“What do you think I’m running here, CSI Bushwick?”

Rube eked out the sarcastic barb through smoke filled lungs. He handed me the smoldering ends of a once massive spliff. I slid it between my fingers gingerly, careful not to drop ash into the cooler that took pride of place on the table between us. I had brought the spliff and a couple of out-sized coffees as gifts of conciliation for showing up at Rube’s door so early in the day with such grisly luggage in tow.

“I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. I just knew it was evidence to something and that if The Heat got a hold of it I’d never know its secrets.”

“Well do you know its secrets now?”

“Well no. But that’s why I brought it to you. I thought you would Quincy this shit out for me.”

“OK, maybe I should clarify further. My apartment is not the morgue from the set of any forensic procedural on television now, or at any time in the history of the genre.”

“I see.”

This really should not have been a revelation but, through the haze of weed smoke and crippling adrenaline burn off, it felt like one. I leaned back in a large oddly shaped chair I had unearthed earlier from beneath a massive pile of books and papers. The weed had dulled Rube’s crankiness at having been woken up by a cracked out detective with trouble following close in his wake. It had transformed his annoyance at being seriously inconvenienced into sarcasm and amusement at the utter surreality of the situation. However, stoned and sleepless, I was descending into a state of twitchy paranoia.

Rube turned his back to me and hunched over a laptop. As the apartment went quiet, I could hear the mewing and scratching of a feline swarm just beyond the door. I pictured them sniffing the air for the scent of my flesh and assembling elaborate plans to take me down when I went to leave.

“Well what about the bracelet?”

I tried to fill the silence. In response Rube held a single finger in the air with enough conviction to shut me up. He then disappeared into another room. There was a loud crash followed by some louder expletives. I considered going in to check on him but found I was unable to pull myself out of the rather low-slung chair. Eventually he returned with a small kidney shaped surgical pan, latex gloves and a camera.

Rube threw the pan down on the table and stared inquisitively into the cooler. He then wandered into the kitchen returning, after a great deal of drawer slamming, with a long glass rod that would have been at home stirring bubbling potions in a mad scientist’s laboratory.

“Can I help you out with …?”

The finger rose again this time coupled with a stern look. Obviously, my services were not needed, so I settled in and enjoyed the Dr. Frankenstein pantomime for a while. Rube poked the rod into the cooler with purpose. His expression changed from horror to curiosity and then back to horror again. Eventually he grabbed the camera and began to take photos from various angles. He then popped out the camera’s data card, flopped down at the desk full of computer equipment and returned to work.

A series of clicks, mutterings and interrogative grunts emanated from the hunched over figure and his typing machine. He carried on that way for nearly half an hour before my curiosity reached critical mass.

“Rubric, man are you going to clue me in here or what?”

“Alright, alright. Just a moment.”

He dimmed the lights and somewhere behind me a projector came to life splashing a large E-bay page on the wall above Rube’s head.

“The bracelet is a cheap, Hong Kong made, piece of trash, primarily used by the Family Protection League, to draw awareness to the plight of the nuclear family in these confusing and troubled times. However, the center band is usually filled with some glittery, glow in the dark goo with dubious spiritual symbolism where ours is full of a thick red fluid. Also, it turns out FPL’s founder had a thing for rent boys and hillbilly heroin so the liquidation market is awash in them.”

It was interesting information, a highly entertaining presentation, but it was not getting us anywhere. Rube must have sensed my growing impatience as the silence finger shot up again before I could make a sound.

“Here is where it gets both intriguing and gory.”

A ghastly crime scene photo abruptly replaced the e-bay page. I recognized the image from the papers. The mangled corpse of a young man lay in the street. Rube zoomed in on a detail. As the pixels settled, I could plainly see a gray and red bracelet wrapping around the victim’s wrist. Then another gruesome photo, this time of a young blond woman, her viscera scattered across an intersection. This scene I did not recognize as it was too grim even for the tabloids. Again, Rube zoomed in on a bracelet.

The slide show continued in this fashion. I sat back and watched the gruesome images flash by in front of me. It was, though I did not dare bring it up, a scene right out of CSI. Eventually the series of gruesome images concluded with the front page of The Daily Banner. A photograph, only a few hours old, showed a young girl’s body lying in the gutter, a horrid wound where her right arm should have been.

“Phoebe Stevens.” Rube spoke the girl’s name with a weighted sobriety that cleared the smoke from the air.

Reflexively we both looked over at the cooler where Phoebe Stevens’ arm sat on a pile of slowly melting ice. A long dark moment passed between us.

“So they are connected. But how? And where does Jimmy Pop factor in?”

I interjected the questions quickly before I could be shushed by the finger.

