Alistair whirled. Mabel jumped. Bjorn reached over his shoulder for a weapon he wasn’t carrying.

“That… could it be?” Mabel squeaked, her voice rusty with fear.

Bjorn and Alistair exchanged a glance. Without hesitation, the two of them sprinted for the garret.

From the lounge, Lord Faitan waved at them. “Excuse me. Did you happen to hear that scream…?”

“Someone else die?” Tristan wondered aloud.

Pushing past both of them, Lady Aiden hurried to Alistair and Bjorn’s side, footsteps silent against the hardwood floors. “Let’s hurry. Whoever screamed is in deadly danger.”

Alistair nodded, pausing a moment to take them in. His scarred fingers twitched, adding notes on screens invisible to him. He gestured them on. “With all haste!”

Bjorn ran ahead, leaving the rest of them behind. Lady Aiden followed close behind, then Alistair, while Lord Faitan, Tristan, and Mabel brought up the rear.

Alistair caught up with his faster compatriots at the peak of the stairs and paused, breathing hard to catch his breath. Bjorn stood in the doorframe, his massive body all but sealing off the entrance. Lady Aiden peered around his shoulder, a grimace on her face. At Alistair’s arrival, she melted back, making room for him on the stair.

Alistair put a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. Rather than move aside, Bjorn tensed, holding his place. He looked back. “You sure you want to see this?”

Alistair nodded. “I am a detective, after all.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Bjorn stepped aside.

Millie laid sprawled on the ground not far from Harold. Her legs were bloody, sliced in a thousand small places, as were her hands. A massive bite tore out the front of her throat, leaving a bloody, gaping wound. Blood still poured out of her, her life gone but the blood not yet settled. Her eyes stared at the sky, empty.

“What’s going on? What happened—oh,” Lord Faitan murmured. He moved back, shaking his head quietly. “The poor girl. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What? What’s—Millie!” Tristan burst in, shoving Alistair aside. He charged past Bjorn, reaching for the fallen maid.

“Bjorn, catch him!” Alistair ordered.

Bjorn jumped into action. With one bear paw-like hand, he caught Tristan around the waist and slung the man over his shoulder, as easy as throwing a child around.

Tristan kicked and fought, tears welling up in his eyes. “Let me go! Let me go! Millie, why? Millie!”

Lord Faitan turned on Alistair. “You! Coming here, playing detective, acting like a god, claiming you can solve anything—and now an innocent girl is dead. And what do you have to show for it? Nothing!”

“These things take time,” Alistair replied primly. Nodding at Bjorn, he stepped into the room and knelt by Millie.

Lord Faitan stepped forward to follow him, but Bjorn moved to the side, blocking the way. Stuck at the entrance, the [Lord] harrumphed. “They take time, they take time! So you say, but now another one of us has died. How many of us will die before you solve it? All while you lock us in this murder trap and refuse to allow us to escape! Are you sure you aren’t in cahoots with the dark elf?”

“Me?” Lady Aiden whispered, startled.

Lord Faitan whirled on her. “You! Obviously. Aren’t you the one who killed them all?”

Tristan stilled. He stopped kicking, and patted Bjorn’s shoulder. “Let me down, Uncle Bjorn.”

Bjorn glanced at Alistair.

Still inspecting the body, Alistair waved his hand.

With a shrug, Bjorn turned and set Tristan down behind him.

The second the man caught his feet, he stomped over to Lady Aiden. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he slammed her into the wall. “You! You killed Millie?”

“I did not. I was in the lounge, the same as all of you,” Lady Aiden said softly, putting her hands up.

“Everyone knows dark elves have strange magic. Everyone knows dark elves can teleport! And there’s plenty of miasma in this building. Surely you could draw on that, the way you filthy dark elves do, and use it to do—to do whatever!” Tristan snarled.

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Lord Faitan said, ever so gently. Like a cat facing a mouse, he smiled at Lady Aiden. “After all, the lady was with us when we heard the scream. I had my eyes on her the whole time.”

Lady Aiden bowed to him. Though the gesture was gracious, her eyes darted fearfully, whites showing, searching for an escape route. “Thank you, Lord Faitan.”

“Not at all, not at all. Ah, that’s right. But you wouldn’t have to be there, would you?” Lord Faitan murmured thoughtfully, almost to himself.

Tristan glared at him. “Out with it. Millie died. I don’t want to hear your political faffing, I want to hear it straight!”

Lord Faitan spread his palms. “I’m merely pointing out a possibility, but… this house is built with wood harvested from the Dark Lands. Wood infected with miasma. A dark elf who knew how to handle dark, miasmic magic could cast any number of spells through the wood. Certainly a simple trap, meant to kill our good detective when he went back to check the body, would not be impossible? Ah, what a pity poor Millie was caught up in it!”

Tristan’s jaw ground. He glared at Lady Aiden, his hands shaking. “You killed her? You! And my father, was that you as well?”

