moving into his jacket where Jake would bet a kidney, a weapon was concealed. ‘I’m fine, thanks though. You have a good night.’

The pixie scowled at him, and the dwarf lowered his hand. Jake hurriedly pressed the down button on the elevator doors and the sound of a quartet of dying cats announced the lift’s arrival. Jake gave the pair one last fleeting look as he stepped inside, his nose closed to the smell of vomit left by a previous occupier.

Jake felt the tension in his groin grow, but it was ok. He could wait until he got home to pee.

Outside, things didn’t much improve much. Ranger’s Folly was not a district of Lodenon renowned for its artisanal coffee shops, inviting restaurants, and peaceful parks. It was not somewhere you would take a lover for a romantic night out. Not unless you wanted to sell them.

Ranger’s Folly, so called because some three hundred years ago a Captain of the Ranger’s decided this was the spot for his 100 soldiers to fend off an army of 10,000 goblins, was, by any standard, a pimple on the bum of a plagued sewer rat.

It wasn’t simply that The Folly was home mostly to pimps, career criminals, classified dangerous races, and those for whom fate had decided deserved a real good kicking. Nor was it that you could walk down one of a hundred streets in any direction and buy anything you wanted providing it was illegal. No, to Jake’s mind, the worst thing about The Folly, was the smell.

The whole area perpetually smelt of burnt toast. And not freshly burnt toast, mind. But week-old burnt toast with a thick splodge of rancid marmite on top. The factory that gave the district this distinct odour, surprisingly, made shoes. Which made the resulting stench more confusing than ever.

Jake glanced about him in the deep orange glow of the streetlamps. To his left, two ladies of leisure plied their ill-concealed wears for passing traffic. To his right, an argument was quickly brewing between three men who appears to have dressed in a bin.

‘Time to mosey.’ He thought, as he quickly crossed the pavement.

His car, a rusty blue hatchback with a brown bonnet and bald tyres, took three attempts to start. During which time, the brewing argument to his right, had gone from potential, to probable, to actual, to completed. Leaving one bloody, bruised, and limping man rummaging through the pockets of two former fellows while fending off the little men who had come to collect them, and simultaneously giving Jake the look of a feral hound.

It was times like this Jake wished he could carry a gun. A really big gun. The sort of gun that took two hands to lift and carried bullets the size of conkers. But the penalty, 20 years in Angel’s Reach Prison, just wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, Jake had never even held a gun, let alone fired one. He wasn’t sure he could have even loaded one properly. And his only run in with a gun had left a scar on his back which still stung to this day.

Jake pulled out into traffic, grateful to be leaving the area, and made his way back to his home come office in The Walled District.

He forced the spluttering car out of Rangers and into the plush surroundings of Huldra, the old elf district. Conventional rows of three-story homes with gables, pillared entrances, brass door knockers, and expensive alarm systems. All contained behind high, matching, wrought iron fences. While Huldra had been the first elf settlement in Lodenon, it was no longer home to the elite of elven kind. They had all moved to Golden Sands leaving Huldra home to the middle management type. The ‘look at my opulence’ type. The type who would talk your ear off for an hour about their new sports car while wearing ten-year-old underpants.

As he entered The Walled District, the city’s landscape changed once more. Rows of unkempt tenements crowded in on both sides to the point where they looked as though they were trying to reach across the street to each other. Here and there, lonely figures were picked out by flickering streetlamps near boarded up shops. The Walled, wasn’t a bad district, per say. At least, not like Rangers or The Alleys. But as the factories had moved out of Lodenon and the money markets in, The Walled had lost much of its lustre. Jake double checked his doors were locked.

This distraction caused him to slam on his brakes to avoid a bike which had slowed to park.

‘What’s your problem, pal?’ Jake looked out of his window at the troll, who stood, arms out with indignation, just to the right of his car. His black suit was drawn tight around his thick chest, the yellow epaulets flashing in the streetlight.

