Besides a sensible response to danger, Fear is also the primary diet of many inhabitants of Urban Fantasyland. Many species of supernatural beings sustain themselves on the fear reaction of humanity, including at least two kinds of vampire, three kinds of ghost, and no less than seven kinds of elf. Why this is the case is widely debated, because if you ask those who feed on it the usual answer is ‘Because it’s delicious’.

Among phobovores, it’s considered gauche to go for jump scares or screamers; a bit like eating junk food. The practicalities of hunger, however, mean that sometimes you only have the time and energy for the horror equivalent of a cheeseburger and fries, rather than Michelin 3 star Haunt cuisine.

-Quote from an internally circulated employee email at Mystery Play LLC, presumably not for public consumption.

After lunch, Lorraine agreed, reluctantly, to not follow me around everywhere in-character while being a bodyguard since I couldn’t really operate like that and still play the part. But she did insist on being close by, so she did something- an elvish trick? Her own Gyges device? Just being really good at sneaking? I’m not really sure, to vanish from view and lurk in waiting for the killer, if needed. I called ahead to the Delacort estate, using the private number I’d been provided by Moira.

She answered personally, rather than a servant picking up for her, and sounded a bit teary, which put me on alert. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Delacourt. It’s Derek Criss. I’ve turned up some more information in the case and if possible I’d like to speak with you about it.”

She was silent for a few beats, then seemed to gather herself. “I would very much like to discuss it with you, but I have...company present, and it may not be the best time.”

The awkward pause before company gave me a few guesses. “Is your company Bastienne Moran?” She had said they were old friends.

Another pause, and she answered. “Yes, that would be better. If you could stop by after dinner, instead?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Delacourt. I’ll call again around six.”

“That would be lovely. Until then.”

She hung up, and that left me at loose ends for a few hours. Another encounter with Simone as Bastienne wasn’t likely to trigger while she was visiting Moira as Laura, and my other leads were about to dry up, and the real killer hadn’t seemed inclined to target me at all today. So what’s a detective to do when stalled on two cases at the same time?

I didn’t have any idea, so I phoned in to the boss. I could hear him flipping through his script. “We figured Carrefour wouldn’t have been polite enough to call ahead, based on our profile of him, so you were supposed to go over and be surprised by Bastienne’s presence.”

“This guy was a real piece of work. Did the profile call for every female character to make eyes at him too?”

“Little bit. He has his own pretty much loveless arranged marriage. One kid, who is living with his wife’s family as part of the marriage contract.”

“I hate his family. Tell Lawson I hate his family if he’s there.”

“He’s here and he just gave you a thumbs up.”

“Anyway, do we have time for an improv scene?”

“Yeah, I think so. There’s an informant character you’d know about you can try to shake down. Head to Crane and Charles, look for the extra at the burning garbage can with the improbable scarf.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. I’ll head down. Man, I hope this guy takes a shot at me soon.”

“You really do like getting punched in the face, huh.”

“I am a man with very few life skills, boss, but I’ve polished the ones I’ve got.”

So we set up the scene for the folks who might watch the streaming highlights by having me do a little bit of pantomime into a dead phone and then hang up, and I went back outside, got in the car, and continued to not explode. I decided to take it.

Crane and Charles is one of the oldest parts of the wainscoting neighborhood, and the closest that it has to a ‘bad part of town’. Which is to say, it’s where a lot of non-humans or part humans who aren’t magically powerful (like for example, yours truly) end up because there aren’t many job opportunities for us that both pay well and are actually legal. Sometimes I think about how my job perpetuates that sort of thing, but it’s a lot harder to organize revolutions when the rich can set the guillotines on fire with their mind.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

My contact was, according to the boss, Stanley Jarvis, a Fylgiar. He had the bad luck to be born the exact double of a rich asshole, and to prevent any death omen shenanigans his double’s family blackballed him from most paying work and paid him a pittance to live in this district, where their precious scion would never go.

Maybe we really should start working on that fireproof guillotine. Stanley, as predicted, was standing by a burning garbage can and wearing a ridiculous scarf, one end of which was being chewed on by a large black dog- judging by the proximity of the local graveyard, this might be the local grim. I’d apparently been sent to Death omen central. Thanks, boss.

