New Orleans evenings have a way of wrapping around you like a wet towel—hot, sticky, and damn near suffocating. The fan in the corner of my office rattled uselessly, moving the air about as much as a dead man moves conversation. I stared at the last dregs of my chicory coffee, cold and bitter, but it fit my mood, so I took another sip. Bourbon Street hummed beyond the grime-smeared windows, a mess of tourists, street vendors, and too many bad decisions in one place.

The office was quiet, except for the occasional rustle of Eddie LeBlanc’s newspaper. He was lounging in one of the armchairs across from me, feet kicked up, looking like he had all the time in the world. Hell, for Eddie, maybe he did. Half-elf, ageless in that annoyingly youthful way, wearing his usual crisp vest and trousers, like some Victorian dandy who wandered into a time machine and decided to stick around. He looked up from the paper, catching my eye.

“Another turf war in Tremé. Vampires this time,” Eddie said, his British accent cutting through the thick air like a cold breeze. “Apparently someone forgot to pay their blood tax.”

I grunted, uninterested. Vampires were always squabbling over something—territory, blood bags, who looked better in a three-piece suit. It wasn’t my problem unless someone paid me to make it my problem. I had enough on my plate dealing with the supernatural riff-raff that tourists dragged into town with them. If I had a nickel for every fool who thought playing with voodoo dolls and calling spirits was a fun weekend activity, I’d retire to the bayou and never look back.

The door to my office creaked open, and in walked trouble. Not the kind of trouble that had fangs or claws, but the human kind. The kind that’s worn down, desperate. The man standing in the doorway looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and if the sweat stains under his arms were anything to go by, the humidity wasn’t helping. He was average height, average build, brown hair slicked back with too much pomade, and the kind of face that would blend into a crowd. Except for his eyes—those were wide, haunted. The eyes of someone who had seen more than he could handle.

“Jake Broussard?” the man asked, voice cracking like he hadn’t used it in a while.

I leaned back in my chair, tipping my hat up just enough to get a better look at him. “Depends. You paying?”

His face tightened, but he nodded. “I heard you help people. With... things the police won’t touch.”

Eddie folded his newspaper, watching the guy with that casual interest he always had when something potentially weird walked through our door. I motioned for the man to sit. He hesitated, then dropped into the chair like he might fall apart if he didn’t.

“I’m Harold. Harold Shoemaker,” he said, wringing his hands together. “I need your help finding my wife. Nancy. She’s... she’s been missing three days.”

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Missing wives weren’t exactly my specialty, but missing people, missing things—that, I could do. Especially if there was something supernatural stinking up the case. I rubbed my jaw, feeling the rough stubble. “You go to the police?”

“They don’t care,” Harold said, his voice tight with frustration. “They filed a report, but they said there was no evidence of foul play, and that adults disappear all the time. Told me to wait it out.”

I studied him for a moment, leaning forward. “But you don’t think that’s all there is, do you?”

He shook his head violently. “No, something’s wrong. Nancy’s been acting strange for weeks. She was... distant. Talking about dreams, nightmares, strange things she was seeing around the house. She wasn’t herself, and then one night, she just vanished. Left everything behind—purse, keys, everything.”

Dreams. Nightmares. Strange behaviour. My gut twisted in that familiar way it did when something supernatural was scratching at the surface. I leaned back again, locking eyes with Harold. “You think something else is at play.”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I feel it. Something’s not right.”

Eddie tilted his head, ever so slightly intrigued now. “Did Nancy have any history of dabbling in... well, the darker side of New Orleans?”

Harold blinked, confused. “No, she wasn’t into that stuff. But we live in the Garden District, and there are all kinds of strange things in the neighbourhood. Old houses, weird rituals. I always thought it was just stories, but now... I don’t know what to believe.”

I knew better than most that the Garden District wasn’t just a collection of fancy houses and tourists gawking at wrought-iron balconies. Those old mansions held secrets, some of them older than the city itself. Spirits, wards, ancient magic—hell, even a few minor gods had been known to take up residence when the mood struck them. But that didn’t mean I was jumping to conclusions just yet.

I tapped a finger on my desk. “Alright, Mr. Shoemaker. I’ll take the case. But here’s how it works—I need payment upfront, half now, half when I find your wife.”

Harold didn’t hesitate. He pulled a thick envelope from his coat pocket and slid it across the desk. I thumbed through it—cash, and plenty of it. More than enough to keep me interested.

“When can we start?” Harold asked, eyes wide with hope and desperation.

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll come by your place, take a look around. We’ll go from there.”

He nodded, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Broussard.”

I didn’t say anything as he stumbled out of the office, closing the door softly behind him. Eddie watched him go, one eyebrow arched. “Missing wife in the Garden District, strange dreams, and you didn’t even ask if she walked out on him? You’re slipping, mate.”

I smirked. “My gut says this isn’t a runaway case. And you know my gut’s usually right.”

Eddie shrugged, standing up to stretch. “Fair enough. But if she’s mixed up in something dark, it won’t be an easy fix.”

“It never is.”

The night crept in, thick with the usual New Orleans blend of humidity and mystery. I sat back at my desk, fingers drumming lightly on the wood, thinking about Harold Shoemaker and his missing wife. Something in the way he’d described her dreams—it had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There was more to this than a simple disappearance. There always was.

Eddie grabbed his coat from the rack, tossing me a knowing glance as he headed for the door. “Get some rest, Jake. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting, I can feel it.”

I nodded, but didn’t move. Instead, I let the city hum outside, like a low, constant heartbeat. There was always something lurking in the shadows here. I just had to find it before it found me.

And in New Orleans, that was never a guarantee.