Silence in the Chapel: The Peregrine Dunn Papers, #1

By William Bucclan

An urban fantasy/noir set in a Los Angeles transformed by the breaking of an old curse. In this setting, one of the people responsible for breaking the curse--Peregrine Dunn--acts as an informal private investigator, helping out folks whom the authorities might have forgotten... or who don't want the authorities to know. In Silence in the  Chapel, Peri is approached by an ancient order of Templar Knights, hoping to find out why one of their allies tried to commit suicide. Things, as one might guess, aren't as simple as presented.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Bucclan
• Release date: May 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223084334

Book preview

Dedicated to my joy, Nikki, my friend Gene

And all the folks who keep me honest

PART 1: SAUDADE

SAUDADE [SOUˈDÄDƏ]; NOUN, LÍNGUA GALATIA

Deep melancholy or nostalgic longing for something absent

A tale of two men, lost loves, lost gods, and lost secrets

CHAPTER ONE

The Red Gift

HOLIDAY [ˈHⱭːLƏˌDEꞮ]; NOUN, LÍNGUA ÆNGLIA

originates from haligdæg, meaning a consecrated or godly day;

also, a day meant to commemorate something preserved whole or intact, or that cannot be transgressed or violated

Confession time, people – this time of year, when people expect angels to come soaring in on the Winter Solstice and bring good cheer until Twelfth Night, while half the world is under the cover of white and cold, and as everyone else is out celebrating and ringing in the holiday cheer, I lay low. No jobs if I can afford it, which is less often than I like. Minimal contact with the public so no last minute ‘favors’ I’ll have to complete, no digging into problems. Just take time off and refusing to be judged.

Of course, that also means no booze because sometimes I get a little testy on the sauce, or inquisitive. Which might make you wonder why I am hanging around a classy whiskey joint like the Seven Grand on a Wednesday, listening to a hell of an axeman wail out the Blues. Truth is, I like the place; I like the clientele. I’ve been a customer here for, oh, about a couple of months, maybe less. Grateful client laid me out with a six month tab and an introduction into the finer things of life, the Whiskey Society among them. And Johnny, regular barman there, makes a mean cup of coffee for the designated drivers. Thick enough to stand a fork in, sweet as licking the devil’s hind tit, dollop of cream on top to smooth things out. Served in these tiny little cups he gets from a mosque in Culver City.

All told, the atmosphere’s nice, the people are good and I’ve got nothing to do for a couple of hours until I meet up with my partner, Kasey. So, feeling good all around. Johnny’s regaling me with stories of his latest conquest. Guy can have anyone he wants. Doesn’t hurt that Johnny’s easy on the eyes. Green eyes. Rich brown hair like old oak. Body like a marathoner. Charisma’s as natural for Johnny as a fish to water and, because of that, I’ve noticed he’s the one people tend to spill their secrets to. Far as I know, he keeps those secrets. Smart guy.

Speaking of secrets, I notice the guy at the end of the bar. Haven’t seen him here before and hard not to notice someone like him. Big guy – and I mean burly big, weightlifter class, wrestle a bear to the ground big. Old man, too. First look, I peg him as homeless. Full beard, hair kind of a mess but back in a loose ponytail and white as the Holly Wood Land sign. Lined face, deep and experienced. Eyes—should say ‘eye’ cause there’s something wrong with the right one but his profile’s away from me in shadow— are a lightning blue. He’s got this brown-ish duster on, which is weird for southern California in general. Maybe it’s a prop from some set? I’ve got the color wrong, too. Less brown than reddish-brown almost all the way to black. But what catches me is his right hand. As he unfolds it to pick up his drink you can see long white scars across his palm. Lots of them. Must have been painful as hell to get them.

I absently nod in his general direction and go back to my drink. It’s not like the guy has invited me to bother him, and besides, despite his homeless chic look, if he’s drinking here in the Seven Grand, he’s got some sort of pull somewhere and you just don’t mess with that. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Johnny walk over to him, say something softly, then grab a bottle of top shelf and pour it neat for the Old Man. The Old Man thanks him; thick northern accent. This man is a continent and an ocean ocean away from home. When Johnny comes by to refill my coffee, I smile in thanks Hey, how do I get a tab like that?