“No, I—I didn’t, I would never,” Lady Aiden said, vigorously shaking her head no.

“Admit it already. There’s no point in lying any longer,” Lord Faitan said, his smile growing wider.

Tristan raised his fist. Lady Aiden flinched.

A sharp clap rang out. Everyone froze where they stood. Alistair strode out of the garret and looked over them, then clicked his tongue. “When did I say any of that?”

“You aren’t the only one who can know the truth!” Tristan spat.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“But perhaps you should listen to what I have to say first,” Alistair said. He tucked his hands behind his back and looked at Tristan firmly. “Or would you like to continue beating an innocent woman?”

“Innocent…?” Tristan looked at Lady Aiden, who quavered before him.

“She’s a dark elf. She’s no innocent,” Lord Faitan remarked, crossing his arms.

Alistair quirked a brow. “Interesting you should say that, Lord Faitan. What did you accuse her of, casting a spell through the miasmic wood, all the way from the lounge to the garret?”

“Yes. Naturally. Everyone knows dark elves have more powerful magic than humans, especially if miasma is involved,” Lord Faitan said.

“Hmm. But the lounge wasn’t part of the house’s original construction, was it, Mabel?”

Mabel took a deep breath. She looked from Alistair to Lord Faitan and hesitated, then shook her head. “No, no. Not at all. It was added on during Harold’s time, in fact.”

“Hmm, interesting. But miasmic wood was only used during the house’s original construction. That being the case, how could she have cast a spell using the wood as a conduit, if the wood in the lounge was not even dire wood?” Alistair asked, pinching his chin.

Lord Faitan’s mouth opened, then closed. He pressed his lips together. All at once, he burst out, “But even if that’s the case, she still could have cast a trap ahead of time.”

Alistair snapped his fingers. He pointed at Lord Faitan. “Ahead of time! How interesting you bring that up. Yes, yes, indeed. What this entire scenario needs to be explained, is nothing more than a little preparation… and afterward, a few tragic mistakes.”

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked, flabbergasted. “The—the killer—they didn’t mean to kill Millie?”

“No, not at all. My condolences for your loss. I understand you and Millie were lovers?” Alistair asked, smiling gently.

Mabel stumbled back, nearly falling off the step she perched on. “Millie was—I told that daft girl to stop! I told her, I told her there’s no point in mooning over that boy! He’s out of her social class, and not to mention, he’s a playboy and a cheat, a no-good—”

“Thank you, Mabel, thank you,” Tristan said, raising a hand. He looked at Alistair, his eyes dead. “Yes. We were. I don’t see how that matters, anymore. Are you merely dragging out all our dirty laundry for fun?”

“I have not mentioned anything yet that is not crucial to understanding this case,” Alistair responded without hesitation. He looked at Lord Faitan.

“Yes? What scandal have you discovered about me?” Lord Faitan said, a twinkle in his eye.

“No scandal at all. Instead, the opposite of a scandal. Lord Faitan, you are a lord, and you came to visit the ex-[Hero]. Knowing that you recently installed a teleportation pad here, and knowing how Harold’s support would matter… did you not bring a gift?” Alistair queried.

Taken aback, Lord Faitan blinked at him. “I—naturally I did, but—”

Mabel nodded. “Oh, I remember! Yes, yes. It was wrapped up in brown paper and very cold. I put it in the closet, thinking I’d take it out at dinner, that it was some kind of chilled wine, but Lord Faitan told me that he would handle it when the time came. I showed him the closet, so he would know where I’d put it.”

“Would you look there now? I suspect you will find brown paper, but no package,” Alistair requested.

Nodding, Mabel bustled off.

Lord Faitan harrumphed. “What does a bottle of chilled wine have to do with these tragic murders?”

“Everything,” Alistair said. He turned to Lady Aiden.

The dark elf flinched. She cast her eyes to the floor. “I—I really did not kill Harold, nor Millie. You have to believe me. Please.”

“You still dare to say such things?” Tristan snarled.

“I believe you,” Alistair responded.

Lord Faitan and Tristan both stared at him. Even Bjorn gave him a look. “That’s all it takes?” the [Barbarian] grumbled.

Alistair chuckled. “Of course not. It’s simply that dark elves are masters of disguise and assassination. They’re born with the [Stealth] skill. If Lady Aiden wanted Harold and Millie dead, why bother with such a messy plot?”

“She wanted to throw us off the scent! A master assassin would know that—” Lord Faitan blustered.

“—would know that the best kind of kill, is a kill that doesn’t look like a kill at all. A few drops of the right poison in his nightly tea, and poor Harold drops dead from a heart attack three days from now. The right spell, laid in this miasmic wood, and Harold slowly goes mad until he beats himself to death. This sloppy, brutal work? It isn’t in the style of dark elves at all.”

