Rain fell in jagged streaks across the city of Corvalis, bouncing off the slick cobblestones like liquid silver. Neon lights glimmered in puddles, fractured into shards of color by the uneven surface of the streets. Somewhere far above, a clock tower struck midnight, the chimes echoing like the solemn tolls of a funeral bell. In Corvalis, night was not empty—it was waiting. Waiting for secrets to crawl from shadowed corners, waiting for lies to wear their masks. And Thomas Black always knew where to find them.
Black had an office on Larksbane Alley, a crooked street tucked between a rundown apothecary and a shop that sold charms for wishes no one could afford. A brass sign swung in the rain: T. Black, Detective of Matters Unseen and Otherwise. He'd installed it himself, the letters hammered crooked and uneven—he preferred it that way. Perfection, in his line of work, was a lie.
He lit his pipe, inhaling the bitter smoke that clung to his coat like a second skin. Outside, the city breathed in and out: a living, wet labyrinth of magic and menace. The alley smelled of soot, wet paper, and the faint tang of ozone—a signature of the nearby lightning forges where apprentices coaxed fire and electricity into obedient charms. Black exhaled, watching the smoke twist in the dim lamplight.
Then the call came.
A simple summons, delivered on a silver tablet that shimmered with enchantment: "Mr. Black, your services are required. The Kane Estate. Urgent."
The signature was a flourish he recognized instantly: the arcane emblem of the Kane family, etched in sigils that whispered power. Alabaster Kane, patriarch, immortal if not for the brittle human vessel, had died—or so the tablet implied.
Black didn't move immediately. Rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof above him, tapping against the metal shutters like impatient fingers. He thought of the city outside, of the monsters that walked among humans—not the kind with claws and fangs, necessarily, but the quiet ones: the ones who smiled while they lied, who whispered curses under polite breaths, who sold friendship and magic with equal ease.
"Of course it's Kane," he muttered to himself. "Nothing ever dies quietly in this city."
By the time he reached the edge of the estate district, the city had changed. Skyscrapers with glass facades reflected the storm, the light fractured into prismatic splinters. Street vendors hurried to cover their stalls, umbrellas snapping under the weight of rain. Black's coat clung to his frame, soaked through, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed on the silhouette ahead: the Kane Estate, perched on a hill like a jagged crown over the city.
It was a palace disguised as a home. Gargoyles perched on the corners, claws curling, eyes alive with a faint magical glow. Ivy crawled up the walls, leaves blackened from centuries of rain. The main gates were wrought iron, impossibly tall, etched with runes that warned trespassers in languages no one living remembered. Black touched the gate lightly, feeling the subtle pulse of protective wards. Not that he cared—they were polite barriers at best, and he had ways around polite barriers.
The door opened before he could knock. A maid, trembling in a uniform too fine for the weather, stepped aside. "Detective Black… thank you for coming," she said, voice quivering. Behind her, a corridor of marble stretched endlessly, lit by chandeliers that refracted light like a thousand miniature suns.
"Save the pleasantries," Black said. His voice was low, rough, like gravel sliding in a narrow channel. "Where is he?"
The maid's eyes flicked to the left, where a spiral staircase led upward. "Upstairs… sir. Master Kane… he—he's dead."
Black ascended slowly. Each step creaked beneath his weight, echoing through the mansion like a cautionary whisper. At the top, a long hallway opened to a suite of rooms, each decorated with the opulence of wealth long divorced from morality. Paintings watched him as he passed: ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow, scolding the living for trespassing.
At the end of the corridor, the suite doors were ajar. Inside, a scene awaited him that would be familiar to any detective of the occult: chaos hidden beneath the veneer of ritual. Alabaster Kane lay sprawled across the floor, clothed in silks that no mortal should touch. His skin was pale, almost luminescent, veins darkened like ink under candlelight. Around him, the remains of a birthday celebration—scattered confetti, toppled champagne glasses, and candles burned low.
But it wasn't the scene itself that caught Black's attention—it was the aura. Death in a place like this left a residue, a smell that lingered between worlds. Here, the magic had fought him, leaving only hints, whispers, traces of its final resistance. Black crouched, running a gloved hand just above the floor. He inhaled. Something had been done, something precise.
"Detective…"
The voice made him turn. A man stepped forward from the shadows, tall and severe, dressed in a tailcoat that had seen better centuries. Black recognized him immediately as Veyron Kane, the eldest son, the one who measured morality in profit margins. "I… I hired you," Veyron said. His hand twitched nervously, the sign of a man unaccustomed to losing control. "I need you to… understand what happened."
Black didn't answer immediately. He studied the room, the fallen candles, the faint burn marks on the wooden floorboards. "I understand death," he said finally. "What I don't understand is why someone would kill a man who's been alive for almost two centuries, in a house protected by wards, surrounded by… this." He gestured broadly. "This palace of lies."
Veyron swallowed. "You'll need to speak with the family. There's… tension. Old grudges. Magic misused. Secrets… I can't explain them all. Only you can."
Black's eyes narrowed. "Magic misused… or someone clever?"
Veyron's jaw tightened. "Both. Perhaps."
The detective's gaze drifted toward a corner of the room where a small figure crouched, barely noticeable under a pile of party decorations. Petra Emmerson. She was the young apprentice of Alabaster Kane, rumored to have a gentle heart and a sharper mind. The whispers said she was kind, loyal… but Black had learned long ago that whispers were often masks. Masks that hid teeth and claws.
"Detective Black," Veyron said, voice rising slightly. "Do not… do not let anyone else see her. She is… delicate. Fragile. We trust you to handle this with discretion."
Black inclined his head slightly. "Fragile, or cunning?"
The girl's eyes met his, wide and unafraid. And for a moment, he caught the flicker of something else—something hidden, like a secret smile behind a locked door.
He would come back to that glance later. For now, there were questions. Questions and puzzles, as always.
Black began his methodical sweep of the room, hands tracing the edges of objects, listening to the residual whispers of magic. A golden goblet on the floor had faint traces of a sleep charm. Candles burned oddly, their wax forming runes he didn't recognize at first glance. And then—there, tucked behind a velvet chair—a note. A simple scrap, written in a hand that seemed to shift under scrutiny:
"Not all who serve are loyal."
He pocketed it. This was just the beginning.
Hours passed like minutes as he interrogated the household staff, cross-checked timelines, and listened to conflicting stories. Veyron's siblings bickered among themselves, revealing cracks in loyalty, whispered resentments, and the inevitable greed of heirs. Black noted it all: the servants who had been overlooked, the cook with a sudden burst of memory, the gardener who had seen a shadow slip by during the storm. Each piece a clue, each lie a potential truth.
And always Petra. She lingered in corners, ostensibly shy, but never quite hidden. When questioned, her answers were precise, careful—just enough to be truthful, just enough to be misleading. She had learned well from Alabaster Kane, whose kindness had sheltered her while sharpening her mind. But kindness and cunning were not mutually exclusive, Black reminded himself. Sometimes the most innocent faces carried the heaviest burdens.
By dawn, the storm had abated. Rain left the city glistening, polished like a gem rubbed raw by centuries of corruption. Black stepped onto the terrace of the Kane Estate, looking down at the streets below.
Somewhere in the city, monsters walked freely, quiet, patient. Some in human skin, some in forms that would make lesser men weep.
And the case had only just begun.
"Detective Black," Veyron said from behind him, voice low, wary. "Do you… do you think she did it?"
Black exhaled, the smoke from his pipe curling in the pale morning light. He looked at Petra one last time, her eyes fixed somewhere far away, and replied simply:
"Not yet. But she's hiding something. And in this city… that's usually the first step toward the truth."