‘Ah cack.’ Jake thought. ‘Evening’ He said, touching the brim of his trilby to the traffic warden troll as he planted his foot on the accelerator, eager to be out of there.

Trolls, though no longer the mindless brutes bent on grinding bones for delicious dough-based treats as their predecessors had been, were by no means the smartest of races. The average troll IQ would put even the most ardent of human cultists to shame.

This meant that most trolls who left Trollot, the troll homeland on Silvadra, for the wider world, found themselves working in jobs that didn’t require much cognitive reasoning. Such as traffic wardens, personal trainers, or news readers.

The other strange occurrence that had evolved since The Great Peace, was that trolls, on the whole, had an insatiable love of ballet.

The roads were busier now as he approached Irosas Square at the heart of The Walled District and Jake would usually be happy enough to trundle along with no real demands on his time. But today, his bladder was complaining at him, and he just wanted to get home.

Two miles ahead, rising 300 feet into the night sky, shrouded in mist, was Theodan’s Wall. Spotlights atop the towers sent sweeping cones of white light into the void beyond the city. Though the small army that patrolled the wall was invisible from this distance, their presence loomed large, evident whenever one headed north up any of the four avenues crossing The Walled District.

Theodan’s Wall extended from the Manc River in the east to the Gibboon River in the west. Completed in 13pa, it was built with one purpose. To prevent that which caused The Tear from once again gaining power and completing its raison d’etre of total and complete destruction of the planet of Calamatory.

The Tear was the cataclysmic event that split the continent of Silvadra from its now-sister continent, Kildana, creating the near 500-mile-wide Draco Sea and carving deep chasms into both continents. The Void, as it was named, was home to the creature responsible for that disaster.

However, since the advent of the WaterWeb in 832PA—a global communication network of waterways that accelerated information flow—a community of conspiracy theorists emerged to focus on what they called the true purpose of Theodan’s Wall and the network of forts surrounding “The Void.”

The initial theory posited that Theodan’s Wall concealed the secret location of alien super badgers who had journeyed from the galaxy of Hoolle to bestow upon humanity the technology to traverse space at light speed, all while hoping to welcome Earth’s people into their galactic union.

The theory spread like celebrity gossip, attracting thousands who clamoured for access to these supposed aliens. A group of self-proclaimed “Badgerists” organized a conference in Prizeport, Kronig, to establish contact with the aliens imprisoned within The Void.

But as it often goes when a crowd of unfulfilled and under-stimulated individuals gathers, theories rapidly evolved.

Samuel Golion, a vocal gorilla of a man from Whiteford, proclaimed the “aliens” were, in fact, elite society figures leading humanity to doom. The solution? Multuskind had to create a super variant of tuberculosis for aerial distribution over the Void.

Forigal Simolata, a trader in virtual sheep from Singleton had disagreed. He claimed he had a video which proved the aliens were actually super intelligent fish from The Penelopsea who had been trying to drown the land of Silvana for farmland. When questioned as to the whereabouts of The Penelopsea, he had simply replied that people needed to “Do their own research” and refused to be moved further on the matter.

The organisers might have been able to contain the factions had it not been for Pria Lastar, a 22 year old society guide from St Joan in Fraqui,  who stood on her chair in the middle of conference hall C of the 2 Star Lavender Hotel, Prizeport, and proclaimed that the aliens were real, but that they had secretly taken over the leaders of all the nations and were now surreptitiously controlling our lives through the cunning use of fast food and corrupted pile cream.

The melee that ensued was known by those who witnessed it as ‘Hold Me Back Battle’ as scores of men and woman requested their friends and acquaintances to hold them back from fighting as they quickly stepped away from their opponents while flinging insults. The Kronig police quickly resorted calm by threatening that anyone found onsite at 5pm would have their WaterWeb access cut off for six months and a strongly worded letter sent to their mother.

Jake’s office was on the first floor of a rundown apartment block at the corner of Irosas Square and Humble Hill. Below him, a shop that had been closed for the past decade still displayed the snake and chalice emblem of an apothecary. As usual, parking was non-existent.