Stanley was doing the same blank eyed stare I got when the boss talks in my ear, so I waited a bit before heading over. The dog growled, which wasn’t exactly surprising. Trolls aren’t good with animals, even animals that are weird things halfway between ghosts and fae. Too much old bad blood from when we lived outside in the night and stole livestock, or so granny always claimed when I wanted a dog. Stanley reached down to pet it. “Down boy. It’s just Mr. Criss. You remember Mr. Criss, right?” The dog gave him a look like that spoke volumes, mostly ‘the fuck you talking about’ or maybe ‘who are you calling boy?’ but settled down to just eye me warily and chew more on Stanley’s scarf.

“Hey Stan. Got word you might have something for me.” I passed him some cash. “What have you heard about the sort of stuff Bonaparte’s moving into town lately?”

The cash vanished. “I didn’t see this, just heard it, just to be clear, so if it doesn’t turn out to be right, don’t blame me.” Stanley took a breath. “So Dolly- she works down here for one of Bonaparte’s guys, if you get what I mean. She says that one of her regulars likes pillow talk and has been bragging about how the boss has big plans. Now, she figures it was all talk, because the guys like Bonaparte always have big plans, y’know?”

I nodded, listening, and waited for him to continue.

“But then he started getting specific. Real specific. About how his boss had picked up a new client with exotic taste in pets.” The dog stopped chewing then, and cocked an ear. “Something about being a big fan of magical snakes and serpents, and getting any one of a list of rare breeds for this new client could set you up for life.”

“Did Dolly mention if our talkative boy dropped any names? Either the client, or the snakes.”

Magical snakes are an incredibly dangerous mixed bag. Some are guides and healers. Some are even more deadly counterparts to normal venomous snakes. Some will try to bang your car’s spare tire because they think it’s another snake that travels by biting its tail and rolling around, and some will crawl down your throat and burrow into your stomach to run you like a meat-puppet. Any of those getting brought into an ecology where they don’t have competition is potentially a crisis. I found myself hoping that we hadn’t been dumb enough to import any actual examples for this bit.

Stanley shook his head. “She may have a copy of their bounty list, but she didn’t show it to me.”

“Is there a way you can maybe introduce us?” Not that I was particularly eager to go further down this lead.

But Stanley shrugged. “Sure. Come on.” He walked, the dog followed, still hanging on to the scarf, and I followed both of them, keeping my distance.

Dolly wasn’t an extra recruited from the locals, but one of ours- I recognized her from a few company parties, even if I couldn’t place her real name. But it’s not really hard to tell someone made up to look like they’ve had a rough life on the streets from someone who actually has, so I think I’d probably have figured that out soon enough even if I actually were Carrefour and not just the guy pretending to be him.

Dolly looked cautious, as anyone sane would when two strange men and a dog approached. “Oh. Stanley? What is it? Who's this guy?”

Stanley waved a hand. “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Kriss. He uh...wants to know about...some of the stuff you told me.”

I stayed very still, no sudden movements. “Willing to pay for info, too. I may have a line on the sort of things your...friend is interested in.”

Willing to pay got her to relax a little, though she still showed caution. “You don’t look like a snake guy.”

“Didn’t say I was.” I peeled two bills off my expenses fund, handed one to Stanley, and offered one to dolly. “Used to do a stage act though, and I know people in the exotic pets line who’d have the right sort of contacts or maybe even the right ones in their own collection.”

She squinted at me, and then held her hands together in front of her face, making a rough, broad T, Then she smiled. “Hey! Hey yeah! I caught your act once, you were the Amazing Gillespie, right? Didn’t recognize ya without the top hat.”

The boss spoke up in my ear. “Before you ask, that really was the stage name he picked for his persona’s alter ego. Probably sounded exotic and foreign to someone from an old wizard family.”

I managed not to roll my eyes visibly. “That was me, yeah. Changed careers since then, for various reasons.”

She finally took the money. “I can get you the list, sure. I still got it in my bag. But...could you do a magic trick for me? Not a spell or nothing, just something from your old act.”

I contemplated. “Well, I’m not really set up for it, but...gimme a sec” I rummaged in my pocket and took out some coins, holding them between my fingers as though I just had one. Closed my hand, and re-opened them with one of the coins removed from the stack and placed between my other fingers. Then again. And then I clapped, palming all the coins and leaving another bill, the same size as the one I’d already passed to her, in the palm of my hand. “Huh. Messed that one up. It’s not mine. You can have it.”

She grinned like a little kid. “Oh that’s great! Thanks!” The money went into her purse, and she pulled out a much folded sheet of paper covered in neat cursive script. “Tony kept his copy, but I wrote down everything. You never know when you’re gonna need something like that, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.”