Rube went over to the table. He picked up the surgical pan and produced a scalpel from it. He then leaned in to the cooler and began working with visible concentration. I was extremely curious, but not curious enough to get over my revulsion at him carving up some dead girl’s limb in front of me. After a few moments, he pulled a spattered pan from the cooler and tossed it in my lap. It nearly dropped through my tired fingers but once I managed to secure the pan, I took a apprehensive look inside. There sat the bracelet, delicately sliced to remove it from the wrist. The center band having been severed, a rich red fluid drained out into the pan. The fluid could only be blood.

“Fuckin’ hell”

“Indeed. More questions than answers though innit?”

“Whose fucking blood is it for starters?”

“Again Detective Swingshift, I remind you that this is not a crime lab. We have no DNA testing facilities.”

Rube looked at me across the cooler. His demeanor was getting grimmer as we waded deeper into the muck.

“Well you saw the creature, you don’t think it was natural?”

“Fuck no.” I responded in earnest.

“Werewolf?”

“Naw, man I can spot a werewolf and can smell one coming for blocks.”

“It has to be some flavor of spirit animal. Jimmy is probably leaching some sort of power from it. Maybe in exchange for victims.”

“The bracelet is a mark then?”

“Could be, but things still don’t jive. For one thing, who the hell makes a deal with a demon dog and what kind of mystical beastie chooses its victims based on cheap plastic accessories?”

Rube turned back to his laptop still talking his way through a growing list of mysteries.

I sunk back in my chair and let the random images of Rube’s investigation click by in front of me. There was a photo of some savage jackal, then an illustration of Cerberus followed by an canine themed Egyptian stele. Rube’s voice faded into the distance. My exhausted eyes fluttered and strobed bleaching the surroundings of color like an aged Polaroid. Eventually, my vision shrunk in around the grisly slide show framing it in a faded gold circle.

The circle containing images from Rube’s wall projector continued to shrink into the distance, falling off to one side and replaced with another large gold circle. In this circle, I could make out an operating theater. A tall surgeon was lecturing a group of green looking police officers from across an operating table. It was in fact Jack Klugman in all of his M.E. glory. Just as I recognized him, Klugman turned away from his audience of squeamish cadets and moved towards me. He shouted and gestured emphatically in my direction.

“Can’t you see it Felix? It’s right there in front of you. Look at the random violence of the lacerations. Look at the victim patterns, Felix.”

He kept coming forward until he reached out of the frame, grabbed me by my shirt and proceeded to forcefully shake me about. I wanted to shout back that I was not Felix and that he was not really a detective but I remembered how well that line of rhetoric worked in the TV show and thought better of it.

“Listen to me.” Klugman continued. “It’s not symbiotic, it’s not a pact, it’s a debt that’s come due and a spectral knee-capper come to collect. Murzim isn’t a hunter. He’s not a conjurer, Felix. He’s a trickster, a huckster. It’s all misdirection. Why can’t you see that?”

Klugman’s face turned a violent shade of red and his eyes filled with frustration at my ignorance. I tried to avoid eye contact. Instead, I focused on the prepped cadaver in the background, its chest lying sliced open. One at a time, furry kittens were climbing their way out of the open chest cavity. Each one leaped, with adorable awkwardness, off the gurney to the floor and casually shook grisly bits of flesh and other tissue from its fur.

I tried to listen to what I could only assume were words of wisdom from Jack Klugman, though it sounded like he had moved on to talking about baseball, but I was transfixed by the growing mass of cadaver kitties assembling around my ankles. There were dozens of mewing little creatures, all trying to climb my pants legs. It soon became impossible to stand up. As I toppled over, I reached out to steady myself grabbing hold of Jack’s arm in the process. He did not appreciate the precarious nature of my situation.

“Felix, open your eyes for god’s sake!”

With those words, Quincy M.E. slapped me hard and solid across the face. The shock sent my eyes fluttering open, returning me to Rube’s dim flat. Projected in front of me on the wall was a highly detailed illustration of a massive black furred beast with glowing green eyes.

“That’s him.” I shouted, “That is the creature I saw this morning on the South Side.”

Rube looked up from the keyboard to see what it was that had me so excited. I was franticly pointing at. Then, he turned to me with a wicked smile.

“Well that my dear Swingshift is the Black Shuck. A majestic beast from British mythology.”

“Bastard’s a long way from home.”

Rube leaned in toward me for effect.

“I’d bet he came to town in the shadow of a certain world traveling rock star turned dangerously shitty magician.”

***

I was surprised to find Liahna already at The Serpent when I arrived. She was sitting at the bar with a thin, narrow featured girl who was wearing a mad vest of bright pink feathers. The two girls were talking up a storm with Tracey as if they were all old friends.

Tracey had relayed a message to me about the meet up, but it had taken some time for me to straighten up and navigate my way past the cats and out of Rube’s lair. On the way to the bar, I was reminded, in vivid detail, how poorly I had handled things the night before. Now, showing up late, I could not help but feel I was already on the back foot.