Atypically, a sleek black limousine with tinted windows and an exceptionally large guard stood parked directly outside Jake’s building. Jake sucked in his cheeks. This could be interesting, though his bladder had a different opinion.

Turning at the junction of Last Hope and Preston’s Mount, Jake swung his car into a recently vacated space, much to the vexation of the driver who had let the previous occupant out. A flurry of crude gestures accompanied Jake’s innocent grin as the driver screeched away to find another spot.

Jake crossed the busy street, keeping an eye on the guard, who stood arms crossed before the glossy vehicle, as he approached his office door. The guard watched him intently, his expression as blank and lifeless as a reality TV star.

Upstairs, Jake thought the lights might be out in his office as the glass door appeared abnormally dim. But then, the darkness shifted, and the door opened to reveal a man the size and width of a football pitch, whose small, murderous eyes fixed on Jake.

Jake felt a slight twist in his stomach. "Hi, I wasn't expecting anyone, Mr...?"

The behemoth let out a sound like two boulders rubbing together as he stepped aside, allowing Jake to enter the office. Jake noticed the earpiece lodged deep within the man’s right ear, realizing he had been briefed on Jake’s arrival by his companion downstairs.

Jake scanned his office. To his immediate left lay a once-white kitchenette, now tattered, with a tabletop fridge, tabletop oven, one hob, and a chipped mini sink. Next to them were his one cup, one plate, one spoon, and one fork; his one knife seemed to be missing.

To the right against the left-hand wall sat his patched and faded sofa-bed, the equally shabby blanket and pillow strewn on the floor beside his assistant’s wood-effect desk. He noted with relief that Barbara had already left for the evening, sparing him the need to calm her down after this intrusion.

To his right, the only adornment on the right-hand wall was the toilet— “convenient and discreet,” as the estate agent had described it while demonstrating the semicircular curtain meant to shield the user from onlookers. Right now, that toilet beckoned to Jake like a lover smothered in whipped cream on a silk bed.

The man’s small eyes bored into Jake, giving him the impression that the behemoth would relish nothing more than using Jake’s testicles for stress relief balls. He nodded toward the inner office.

Realizing this was not a request, Jake swallowed hard and stepped toward his office, half-expecting to be shoved through the still-closed door.

To his relief, nothing of the sort happened. He opened the door to an astonishing contrast from the mammoth awaiting him in the reception.

If there had been a contest to find companions who differed in every conceivable way, the demure, precise woman rising from the chair at his desk would win hands down against her Brobdingnagian counterpart.

She was thin in stature, though with the fuller areas common in people entering their later years who didn't see much exercise. Her skin was starting to crease around her jaw and below her eyes, but she carried herself with a poise it was impossible to miss.

"Erm..." Jake started, "May I help you?" It was her eyes that caught Jake’s attention, not the expensively cut cobalt blue suit, the immaculately bobbed hair, or the firm but neat hands clasped on the handle of a designer bag. It wasn't the steel-girder-straight back, with her shoulders held so far back they appeared to be trying to escape, nor the high chin that gave her full five feet the appearance of a soldier turned out for parade.

No, it was her narrow hazel eyes that gave Jake pause. He’d seen eyes like that before. They were frightened.

‘Mr Paladin?’ Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to command, and she didn't wait for his reply. ‘I would like to engage you on business.’

Jake blinked twice to buy himself a moment. ‘Of course, Miss—’

‘Mrs,’ she responded briskly. ‘Mrs Abigale Louise Finnigan.’

That name rang a distant bell in Jake’s head, like hearing a church in the next village, but the sound clouded his thoughts more than it aided his memory.

‘Of course, Mrs Finnigan.’ He nodded towards the outer office. ‘I take it they’re here for your protection?’

The nodded reply was as swift as a guillotine. ‘Indeed. Simone and Issac are my personal protection. They accompany me almost everywhere.’ Jake caught the ‘particularly here’ hidden in her ‘almost.’

