Lottie Nobel watches the sun set through the kitchen window, her mug of coffee quickly turning cold. The dark seems to be chasing her thoughts, and she struggles to hold onto them, to refocus on what she has begun to think of as the Familiar Worries.
The Worries started when Milo was born. She held him in her arms, and she felt a stab in her chest at the thought that her precious boy would soon be subjected to the whims and dangers of the world. The Worries have since spread from their original inspiration and attach themselves to all sorts of things. They are as innocuous as “What if I purchased the store brand window cleaner?” to “What if a semi-truck crashes through our living room?”
The latter is particularly ridiculous, because there are no semi-trucks on Ilton.
Tonight, the Worries are not so familiar. They are about Henry Faulkner. More so, it’s his sister’s face as she relayed the anecdote about Death’s claws: a sort of distant, haunted look by association. The phrase seems to be circling in her mind, too.
Death’s claws.
Perhaps Death has its claws in her, she thinks, taking a sip of coffee.
She has been thinking about the accident mentioned by Alice since she left Ashton Road and a small inkling has begun to grow, a dim memory growing brighter even as the sky in front of her grows darker. She was just a child when the accident happened, a little younger than Alice would have been.
Lottie’s face is now reflected back at her in the kitchen window, but instead, she’s seeing her father, the school principal, standing anxious on the beach.
She’s remembering herself, dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because there was no one to watch her, the constant symptom of single-parenthood.
It felt like the whole island was gathered on the beach, searching for a sign of her. She remembers her name, suddenly, a memory unlatched.
Maisie Myer.
Lottie recalls a grim shake of a head. Who was he? The Bureau liaison at the time, most likely. She can hear the words, “We can’t find her,” so harsh and final, like a door slamming shut.
Even at four she knew what this meant. Felt the gravity of loss in the eyes and shoulders of the adults around her.
She takes a sip of her coffee, and her reflection in the window is momentarily joined by the dark blur of Milo shuffling into the kitchen. She feels an almost painful burst of love in her chest. She knows the beach parties are still popular among the island’s dwindling population of teenagers, despite the fact that the public beaches are closed after nine o’clock. As far as she knows, Milo has never attended one, for which she is grateful. The Familiar Worries would have a lot to say about it if he did.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
Lottie realizes that she’s staring at her son, and she shrugs. “Just grateful to have you as a son,” she says, ruffling his hair.
He brushes her away, but can’t hide the smile. “Whatever. I finished uploading those photos by the way.”
She hadn’t been surprised when Milo agreed to take photos for the Bureau. The part-time job comes with a fair chunk of cash, and he’s saving up for university. But she was surprised by how readily he accepted being around a dead body. Most of the cases Lottie deals with on the island involve theft and usually Milo is documenting break-ins: broken windows, knocked over tables, footprints left in the mud.
She knows he has dreams of being a journalist, but she wonders if he would consider working in Magi-Tech. If he worked for the Bureau in Valkaria, he would be only a ferry ride away from home.
“What’s your assessment?” she asks. “Anything stand out about them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, the guy didn’t look injured. It could have been something like a heart attack or an aneurysm, right? But his eyes…” Milo pauses and quirks his lips to the side in thought, just like his father. She struggles to hide the overly sentimental look before Milo notices and gives her his trademark eyeroll.
“I thought he looked scared,” he says, finally, almost sheepishly.
“Well, his sister said he avoided the island as much as possible after an accident when he was younger. A friend of his drowned. Maybe there’s something about the island that scared him? Maybe it was fear from being here, on Ilton?”
“People don’t die from fear.”
“We live on a magical island and come from a long line of water-workers and healers. Stranger things have happened.” She shrugs. “It’s a silly theory, but all investigations have to start somewhere.
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The sound of Angel Fernandez’s boots against the tile floor are harsh compared to the silence pressing in around them.
Angel wouldn’t have it any other way. Angel takes a deep, freeing breath as they wait for the elevator to bring them to the floor that houses the Serious Crimes Division and its various workgroups. When Angel’s boss, Agent Quinn, called, Angel was more than ready to leave the incredibly awkward family dinner which seemed to be a thinly veiled attempt to set them up with the neighbor’s son, a lawyer named Blake. Angel has nothing against Blake, who was perfectly polite and equally embarrassed, and everything against being set-up, particularly by their parents.
It didn’t help that the phrase “you’ve lost some weight” had been uttered at least three times within the first hour, which is never an appropriate statement, even if said with a cheery, encouraging tone.
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It’s not that Angel doesn’t love their family.
They do. Immensely.
They even feel supported, despite their father’s persistent confusion around their pronouns. The real annoyance stems from a lack of shared interests. Angel always had the feeling they would have much rather preferred a Blake in the family. Instead, they have an archivist-turned-agent with a terrible work-life balance. Angel briefly considers life as a family-approved profession and suppresses a shudder.
The elevator doors open and Angel makes their way to the desk, noting without a hint of surprise, the hunched over, winged silhouette of their colleague, Agent Wild Neverbee.
“Quinn called you too?” Angel asks, sliding into their rolling chair and tapping their keyboard.
Wild looks up, more startled by Angel’s words than their presence. “No. Why, what’s happened?”
“You’re just here on Christmas Eve to do some filing?”
Wild shrugs, his wings fluttering slightly. He closes the file folder in front of him and places it on the stack on his desk. “It’s easier to do when there’s no one else here.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” replies Angel, typing something into their computer. “There’s been a development. Well, maybe.”
They tell Wild about Henry Faulkner’s death and how similar it looked to Sunny Blackwood.
“So, we think they’re connected?”
“That’s the line of inquiry we’re taking.”