Johnny shakes his head. He drinks for free.

Studio head? I ask. Mayor? Owner?

Johnny goes back to his all-knowing bartending ways and I bring my gaze back to my cup. The Old Man’s posture is tired, putting out a ‘don’t bother me’ vibe. The rest of the bar certainly has picked it up. He’s there alone. I know I shouldn’t bother him; probably isn’t in my best interest. Probably will piss him off.

Crap. I have to know.

I get up. Go over to him. Nod as he notices me. Peregrine Dunn. I say. He cocks his head to one side, and I swear to all the heavens that this dude’s shadow just sidles up to him and whispers in his ear. It isn’t there when I focus on it. Trick of the light? I’m trying so hard to sort it out, I almost miss it when he replies.

I know. the Old Man rumbles. And when I say rumble I mean his voice sounds like it comes from a cracking glacier.

I really don’t want to say anything more. I want to crawl up and go back to my stool after apologizing for ever bothering him. But before I can move, I feel my lips moving. Part of my idiocy, I know. Habits are hard to break. So, what’s your story?

He turns to face me and I get the full effect of the other eye: cataracts, cracked, shards of blue and white like icicles boring into me. His lip curls back and for a moment I honestly think he’s considering whether to throw down with me. And believe me, being the focus of that anger? I’ll be on the losing end of that battle. Then he blinks, shakes his head, and the rage seems to leave him.

Instead, he lets out a rolling laugh.

You want a story? He turns back to Johnny and taps his glass, getting that instant top shelf refill. Rank piss and straw.

Excuse me?

You wanted to hear it… he replies and that’s where it starts. Rank piss and straw. It was the smell that told me the Bani Móðir was pregnant again.

Banny Mudder? I take a sip from my cup and flinch. Johnny has apparently put something a bit stronger in my drink. Tastes like it’s the good good-stuff. Hunh. Hope I’m not paying for that.

I need you to understand, young man… the Old Man continues this isn’t something that happens often. Hel, if I’m very, very lucky, maybe once in a decade. Even less, some centuries. Does it surprise you that I’m that old?

I offer him a halfway decent grin. Don’t look a day over sixty.

He chuckles at that. And here I thought politeness died before your generation was born. He taps an upright finger to his forehead for a moment, contemplating. This thing that happens — when the Mother of Killers gives birth — it is not a good thing when it happens but it always happens like this: she drops the calf about a month early—usually a scrawny little thing—on the Summer Solstice. I have to be there for the whole birth. It isn’t an easy one. And my… companions, I suppose you’d call them— they’d be there as well, like a couple of doting hens.

There’s movement next to the Old Man, two young men, intense stares. They have some family resemblance to the Old Man. Grandsons, maybe? Only problem is, the Old Man is technically sitting next to the wall, so, there is really no room on the other side to have two people. And while my brain is still processing this, the two men are gone.

The Old Man leans forward and winks. Sometimes, I wish I had a way of keeping them out of it, giving me a moment’s peace. He whispers conspiratorially. But those two bird-brains are like upright cockroaches. Everywhere and hard to get rid of. He leans back and smiled. Still, I suppose I’m being too harsh. After all, they’ve served me for so long they’re like family. Family… the Old Man hesitates. I suppose that’s what this is all about. Who we take care of and why. You ever work on a farm?

I shake my head no. City boy here, through and through.

"Pity. Lost art for many. Listen, part of birthing any calf is letting it stand on its own, then letting the mother take care of the birth caul. But this calf… its leg was twisted, deformed. And in that leg, I saw Skuld’s fickle finger messing around in the world. This calf was destined for greatness. That long cold Ride would be waiting for both of us. ‘Bani Hróðólfr…’ I named him, then and there and I held him until he stopped shaking. ‘Bani Hróðólfr. I need you. We need you.’"