He gestured for her to sit and made his way behind his desk, discreetly organising the mess of papers that was his work. ‘Well, how can I help you?’ he asked, seating himself in his comfortable old swivel chair. Its familiarity helped steady his nerves. He knew how to do this bit.

A flash of emotion played across her face. ‘It’s my husband, Mr Paladin.’

"Jake, please," Jake interrupted, immediately regretting it. She looked as though using his first name was akin to using her tongue to find broken glass.

"Mr Paladin," she continued, "my husband is missing, and I instruct you to find him."

Jake had always been captivated by the way people used language. His experience in tracking down missing persons had taught him that the words someone chose to plead for their partner's return could reveal volumes about their true feelings. "I need you to find him quickly," suggested a sense of longing and urgency. "Please, for the love of the Goddess, find him," screamed desperation and dread. But "instruct"? Now, that was a headscratcher.

While trying to buy himself some time, Jake casually shuffled the last of his papers into a drawer. "Mrs. Finnigan, I have a very full caseload and..." he started, but she cut him off with the precision of a surgeon.

"At present, you're employed to follow an errant husband of a minor clerk for the Office of Rehousing, who I believe is staying with his mistress in The Kronig Quarter," she said, scratching her wrist with a manicured fingernail. "A Miss Dalifoot, should you not yet be aware."

Jake blinked, taken aback. He was aware, but only as of yesterday. "And you recently recovered stolen property for a Mr. Flagrone of Puggsy Botttom from the den of Dead Garant. You are most certainly not too busy to take on my requirements."

Jake blinked again, trying to process the situation. "How do you know..." he began, but she cut him off once more.

"My husband," Abigale said, gripping the handles of her handbag as if they might fly away, "is James Alexander Gabriel Finnigan. Master of Watchers and Squires."

Jake's heart did a little jig, while his Adam's apple attempted a daring escape through his nose. The Master of Watchers and Squires held one of the most powerful positions in the city, overseeing the two thousand Watchers manning Theodan’s Wall, and the many others stationed either side of the Manc and Giboon Rivers, to the force of a thousand plus Squires who patrolled Lodenon’s streets, the Master controlled their every move.

The Squires, unofficially known as the Rozzers, comprised Lodenon's police force. They handled everything from riot control and beast containment to magical misconduct and complex crime. In Jake's experience, they were about as effective as scooping up diarrhoea by hand. Still, James Finnigan commanded them all and, with the Watchers included, no one save the Anginn Minster of Defence commanded more.

The silence stretched awkwardly, like the wait for the dentist’s drill. Jake's gut told him to bid this woman a cheerful farewell, reach for the bottle of whiskey in his bottom drawer, and toast to a job well dodged. But fate had other plans. She hit him with an offer he couldn't refuse.

"For your efforts in returning my husband to me, I shall compensate you 100 Krona a day."

Jake's brain—the part concerned with mundane matters like paying bills and affording food—threw a little party in his head. 100 Krona was more than most earned in a week. Heck, Jake averaged 300 a month and hadn’t seen that kind of money since... and then it clicked. He nodded. "I take it we have a mutual acquaintance?"

Her thin lips curled into a slight smile, pleased to see his mental gears turning. "Indeed. Zelda Voss."

The scar on Jake’s back tingled at the memory of that case—a gift from Zelda’s would-be assassin. He vividly recalled the holy bullet that had ripped three inches of skin from his shoulder as he whisked Zelda Voss away from the killer's sights.

‘She spoke very highly of you and recommended you to anyone in need," Mrs. Finnigan began. However, her eyes wandered over Jake's ragged attire and scruffy face. "Though I must admit," she added, "I expected someone... different.’

‘It's, um... for a case," Jake muttered, fiddling with his jacket in a futile attempt to make it less resemble a hobo's blanket. "Forgive me, Mrs. Finnigan, but when you asked your husband’s colleagues as to his whereabouts, what did they tell you?’