“Which means, we’re looking at Blackwood’s death as a murder,” says Wild.
Angel nods. “I came in to get a bit of background on both of them. Faulkner’s sister mentioned an accident. It’s the reason he stayed away from the island as much as he could.”
“So what could make him visit now?” wonders Wild. Angel inclines their head in agreement. “Sunny Blackwood’s death? Did she ever live on Ilton?” Even as he asks the question, Wild is searching through the files on his desk until he locates the one marked Blackwood, the one that neither of them have had time to fully review yet. “Sunny Blackwood grew up on Ilton.” He types Faulkner’s full name into the Bureau database, which is already pulled up on his computer screen. “A few streets down from Faulkner, actually.”
“So, they probably knew each other growing up. And stayed in close enough contact that Blackwood listed Faulkner as her emergency contact.”
“We have the security footage from Blackwood’s apartment building. We should check with the ferry company. I’d be curious to see if there was anyone following Faulkner, who may have also been to see Blackwood before she died.”
Angel makes a note. “I can call, but with the holiday, who knows if anyone will answer.”
“What about this accident?”
“Quinn didn’t have much, besides a possible year. The sister said she was five or six, so we’re looking for something about a girl drowning on Ilton sometime in 1982.”
Wild types a few keywords into the Bureau database while Angel waits patiently. Wild shakes his head. “Nothing. If it was a proper accident, the Bureau might not have investigated.”
“Local paper might have something,” says Angel, getting up from their desk. They begin walking toward the elevators.
“Where are you going?”
“The Archives. You coming?”
The elevator doors almost close on Wild’s wings.
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The Archives are in the basement levels of the Bureau Headquarters in Valkaria. Angel flips the light switch and, one by one, the fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker on, revealing a seemingly endless hallway of shelving units.
The first few rows house archival boxes with neatly stamped labels and inactive case files, but the shelves in the back are occupied by far older texts used mostly for research by agents and Magi-Tech associates. Even from the doorway, Angel can see the crumbling spines of grimoires, can feel the tingle of mischief in the bound manuscripts as they cry out to be freed.
Or read, they think, which is much the same thing when it comes to magical texts. Angel knows that, in some cases, the more classified materials are stored in a vault at the back of the room to keep the world safe from their contents. They feel the protection spell of the vault like a low-pitched drone at the back of their mind.
Angel motions for Wild to follow them as they enter a room just to the right. It’s a small office with a desk and a computer. Angel moves the mouse to wake up the display, as they settle into the chair.
“They’ve been working on digitizing a lot of the collection, including newspaper clippings from local publications who may not have the funding themselves. It’s all a part of a cultural initiative sponsored by the Council to preserve the history of magical communities. Let’s see if any newspapers from Ilton are listed.” Angel types a keyword into the search bar and scans the results, as Wild pulls up a chair from the corner, leaning forward to see the computer screen.
“So,” Angel says casually, eyes still trained on the list of results on the screen, “no Christmas plans?”
Wild shrugs but the movement is a forced sort of casual. Angel appreciates Wild’s unfathomably large capacity for friendliness. He does everything with care, patience, and a smile. The downside to that, of course, is when he is anything less than the previous listed qualities, it becomes quite obvious. Angel arches an eyebrow at him. “Is everything okay with you and Ivo?” they ask, thinking about Wild’s sort-of boyfriend, a cat-sìth who works for the Bureau. Strictly speaking, it is frowned upon for agents to be in romantic relationships, but Ivo is a technician in the Magi-Tech lab and not technically an agent.
“Yes, actually. It’s going really well,” he says with a surprisingly shy smile. But then he sighs. “Ivo is visiting his family in the Fae-Lands, but I’m not exactly welcome there.”
“Oh, sorry,” they say. “You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s just…”
“Complicated?”
“To say the least,” he says with a laugh. “I was exiled.”
“Excuse me?”
He laughs again. “It’s a long story. And one that should be accompanied by a strong drink. What about you? Family must be missing you tonight.”
“Yeah. Mom wasn’t happy I had to rush off, but it’s far better being here than trying to make small talk with Blake-the-lawyer,” they say, rolling their eyes.
“Set-up?”
“Yep. The neighbor’s son.”
“Boring?”
“Dreadfully.” Angel shakes their head. “I love my family, and I know they love me. But it’s…”
“Complicated?”
Angel smiles, eyes still focused on the screen. “To say the least.” They click on a promising result. “Think I found it. Local Teen Drowns at Deadman’s Point.”
“Well, that’s not a creepy name at all,” Wild mumbles, leaning closer to the screen.
The article explains that Maisie Myer attended a party with some friends at the small outcropping of rocks known locally as Deadman’s Point to celebrate graduating high school. Maisie was supposed to leave the next day for a summer abroad before continuing her studies at a state university. The party was interrupted when someone noticed they hadn’t seen Maisie in a while. Someone even ran to her house to see if she had left early, waking up her parents who then notified the local authorities.
As Wild reads, Angel looks at the photo next to the article, showing Maisie smiling widely. Angel can’t help but consider what Maisie would be like now, if she hadn’t died so young. What was she going to study? English or art? Political science or medicine? Would she own a restaurant or be a stay-at-home-parent?
Can death be fated, Angel wonders. Maybe Maisie would have died anyway, at university or walking down the sidewalk?
Life is either full of meaning or completely senseless, after all.
“Her body was never found,” says Wild.
“That’s not necessarily suspicious,” says Angel. “It’s certainly not unheard of in a drowning, especially if the current was strong.”
Wild nods. “There were witnesses, too. The article mentions a few specific names. Sunny Blackwood and Henry Faulkner. And two others: Leon Cruz and Rowena Little.”