The Old Man rolls his shoulders to release the tension, shoots his drink and growls. I am as old as the hoarfrost and the Northern Lights. My image is everywhere in the world for at least three months every year. I have a day of the week named after me. But people don’t understand me. They think I’m laughing all the time, ‘jolly’, fat, surrounded by elves. Well, those parties were done, centuries ago, and the elves have long back returned to the lands they came from. And I’ve never been the most pleasant of companions in the best of times. ‘Grim’ they’d call me, and they’d think I wouldn’t catch wind of it. Oh… and elves? Light or dark, they were never the best company for people like me. That’s the truth.

He takes a moment to toss a salute to the stag’s head above the bar. You understand, don’t you? You old fraud. The Old Man smirks and turns back and points his glass at me. I am what remains of a very ancient promise, one made to all of you at the beginning of the world. I work VERY hard to keep that promise. I asked for it. I wanted it. From the first time I created a covenant between the people and the world to the first time I was forced to make a sacrifice of my... no. The Old Man puts the glass down. His expression darkens and sadness just seems to ripple off him. I can’t talk about that yet.

You said you made a promise.

"Right at the beginning. A simple one to make, a complicated one to keep—I promised to be there for you."

For a few drawn out minutes, the Old Man pulls back into silence. Long enough to feel uncomfortable; figure he might be done talking. Johnny does a refill for the Old Man. When the Old Man does start up, it’s softer; almost a whisper, like he’s ashamed. "Let me tell you how it’s done. Each morning I go down to the pen. The reindeer all chuff at me and nuzzle my gloves and look for treats. Silly things. Stupid things. Wonderful things. My friends and companions in this long life, boon to my People when they were alive, life to the Saami, my cousins as long as they are alive. And I give them my attention, my love; oh I’m not ungenerous, boy, but my focus remains on the stall at the end. There is the Hróðólfr, suckling, content and in a few weeks I know he’ll be grazing with the rest of the herd, but right now, he’s a mama’s boy. Each time, I carefully take off my gloves and set them aside. I wait for her calf to finish his meal and I then rub his muzzle, as gently as I can."

The Old Man pats a pocket on his coat. That piece of horn that I keep in my pocket—this one, here… The Old Man pulls out the nub of a reindeer horn and you can see the point gleam in the light. -it came from a Hróðólfr; the first reindeer I named that. It’s only fitting given what I do. You take the tip, like this, see? And tear across the palm. He makes a motion across his right hand; the scarred one. "Yes, it hurts. It always does and when it gets really cold, it gets hard to close my hand. I’ve done this so many, many times the scars never really go away. That’s why you always see me with gloves in the pictures. But I’m strong, inside. I swallow that pain and let the blood come. Then…"

He lowers his head, closes his eyes and rubs at a now furrowed brow with the knuckle of his right hand.

Then I paint Hróðólfr’s muzzle with my blood. I know, I know. I understand how it sounds to you, but it’s needed. I need to leave it raw and red and dripping and shining in the growing daylight. Sometimes he takes a lick off it. Just as often, he ignores it. He never backs away, and I give him credit for that. Because I will do this same ritual every day, every morning until the night of the Ride.

The way he said ‘the Ride’ makes me not want an explanation. The Old Man looks up, and then tips his glass towards me while looking at Johnny. Johnny nods and pours a shot in my mug. I take a sip. It’s mead—fermented honey if you didn’t know that already—but in naming it, I’m pretty sure I’ve already lost the chance to explain how over-the-top good this is. It’s like drinking the color gold, like sipping on a symphony. It is the distilled essence of sweet, but it’s also bubbling with life. The fermentation, you can actually taste the yeast working to convert the sugars. Not the yeast themselves but their effort poured into their endeavor. It’s a vision and it’s poetry and I’m swimming in and the only really coherent response is Holy… that tastes good… which is really lame considering the liquid pleasure I have in my cup.