Mrs. Finnigan shifted uneasily in her chair, taking a moment to gather herself. ‘I spoke with my husband’s deputy who seemed confused as to why I was calling. He said my husband had a trip in his diary for the next two weeks and assumed I’d be with him.’ She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. ‘My husband hasn’t spoken of a trip with me… I presumed this must be a mistake, so I asked his secretary, and he confirmed the same thing.’

Jake looked pitifully at her for a moment. ‘You don’t think your husband has…’

‘No.’ She snapped. ‘You can put that to bed right now.’

‘So can James.’ He thought. ‘Mrs Finnigan, is your husband well liked as a Master? Is there anything you can make me aware of that would lead you to suspect foul play?’ 

She seemed to consider her answer. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. My husband is well-regarded in most circles, but not by everyone, and, with the Duke unwell, it's been discussed," she hesitated, "not that he’s advertising it, you know...’

"Your husband is planning to run for Duke?" Jake pieced her tale together.

She shook her head. "Yes, but not for the reasons most would expect." She sighed. "James actually wants to abolish the position."

Jake's eyebrows shot upward, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "I haven't heard anyone talk about abolition since my history teacher droned on about the civil war."

The Anginn Civil War, from 744pa to 749pm, was a sprawling conflict between two factions. The first, who retained King's Hall as their capital and Lodenon as the commercial hub after the war, believed Steve Brice was the singular Son of the Goddess, destined to save humanity from sin. The rebels, led by Kim Kardashi Jin, couldn't care less about his divine status—they just wanted him off their TVs.

The war dragged on for five years, claiming over a million lives before peace was declared, splitting the land of Anginn down the middle. The eastern half being renamed The Land of Peace.

Since then, The Land of Peace has cut off all ties with Anginn and now went by the name ‘The Loving Happy Land of Joy and Profound Peace.’  

Mrs. Finnigan's brisk demeanour wavered as she hurried to clarify. "It's not like that. James wants to run for the Dukedom to create a more open, council-led system, so the city isn't merely at the whims of ten people. He believes in giving people a vote every few years, holding rulers accountable. He thought," she brushed a stray lock of hair from her eye with mild irritation, "thinks, the city would be fairer that way."

As Jake watched her fingers fidget on her bag handles and noted the slight shake of her head as she corrected herself, it dawned on him: this woman feared her husband was dead.

"How long has your husband been missing?" Jake asked softly.

"Since Amisqa," she answered. "He went to his office as usual, and I didn’t expect him home before 8 PM. Amisqa is always a busy day for him—first day after the weekend and all that."

Jake rolled the calendar over in his head. Today was Quasi which meant James had been missing for nearly four days. ‘You waited some time to contact me.’

For the first time, she appeared genuinely nervous. "Honestly, I had no idea..." Her fingers fiddled with her bag. "It wasn't until Zelda's words came back to me that I... well... considering he's a Master and all..." Her voice trailed off.

"I get it," Jake nodded, understandingly. "Did you go to The Duke?"

"Absolutely not!" She almost spat out the words. "Imagine the chaos if he found out!"

Jake, feeling an urgent call from his bladder that any more delay could lead to a personal flood of epic proportions, stood up. "Mrs. Finnigan, I appreciate your trust in me." He gestured to the clock on the wall. "But it's nearly 11:30 pm, and I doubt we'll reach the best resolution tonight. If you're agreeable, I'd like to visit you tomorrow at your home so we can discuss this further."

Mrs. Finnigan seemed ready to argue but eventually conceded. "Very well, Mr. Paladin." She also stood, and as if on cue, the door swung open with a giant standing aside for her exit. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a business card. "Here's our address," she snapped, her tongue still as sharp as ever. "10 am sharp. Got it?"

Jake gave a slight bow as she marched out like a one-woman army, exhaling deeply once she was gone, tapping the card against his scarred knuckle absentmindedly.

Oi! Pee! NOW!