Tristan glared at Alistair. “Because she killed him sloppily, it must not be her? What kind of logic is that?”

Alistair shrugged. “Why make a flashy kill when you can kill quietly instead? If she wanted him dead, do you disagree that she had quiet methods available to her?”

“Everyone knows dark elves are born killers,” Lord Faitain said, crossing his arms.

Tristan hesitated. He shook his head. “Right, but clearly she didn’t use them—”

“And how would that benefit her? To kill him in such a splashy way, while she had other methods available, while she was still in human territory and subject to human law… tell me. Why would Lady Aiden do that?” Alistair asked.

Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it again. He gave Lady Aiden an uncertain look. “That…”

Lady Aiden let out a sigh of relief. “I didn’t, I told you I—”

“Well, all killings aren’t logical, so it’s not as if we can rule her out as a suspect entirely,” Alistair said lightly.

Tristan tightened his grip on Lady Aiden again. “So it is her!”

Alistair sighed. “No, no. Let’s not jump to conclusions. After all… tell me, Tristan. What is Lady Aiden’s motive to kill Harold, then Millie?”

“I don’t know. Dark elves are evil. She held a grudge against the [Hero], and—”

“And after several long visits to Harold’s house, where she worked hard to build rapport with the same ex-[Hero] who massacred her people, you think she killed him and threw all that work away?” Alistair asked, pursing his lips.

Tristan’s jaw worked. He looked at Lady Aiden, then at Alistair. “That… I…”

“Exactly. Lady Aiden is unlikely to be the killer. Instead, why don’t we turn our attention to you, Tristan?” Alistair arched his fingertips together. He lowered his head, gazing directly at Tristan. “The heir to the ex-[Hero]’s name and fortune. An erstwhile heir, one who his father disliked and tried to cut out of his will. One who had just been reduced from a full heir to inheriting but a fraction of his father’s fortune. Were you not, perhaps, afraid of being cut out of the will entirely?”

“Absolutely not! I don’t want this house. Everyone knows that!” Tristan said, waving his hand.

“To not want a house, and to not want to sell a house, are two different things,” Alistair returned. He fixed his gaze on Tristan. “Tell me. Were you working with Millie to kill your father, to prevent his fortune from falling on only your elder siblings, and none on you?”

“Working with—I, I wouldn’t! I didn’t want Father dead. We argued, yeah, we… I wasn’t the best son to him, but… dead? I… what kind of man do you think I am?” Tristan asked. He stared at Alistair, so taken aback that he forgot to grip Lady Aiden.

“Working with Millie… could you explain, Alistair?” Lord Faitan requested.

Alistair nodded. “But first, perhaps we should examine that gift of yours.”

The steps creaked. Mabel appeared around the corner, huffing and puffing. She waved a brown paper wrapping. “Just as you said, Alistair! Nothing but paper. I don’t know when Lord Faitan handed it over, but he must have!”

“Perhaps during dinner. Tristan, Bjorn, Lady Aiden. Did Lord Faitan hand Harold a gift during dinner?” Alistair requested.

Tristan shook his head. Bjorn put a hand to his chin, then frowned. Lady Aiden blinked, furrowing her brows.

“It was a small thing, merely a small gift of gratitude. I suppose it must have been easy to miss,” Lord Faitan insisted, waving his hand.

“Hmm, a small gift the size of a wine bottle, that had to be kept chilled, and yet it was so easy to miss that no one at the table remembers you handing it to Harold? How odd, Lord Faitan, how odd,” Alistair remarked.

Lord Faitan spread his hands. “I didn’t know if he wanted to drink the wine with his guests or keep it to himself. It was a special vintage. I gave it to him privately in the case that he didn’t wish to share it.”

“And yet, you delivered it chilled?” Alistair queried.

“In case he decided to drink it immediately! I left it up to him,” Lord Faitan said, spreading his hands. “Is it a crime to discreetly hand someone a gift?”

“If I had Mable run to the wine cellar, would she find a fresh bottle there?” Alistair said, narrowing his eyes at Lord Faitan.

“How am I to know where Harold stores his wine?” Lord Faitan grumbled. He rolled his eyes. “This is barely even circumstantial evidence. Are you going to call me the killer for giving Harold a bottle of wine in private?”

“No. But I am ready to solve this case.” Alistair smiled at the gathered suspects, then gestured them into the room. “If you would all come inside?”

Lady Aiden glanced at Alistair, then stepped in, carefully sidestepping the bodies. Tristan gave Millie a long, sad look, but followed Lady Aiden in. Mabel shimmied in, setting herself in the corner. Lord Faitan inched around Bjorn and stood by the door, his back to the bare wall.

“Bjorn, remain in the door,” Alistair requested.

Bjorn saluted.

“So?” Lord Faitan tapped his foot impatiently. He gave Alistair a look. “Who did it?”

Alistair smiled. He lifted his finger.