The Old Man chuckles. I haven’t always been portrayed as kindly as I am today. You know… He smiles, lost in memory. I once had the privilege of getting in an argument with some esteemed scholars; over drinks, of course, because there really is no better way to get into a fight. They put aside the fact, conveniently, that at the beginning of the world, my two brothers died while building it. They glossed over the little fact that my name meant ‘Mad Poet’. They couldn’t picture what a body looked like hanging nine days on the World Tree and they certainly couldn’t wrap their heads around the kind of person who would tear out his own eyeball to get a drink.

I know I must seem thick but it takes until that point to realize who he is — or who he thinks he is. If the Old Man sees my reaction, that doesn’t stop him from carrying on.

Not being a well-educated fool, I’ve got a less legendary view of myself. Unlike those academic sots, I’ve had to live with the consequences. And I’ll tell you this: memories are tricky, tricky things. The curse of all ages is that you lose track of time. Some memories stay bright and green and eternally present. Others gray out and move away. How long ago doesn’t matter; only the intensity remains. I remember this young woman I bedded at the dawning of the world. The Old Man grins, remembering. We screamed loud enough to shake the sky. Her hair… amazing; the texture of fine moss after a storm. And a rich, loamy smell to her and between her legs was a tangled thicket in which a man could die happily. He nudges me at that, almost knocking me off my stool. Strong, strong legs. As I remember it, she left bruises. A very insistent lover. He pauses for a second. "From that epic wrestling, she bore a child and though his name is remembered to this day, I don’t remember him. My only son by her and I remember the tracing of all the lines across her body. All of them. But almost nothing about him."

The Old Man’s brow furrows. "Fierce. He was that. Stupid, but not always so. More in the style of the recklessness of youth than slow in the head. I always imagined he would grow out of it in time. Around the time he was born, I started to realize how difficult my promise would be to fulfill. To be there for you. I needed to see into the future and to do that, you need to see over the horizon of tomorrow. My woman could not go there with me and I had to leave her behind. My first sacrifice, but not the worst. But I saw things there. I saw that all things consider themselves eternal but aren’t. I realized that ancient giant I had slain had never considered a thing like me. And I would not be able to conceive of my own killer. But even if I couldn’t see the details of my death, there was something I could do about it. Power—and wisdom—both were readily available at a price. And that price would always be sacrifice."

His hands shake slightly as he says that but then he takes a deep breath. "It only takes a little while for Hróðólfr to get used to the ritual. To get used to me. The others, though… the rest of the herd never gets used to the blood scent. They always reject him. Automatically. And when he tries to pair with them, they force him out. Last time, I had to thin the herd to prevent him from being gored, and I don’t like doing that. They are as close to me as my own family, do you understand that? I had to choose between them and the world. Don’t get me wrong, young man. I spend many nights in the company of regrets. So many dead. So many friends gone, shuffled into the shadows of history. Regrets… nothing lasts forever and I am as likely to pass into death as those who gave birth to the world. But ending my promise to you is not what I want to be remembered for. So, here’s my dearest secret, Mr. Dunn. Here’s how I pull off the magician’s trick of living forever. And it’s the most simple thing in the world.

"I cheat.

"I sacrifice an eye and the perspective that goes with it for understanding. I learn that the fate of everyone—everyone!—is inscribed in the bones of the world. Then I hunted those bones down—the roots of the tree that stretched between worlds—and then I sacrificed to it. I let myself hang for nine days and get as close to death as I could so I could learn its language. Because once you know the language, you know Spelling. And once you know where Fate is written and if you are very, very crafty and just a touch mad you might be able to change it. Here! I’ll share them with you; the words inscribed in the fabric of the world: The mad poet faces the all-devouring wolf and the mad poet is swallowed whole. The world dies in fire and ice but the good bright lord comes from Death to lead the way into a new world. Those are the words that have meaning to me. Part of the Ragnarok. The end of me and my people. The final battle and the destruction of all my dreams. Unless… unless… How much would you sacrifice to save the world?"