Jake half-ran, half-crab-walked to the toilet, grinning widely as relief washed over him. A hundred Krona a day, Holy Steve, this was just what he needed. But he soon realized, the stakes might just justify the fee.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 2

Across from Jake's office was a bar that wasn't meant for just anyone. It lacked a name in any human language—a bold statement outside the Huldra district. Any regular business trying that in The Walled would find itself reduced to ashes faster than you could ask, "Got a match?" But Harrocan wasn't your typical barkeep, and The Mark, as it was commonly known, was no ordinary bar.

Jake elbowed the door open and stepped into the cramped space. Despite only four other patrons present, the low ceiling and the pervasive fog of Sorrowax cigarette smoke made the bar feel claustrophobic and unnaturally humid.

The room was narrow, with yellowing posters of obscure bands adorning the walls. The tables and chairs were chipped and battered from long use, often crudely nailed back together after one of the rare but vicious bar brawls. You didn't mess around in The Mark, especially when Harrocan or Mord were behind the bar. The bar itself was a makeshift assembly of chipboard, yet Harrocan took immense pride in it. The bar top, crafted from rare Lignum wood, was meticulously polished by Harrocan, and woe to the one who dared place a glass directly on it.

One of the two men nearby eyed Jake warily. He looked about 20, with acne remnants still a blight on his unwashed skin. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a black t-shirt, his cheaply dyed black hair left stains on his neck. He flaunted the tattoo between his thumb and forefinger—a black knife with a red splash at its tip. The Purifier's mark. He was an assassin, and he wanted Jake to know it. But the tattoo was new, still crusted at the edges. He was fresh to his lethal career, which, in many ways, made him more dangerous. He still had something to prove.

The smaller man glanced up at Jake with a brief smile before returning his focus to the chessboard between them. A risky game, chess, when played against someone sporting a blade tattoo. Jake saw white was about to decimate black's defenses in about eight moves. A solid strategy, though unfortunately, it wasn't the Purifier's.

Jake nodded to the men and navigated through the messy array of stained and chipped tables to the bar. "Filder’s whisky, Harro," he called as he perched himself on a stool.

"Whoa," Harrocan responded, reaching for a tall glass, "you planning to get sloshed tonight?" Despite living in Lodenon as long as Jake, his accent was still thick Stokermyre, the Elven capital by the Lightning Sea. All drawn-out 'o's and slightly nasal.

"Just give me the damn whisky," Jake replied without malice. "I've got a new job." Jake nodded genially to Mord, who nodded back. Her dark eyes smiled while her hands deftly twisted a thick purple thread between two needles.

She leaned back in her chair, wearing her usual outfit—tight-fitting grey jeans ripped at the knees and a faded t-shirt cut off at the chest, adorned with a washed-out band logo. She looked about 25, but Jake figured it was by choice.

Most, who didn't know better, might call Mord beautiful. She certainly had the physique favored by fashion houses for modeling swimwear or lingerie. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and large emerald eyes. And although Jake didn't dwell on it, other assets that men typically find appealing. However, anyone who knew Mord wouldn't dare call her beautiful for two reasons.

First, she'd gladly slit your throat before you finished the second syllable and return to her crocheting without skipping a stitch. Second, witnesses to the first point warned everyone never to try it.

Harrocan once whispered that she'd actually eaten more than one unfortunate soul who tried to woo her. Jake hoped it was an exaggeration but wouldn't bet on it. She'd worked at The Mark as long as Harrocan had owned it, as inseparable from the place as its proprietor. Jake wasn't even sure where she lived but suspected she slept there.

Mord hailed from the enigmatic land of ቢግፉት. Most people simply called it 'The Unpronounceable Land' or 'What?' Jake believed, though wisely never asked, that her current form wasn't her natural one.

"What are you making today?" Jake asked.

"It's a hat for Harro's cat," she replied, smiling warmly. "I thought he'd like it, with him going out at all hours and winter just around the corner." She held up the hat for inspection. It was striped—purple, orange, blue, and red—with slits for the cat's ears.

