It takes a few hours to pull the senior detectives out of court. Detective George Cook, a necropolitan with inexpensive taxidermy leaving him unable to hide his condition, enters the room first.

“We ought to be able to clear this one up quickly. It sounds like the only issue is the politically dangerous nature of the accused.” He speaks over his shoulder to his partner.

Detective Imryll Alton enters second. She is an islander elf, with deeply tanned skin and long dark hair in a thick braid. Both detectives are dressed in their best uniforms for court. The black tunics and silver trimmed black mantles are more formal than their usual. Both are armed with rapier and enchanted baton. Their badges hang from chains at their waists.

“I sure hope it’s as simple as that,” Alton responds, “I have plans for tonight and hope to escape the paperwork for an evening.” She shakes the medium’s hand enthusiastically. “Tell me you have good news, Lady Doomweaver.”

“I’m afraid not, Detective Alton,” Doomweaver responds, smoothing her gray apron gently. “I don’t know how much Trageser told you, but the victim’s a citizen of our Northern Enemy, and claims to have been killed by her father.” She begins relighting the ritual candles. The little pig accepts a treat from Cook.

“Her father, the natural life extremist, got it.” Cook stands up from petting the medium’s familiar. “Any chance we know where he is?”

“Not yet,” Alton answers. “Trageser hasn’t finished the initial witness statements. The kid was in some kind of hurry to chat with our victim here.”

“We’ll have to head to the scene in a hurry.” Cook turns to Doomweaver. “Can I borrow Bacon for a message run?”

“Sure thing Detective.” Cook attaches a note to the pig’s collar and it takes off out the door and down the stairs. The medium finishes lighting her candles and resumes the spell. The change in lighting is again quick, without the earlier drama. Clearly she was hamming it up for the new guy.

Marion’s eyes light up again. She nervously looks back and forth between the two detectives in front of her decapitated head. Doomweaver stands behind the victim, fingers gently touching her hair to maintain contact without causing distress, quietly concentrating on the spell.

“Who are you two? Where’d the detective go?” Marion asks, nervous.

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“We’re senior detectives,” Cook answers, “I’m Detective George Cook, and this is my partner, Detective Imryll Alton.” Marion barely suppresses a shudder at the vaguely raspy sound of his voice. Her eyes narrow as she recognizes his unlife status. “We understand that you and your father are from out of town. What brings you to Two Rivers?”

“Oh, um,” Marion appears uncomfortable talking to the necropolitan. “I moved here on my own. I hoped to go to Two Rivers City College in a year. Dad must have followed me. He, ah, didn’t approve of my coming to such a dangerous country.”

Cook starts writing in his little black notebook. His little pencil swiftly scratches out notes which makes quite a din in the mostly soundproof room. He and Alton exchange practiced glances and change tactics.

“What can you tell us of the night you died?” Alton asks, her tone gentle.

“Right, of course. Dad and I argued about my going to Sacred Dark and he snapped. He drew his sword and I thought he’d just smack me with the flat of it, but he cut off my head with just one swing. I bet he thinks he rid the world of some great evil by killing his own daughter.”

“Where did you meet with him?”

“He found me coming out of Thirsty Pilgrim. I was there to, um, make friends. It’s hard to meet people around here when everyone thinks you’re a whacko Strab.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Just that he’s dangerous as devils.” Marion squeezed her eyes shut. “Is there any chance I can just stay dead? I, uh, don’t want to go back to Bandon. Ever.”

“Nobody can keep you here if you don’t want to be.” Cook speaks up. “You’re free to become a necropolitan if your family has the funds for it. The longer you wait after death, though, the more dangerous and expensive the ritual becomes.”

“No, I definitely don’t want that. Please leave me alone.” Marion presses her lips into a thin line, her eyes squeezed shut to block the light. In the dark room, Doomweaver breaks the spell.

“Sorry folks, those are the magic words,” Doomweaver says as the light returns to normal in the room. “That’s the last casting for the day too, so if you need something more you’ll have to wait for tomorrow. I don’t bring them back unwilling without a court order, and you’ll know that even then I’ll not let you talk to them personally anymore.”

“We know,” Alton says with a sigh, “it’s always a relief that you take your side of the job seriously. We’d be lost without a trustworthy medium.”

“And I’d be lost without good detectives finding justice for my clients. Let’s just make sure that there’s evidence to corroborate her accusation so that the Strabthine law enforcement doesn’t think we made up an excuse to falsely imprison their citizen.” She gives voice to the concern that they all have. One wrong move could be just the excuse needed to resume hostilities and break the Pax Lycan. It breaks the sense of ease granted by an easy case with a cooperative victim.