Somewhere out there, later tonight, Kasey will be waiting for me. And I know how far I’ll go to make sure Kasey is safe. I’d shake the world to its foundations. The Old Man sees it, sees my expression and shares in that moment. "Yes… that’s it! That’s what it feels like. All the pain, worth it, like that stain I put upon my Hróðólfr, my blood. Or how I can barely curl my hand but I will still hold the reins when the time comes to fly on Solstice night. Still fight. Some sacrifices are more than worth it."

Some memory crosses the Old Man’s face; I can see them cling to him like filth. And some sacrifices aren’t? I ask him.

He frowns. They are. He sighs. They are worth it even if they take you to places you never want to go.

He taps nervously on his glass, waving Johnny away when he tries to refill it. The emptiness seems to fill with melancholy.

"I hope you understand, I loved my second son. Honestly, purely, deeply. I loved his mother, too--I swear it to the roots of the world--but I never told her what I was going to do. I couldn’t break her heart like that. By that point, I had ruled for so long. I had taken on so many names. Though the ‘mad poet’ stuck, I was also described as a lord, the Lord of lords, a good and bright ruler. When she gave birth, I waited until the exhaustion set in. As she slept I took the young child and presented it to the stars. I named him Baldr—‘the good bright lord’—one of the many names I too had been called. Even as I spoke the name aloud, I knew what I was going to do. That’s how it started. I sliced my palm open on my spear and gently massaged the blood into his cheeks. ‘Such a ruddy-faced child.’ His nurses said when his mother awoke. Before the reindeer, before the line of Hróðólfr, he was my first and greatest sacrifice.

"Do you remember what last year was like? Did you feel it? Could you hear Him? The dark dweller, that old ghost who tears at the roots of the universe. I can feel him, always. And I’m not alone; many others can sense it too though they can’t put a name to it. Maybe you can as well? This is not the wolf of a pack. This is not something sane. This is something that exists outside time and sanity. The focus of all the maliciousness that comes from isolation, abandonment and pain. It slides up into the spaces between your thoughts and it fills people up with a hatred and a fierce greed. This is the Fenris. When I first fought this thing, so long ago, it had meat and shape and form. It was easier then, even though I knew death couldn’t keep it chained. If we—all the powers in the world—couldn’t chain it, death certainly couldn’t. The Fenris was the thing that I feared the most. One of the few monsters that could tear down the whole world and I couldn’t allow that; I wouldn’t. How could I abandon the people through my death, to leave them to be savaged by a ghost? There is a deep fog upon the shores of the world; the Dweller’s breath was upon us and I will always ride on the Longest Night to fight him, ghost or not."

The Old Man savagely throws his glass at the wall behind the bar, shattering it. "My son… my second son. I don’t know how his mother found out but she knew what I planned. She raced across the world and claimed favors from everything. I had to go to my stepson to stop her, to stop him and don’t think for a minute I don’t regret that decision. I will owe that deceitful child until the end of time for that favor. He drags his fingers across the bar and I can see the top peel off in small strips under his fingernails. You see, this is how it works. To all things, they are given a measure of life. But what if Death could be bribed? Or tricked? Or addled? By the blood of one’s blood. By a presence so strong, it can only be yours. And when this sacrifice is taken, this one who you have cared for so much that you have put a piece of yourself within them, then Death is satisfied. On the grave of my second son such a bargain was struck and answered. And no one knew that this wasn’t even my time. That I was saving it for another time to come."

Everything seems colder, stiller.

"I haven’t told you about the names, have I? The power has always been in the naming of things. My very first name translates to ‘furious of mind and spirit’. My brothers, Strength and Intelligence. My servants, Will and Desire. Bani Móðir, the Mother of Killers. Bani Hróðólfr, the Killer of Famous Wolves. I once wrote a poem about Hróðólfr. Someone else put it into a song. I changed the words on the wall of the world. A small change: the mad poet faces the all-devouring wolf , the good bright lord comes back from Death. The good bright lord was dead now. Death had already eaten its fill. I was the only ‘good bright lord’ who could return."