"I think he will," Jake agreed, grinning back. "Where's Podge anyway?"

"Last I saw, he was in the alley out back," Mord nodded toward the backdoor. "Killing mice." She sighed wistfully and rested her crochet on her lap. "Simple fun life."

"Here's your drink." Harrocan set a tall, thin glass on a napkin before Jake and poured about four fingers' worth of almond-colored liquid.

Filder’s whisky was made in Stokermyre, and while the alcohol could theoretically intoxicate like any normal whisky, the elves had woven something into it that induced different emotional states the more you drank.

One shot bestowed great calm, melting away stress like snow in a hot oven, lasting up to a day, but usually about an hour. Two shots engendered a longing for company and conversation, making the drinker feel like the most interesting person in the world. Unfortunately, this often led to heated arguments as most people had no clue what they were talking about, nor did their audience. Three shots induced giggles at the slightest jest and spontaneous lunatic dancing, even without music. This was why the drink was illegal a week after its introduction; a wealthy banker had served it at a dinner party, and he and most of his 20 guests merrily danced off a 40-story tower. It was said the splat was heard all the way in Silver Row, though Jake doubted that part.

Four drinks, and you'd wake up a week later with no memory of who you were, why you existed, and a firm conviction that someone had inserted an avocado into your rectum.

The reason the drunkenness was theoretical was that, so far as Jake knew, no one had ever made it past four drinks to find out.

Jake nodded once, giving Harrocan a quizzical look. "What happened to you?"

Harrocan's left ear was sliced at the top, the usual spike hidden behind a blood-stained bandage. His nose, bruised purple, sported a 2 cm long cut across the bridge.

Harrocan waved away the concern. "It's nothing. Had a guy in here yesterday from Maʿšūq. A N’hinjar. Said he had a contract for the money I owed. I told him I didn't owe nothin', but he got all aggressive, didn't he and, well..." Harrocan nodded slightly towards Mord. "He ain't around here anymore."

Jake knew better than to ask if he’d gone home. He knew exactly where he’d be now. The little men would have him.

Harrocan, although a relatively harmless elf with no real criminal inclinations, often found himself in the company of those driving the speeding car of infamous destiny off a cliff to the sounds of psychotic laughter.

In his 126 years, Harrocan had dabbled in nearly every nefarious activity. Though he prided himself on never involving animals, women, or children. His early life led many to predict he was destined only to become one of the countless petty criminals cluttering the halls of Angel’s Reach prison with nothing but a grudge for company.

That was until Harrocan met Mord. Mord had this uncanny ability to keep Harrocan tethered to the bar, like a puppy outside a supermarket. Jake wasn't sure if they were a couple, but Mord managed to curb Harrocan's wild side in a way that seemed like wizardry. To let off steam, Harrocan would often find excuses to meddle in Jake's work, like a hyperactive squirrel chasing every nut. He'd pop up with questions here or dash off for answers there. It was practically an unwritten rule: if Jake was on a case, Harrocan had a ticket to ride, whether he was invited or not.

There was an energy about Harrocan that Jake just loved. He threw himself at life with an abandon usually reserved for suicide attempts

Harrocan shrugged away the memory and gave a lopsided grin, "Anyway, what's the latest?"

Jake filled him in about Mrs. Abigale Finnigan's visit. Harrocan listened with the intensity of a cat watching a bird, his concern growing with each detail. When Jake finished, he gulped his whisky, which burned like molten lava down his throat, yet left him feeling oddly serene, and placed the glass back on the napkin with the care of a bomb technician.

Harrocan eyed Jake's glass. "Another round?"

Jake shook his head. "Just a beer."

"You seriously taking this on?" Harrocan asked, genuinely curious.

"Why not?" Jake replied, as nonchalant as a sunbathing cat.