“Swingshift, so nice of you to join us.” Tracey teased

“Sorry ladies, something needed doing.” I shot Tracey an inquisitive look and got nothing in return.

“We were just trading prep school horror stories.” Liahna turned to me with the soft casual smile of someone who had known me her whole life. It was disarming but her friend did her one better.

“I’m Swingshift.” I laid out my hand in greeting. The girl’s hands remained safely tucked into her feathery vest.

“Yes. Yes you are.” She replied.

“You’ll have to excuse Dee, she confuses rudeness with cleverness. You get used to it but she is an acquired taste at best.”

A playful smile crept across Dee’s face, the only greeting I supposed I was getting, and then she turned her attention back to a martini glass full of maraschino cherries submerged in some frighteningly viscous liquor.

“My apologies for being so fucking rude last night.” Liahna continued with the unnerving air of familiarity. “ You know, it was just a crazy party, handsy dudes, you bringing up family shit, that soul crushing bitch Qarin… to be honest it could have gone much worse.”

“Apology is unnecessary; I was the one putting you on the spot.”

“Either way, I suggest we make my dear old Da pay for our social inconveniences.”

Never underestimate a determined young woman with daddy issues.

“What sort of angle do you have in mind? I’m assuming delivering you back home and getting paid my full rate is off the table?”

“As I said, whatever bullshit story Da gave you about my young impressionable mind and his fatherly concern for my safety, I’m not what the man is after. What he’s hunting for are a pair of dusty old tomes that I filched from him on my way out the door.”

“Dusty old tomes containing what exactly?”

“Ye Olde Gaelic folklore and magical incantations, mostly. The old man may look the part of an investment banker but his interests and his fortunes are more old world and esoteric, if you will.”

A playful grin lit her face.

“When I was little he used to tell me all these amazing stories of the enchanted highlands full of silkies, brownies and the lot. Who would have thought that most of it was true, or true enough anyhow? There is a story that my great-great-great-great granddad, while out for a late night walk, happened upon one of the Shee tangled in the brush. Being a kind soul, he helped the tiny fairy to free herself and in return was granted a boon of protection and a sprinkle of magical insight.”

As she told the story, her eyes grew wide and distant. You could almost catch a glimpse of the little girl who once listened to those bedtime tales. Next to her, Dee looked off in the same direction. Her empty expression refused to reveal whether she was vibing off her friend’s nostalgia or mocking it.

“So why, may I ask, did you steal these books from your father?”

“‘I met Jimmy. Unlike everyone else in this dead-eyed world, Jimmy believed my childhood stories. In fact, Jimmy had been to those forests, had met the old women who pass on those tales. He had seen the very fairies from my childhood daydreams dancing in the moonlight. The books were my way of getting his attention. They got me in to his inner circle and then in to his bed.”

By the end of that last sentence all traces of young innocent Liahna MacEndroe were gone, buried again far from prying eyes. The nostalgia that brought a glow to her cheeks evaporated into the air as she focused a cold stare at her lukewarm beer. Dee looked about with a flutter as if she had arrived on the barstool just that very moment. She smoothed down her pink plumage and presented a now empty martini glass to the bartender. The sight of her familiar bracelet sent an icy shutter up my aching spine.

“Trace dear, my drink, it is broken. I require more of your nourishing Red No. 40 infused fruit stuffs please!”

Tracey dutifully began shoveling fruit into a fresh glass. I attempted to redirect the conversation in a more businesslike direction.

“That is a lovely yarn. Do not get me wrong.” I tried to play up the moment’s emotional advantage, but I did not have it in me. “But when do we get to the chapter with the dollar signs?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I’m still buzzing a bit from last night. So anyhow, the books got Jimmy’s attention and then I sealed the deal. Now, I don’t really need them. What I need is cash. My trust fund is locked down. Jimmy is broke. After a bit of googling, I’ve concluded that the old man will pony up at least 200k to get his books back, especially if I have a shrewd salesman in my corner.”

“Well that’s all well and good, but what’s in it for me?”

“Swingshift, you seem a rather industrious fellow, I’m certain you can figure an angle in for yourself.”

She looked at me then with all the sincerity she could muster. Outside the light was fading yet again. It felt like I had been in the bar listening to her spin that story for days. A smarter man would have snuck off, phoned Henderson and sold the wicked grifter of a rich girl out for the quick cash. Things being reversed I am certain that is what she would have done. However, I am not known for my smarts and I am a sucker for a good story, especially a story told by a pretty girl.

“Well I’ll have to see these books in person before I agree to anything.”

I am also a sucker for rare occult volumes that are worth six figures and was keen for a look-about in the Pop Magus’ study.

“Sure thing.” The quick return of the sly smile to her lips made me instantly doubt my decision. “I need to get back to the loft anyway. But you’re paying for a car.”