For the first time, I notice blood on the back of the Old Man’s hand, from a glass chip that had flown out when he shattered the shot glass. Absently, he pulls the chip out and flicks it aside.

The end of the world is like nothing your mind can imagine. It is flames and it is ice and it is screaming and it is silence. Kin and kith dying around you. The terrible scents of hollow deaths and living agony. At the appointed and prophesied time, I took my place in the battle against the Great Wolf and as I watched my eldest son die impaled on the World-Serpent’s sharp tooth, I died. I jumped down the Great Wolf’s throat, as it was written and I was swallowed whole. All that I was was emptied out and I thought for a moment I would never return. Until I was thrust up onto the gates of Hel itself and they would not let me pass because, to their knowledge, I, the good bright lord, was already inside. I had no choice but to return so I did. I returned so I could watch after you.

There was a clink as something solid hit the bar, breaking the spell. A bottle, old, covered in dust. Johnny nodded. Compliments of the Master of the House.

Slowly a twinkle returns to the Old Man’s one eye as he pulls off the cork and takes a swig. He off-handedly offers me some but I politely indicated I’ve had enough. I was once known for war… you know that. He slurred. Not presents and mistletoe and evergreens but war. Most ghosts were just practice for an old hand like me. But the Wolf’s spirit lingers. So I keep convincing Death to leave me on this side.

Hróðólfr—the Wolf Killer. Yeah. I get it. The Old Man is slipping in a substitute for his own death. Every time.

"Let it be swallowed, let it be sacrificed and let me linger. That has been my prayer and it has always been answered. Each time, Hróðólfr dies and I kill the Wolf and I lay there, so near to death that I draw my last breath. And then another one comes as my doom leaves me."

And then you come here.

And then I come here. The Old Man agrees. "My present is my presence, the red gift that of my blood and my sacrifice, even in a world that only considers me a jolly, fat, useless old man. Ah… I remember the song I made for him.

Mighty Hróðólfr!

Blood-muzzled,

Battle-proud,

Alone.

In the breath

Of the Wolf,

I call you,

Blood-kin.

Sweet Hróðólfr.

Son of my Making.

Guide my sleigh,

Guide us!

And forever

Be remembered."

His voice trails away.

To Rudolph. I hold up my glass in a toast.

To Rudolph. The rest of the bar replies and the Old Man looks up, noticing the rest of them for the first time. He snorts in amusement.

And thank you, Nick. I smile. Or Kris. If you’d like. For everything.

He chuckles and slides the bottle back over to Johnny. One name is as good as another. he lies. Then he pulls on a furred, beaded cap out of his coat pocket and puts it on. One-Eye, mad poet, giant-slayer, dwarf-cheater, wolf-foe, way-weary wanderer and spear charger. Kind of a jerk. No jolly elf, that one. Odin of the Aesir. Raven God and Yule Father.

The door opens, letting in what passes for winter in the City of Angels—a balmy mid-50s—and the Old Man steps into the night.

GHOST NOTE FILL, EIGHT-TO-THE-BAR

NAIVE [NÄ-ˈĒV]; NOUN, ORIGIN: FRENCH

Unaffected simplicity

Deficient in informed judgment

Primitive

LOVE [ˈLƏV]; NOUN, ORIGIN: ENGLISH

The object of devotion

An assurance of affection

See naive.

There’s a moment, right at sunset in Los Angeles, when the last rays of sunlight hit the beach and the city starts to light up, like jewels on the shore. The sound of the waves. Happy people enjoying the cool, off-shore breeze. That’s where I am.

Then there’s Kasey.

He comes right up behind, wraps those big arms around me and draws me back.

How’s the view, beautiful?