Harrocan slid a beer over and leaned in conspiratorially. "It's the rozzers, mate. Dirtier than a festival porta-potty, the lot of them. Half of 'em are so crooked they could hide behind a corkscrew, and the rest are either career-climbers who'd sell their granny for a stripe on their arm, or drunken slobs who'd shoot you for saying 'good morning'. You won't win."

Jake sipped his beer, unfazed. "I’m not working with them, just hunting their boss."

"And you reckon if they wanted to find him, they wouldn't have already?" Harrocan flipped a beer bottle in a slick motion, popping the cap with style. Jake caught the flying cap with lightning speed and flicked it into a bin.

Harrocan leaned closer, whispering, "Jake, you know me. I steer clear of the rozzers. I don’t fancy my time in a prison cell or not freezing my bits off in the Void Forts. And believe me, that murdering scumbag is dead. The rozzers don't want him found."

Jake pondered his friend's warning. "You might be right, but the pay's worth it."

"How much are we talking?" Mord asked, stitching away like a machine.

"100K a day," Jake revealed. Mord's whistle could have summoned a dog from a mile away.

"Definitely worth it," she nodded.

The average rent for a 2-bed terraced house in Lodenon, was around 400 Krona a month. This could extend as high as 1500 a month in the second or financial districts and be as low as 250 a month in the Alleys. Office space went for a premium as well, with a desk in a shared office going for an average of 300 a month making Jake’s office a cheap option at 100 a month simply by virtue of the fact no one else wanted a damp, smelly, office with as much charm as an England supporter abroad.

Well, that was fascinating.

People needed to understand how to your money works.

Which people? Boring people?

I’ll just finish by saying it’s 0.0144 Krona to the Pound.

You’re the most exciting person I’ve ever met.

Nearby, a man with a knife tattoo shot up like he'd sat on a tack, his chair skidding back. "You cheating rat!" he yelled at his slighter opponent. "Your knight wasn't there!"

"Sit down, you melodramatic wannabe goth," Harrocan barked, glaring at the chair abuser. "You'll pay for any scratches."

Mord calmly set her crochet aside, her gaze soft yet firm on the irate man. Meanwhile, Jake, feeling a zen-like calm, turned to the pair. "He didn’t cheat you. When I arrived, he was setting up a trap with his bishop and knight. I figured it’d be over in eight moves."

"Seven moves," the slighter man mumbled.

Jake smiled, turning back to the tattooed man. "It’s just a game, mate. No one cheated you."

The man glanced between Harrocan and Jake, clearly not familiar with Jake's reputation. Just then, a small figure with oversized ears and a nose like a half-cooked carrot shuffled in, clad in a suit with a comically large tie. He fumbled with a yellow envelope, reading aloud, "Salodar… Salorda… Cripen?" His eyes, as big as saucers, scanned the room.

The Purifier slowly raised a hand, eyes glued to Jake.

"Oh, I'm early. Don't mind me," the little man said, stepping back like a choir boy caught in the wrong hymn.

Jake braced for what he knew was coming. The Purifier's arm flicked, launching a knife at Jake. In a blink, Jake caught the blade mid-air, while Mord’s needle found its mark in the Purifier's heart. The Purifier blinked in surprise, hands raised in a silent "Why me?" before collapsing.

"Bravo," the little man cheered, as he hoisted the large body like an ant carrying a potato chip. "Could you lend a hand?"

"Sure," Harrocan chuckled, holding the door open for him.

"Much obliged," came the muffled thanks, as the little guy waddled out with his hefty cargo.

As the door swung shut, Harrocan grinned at Jake. "Humans aren't supposed to have reflexes like that. Your folks weren't normal."

Jake shrugged. "The orphanage only knew my dad was from Piccolo." He avoided talking about his past like it was a tax audit.

Harrocan snorted, nodding to the door. "Still, that was a laugh."

"Get rid of the envelope," Mord suggested quietly, grabbing another needle from her bag.

Harrocan picked up the yellow envelope with a nod. "Good call. Let's not leave any evidence behind."