Ha. Ha. Body issues. I have them. I know about them. Besides that, he already knows I love this. In the back of the car is a basket I packed up: cheeses and melon from the Farmer’s Market, pepperoni and prosciutto and hard cider from Bristol’s. Fresh honeycomb that Barb brought back from Santa Cruz. I think I even managed to remember that tapenade that Frank shipped us from that vineyard — or is the proper term an olive orchard? Even if it makes only olive oil? — near Salinas. I should look it up when I get the time. Grove. That’s the right word. Olive grove.

Noting the ‘Peri-stares-off-into-space-again-look’, Kasey nibbles my left ear and, oh… that does it. My vision goes white and all my blood rushes away from my head. When I catch my breath, I elbow him. Tease.

He releases his lippy grip and tugs on my shirt to pull me back to the car. Hunger, it seems, will trump view for my lovely man.

I’m crying as I remember this. Why am I crying? And why can’t anyone else remember?

You’re still going through with it?

I grin. He checks. Every. Single. Time. Paperwork’s in. Ticket’s purchased. Birthplace of civilization targeted. No more adjunct for me. I pound my chest like some cheap knock-off Tarzan. Soon, I do Important World Traveling.

I open the trunk, but Kasey puts himself between me and our spread. I’m going to miss you.

I put a hand to his face. I’m going to miss you, too.

He plants a hand on my chest. His eyes, those absolutely riveting green eyes, catch me as always. Then let me give you something worth coming home to.

That takes a second to process. Oh Crap. Holy Jesus.

He’s down on one knee.

Fucking romantic.

Silly, fucking, beautiful, romantic.

I’m crying and I don’t know why. This is a perfect moment, framed by the sun.

Marry me, Peri. Make me an honest man. That grin. Those teeth. I swear his eyes are sparkling.

There’s the ring. I can barely stammer out a yes.

I shouldn’t. I don’t know why. Something in my heart breaks and I don’t know why. I pull him up, kiss him fiercely, as fierce as the first time we met. I kiss him and the sun dims on my back. A cold breeze blows against me.

Yes, I say, again and again. Very much so yes.

The shaking is not from joy. I don’t know why.

I’m sorry.

There’s something I feel in my bones.

A storm is coming.

CHAPTER TWO

Dark and Stormy

NOIR [NWAR]; NOUN, LÍNGUA GAELIGA

The black pockets in roulette, numbered odd from 11 to 18 and 29 to 36.

A genre of crime fiction noted for cynicism and moral ambiguity.

The mark, bar or sigil used by the Order of Oak and Wren to remove a member from the Silver Record. (colloquial slang: The Black)

I'm alone for once. Just me, a jigger of rum, half a lime, teaspoon of rich brown sugar. Pick up the glass and let that sweet/sour scent carry me away. Let the sour hit the roof of my mouth, the burn take my throat, the sugar smooth it all out. Soak it all in.

It's been one of those days.

Let me clear that up.

It’s been a hell of a really shitty day.

This is not my office.

Let’s be clear on that too.

I don’t get an office like this, with the mahogany and the leather and the gilded paintings and the pretty view. But sometimes, just sometimes, when I do certain things for certain people, folks feel like they owe me one. This space belongs to a client who truly believes they owe me more than they can repay. And they’re grateful enough to let me sample the office booze whenever I need.

Grateful enough to let me use their nine, too.

I pull the weapon out of my pocket and put it in the desk drawer where it belongs. I put the empty brass next to it. Cops'll pick it up in a day or two. Print it, dust it, mark it as part of a really ugly episode in the city. They’ll interrogate the hell out of me. Level charges at me. It’ll be okay. Bureaucracies tend to suck me up and spit me back out again. Side effect of, well, things I’m not really supposed to talk about. Times no one is supposed to remember anymore. Events that everyone wants forgotten.

For the most part, folks—even the cops—turn a blind eye to my comings and goings because by the time I get thrown into the mix, the parties involved don’t want things to get official.

Lean back in the chair – the black leather's real and comfortable – and feel the sun through the arched window behind me. Splashes of blood-red light spill out onto the room. A gift from the smog-choked City of Angels to me and mine: pretty sunsets all around. I remember a similar sunset on a beach, ages ago and worlds away.