Mortal Problems
Crockett Hill, stardate 79050.4:
The first thing Jeanette smelled as she woke was the scent of lemons and rosemary.
It was her aunt’s favorite scent, it came from the lemon trees that grew near Ravenwood in Gatlin. When Lena died, the smell of it overwhelmed the coven as her curse took effect.
Now, Jeanette could smell it as clear as day, as if she were at Greenbrier.
She sat up in bed to find a woman with black hair staring her down… a woman with fierce golden eyes, and skin so pale that in the light of the moon, she looked like a skull.
“Jeanette…” whispered the ghost of Lena Duchannes. “My wolves have been out… I made a pact. Kill the villagers, restore me to life.”
“Kill the wolves, and banish your spirit back to the Dark Fire where it belongs!” Jeanette cries. “We’ll do it, Auntie Lena! I swear we will!”
“Only in your dreams, Jeanette!” Lena called, as she faded away.
Spooked, Jeanette ran from her room and out the door into the cold winter’s morning, heart racing.
Once outside, she found a trail of blood leading to a mail truck, and found the town's one and only postman had been murdered in the night. Thinking quickly, Jeanette ran to town hall, grabbed some official mayoral stationery, and sketched out a quick message to the townsfolk:
Well, shit. This isn’t good. Looks like the werewolves came last night, and they murdered the postman. That’s all we need - who the hell is going to deliver the mail now?! I guess I can do it… a town this small and quiet, there’s not much for me to do these days.
Anyway. The last time something like this happened, the coven that used to live here began investigating themselves. It took a lot of time, and quite a few innocents died, but they did manage to catch the killers… including my Auntie Lena. She cursed this place as she died, and I guess it’s finally coming to fruition… which means there’s only one thing we can do about it.
So here’s the plan. Everyone gather in the town square, and start talking about who you’re going to execute today. I don’t like it either, but it’s this or we let Auntie Lena’s wolves slaughter us all, and I do not want that to happen. You have until nightfall. Good luck, everyone.
- J.D.
"I'm freaking out right now," Addie looks around at the gathered townsfolk in the square, "Someone gets killed on my first night here?! Does this happen often?"
"Well, not often,” says Jeanette. “Only every five centuries or so." Jeanette heaves a sigh.
Addie struggles for words, "Well don't... isn't... Can't they tell you first?!"
Jeanette shrugs. "Usually they do, but Steve the mailman was a surprise even to me."
"So what do we do?” Addie asks. “Just hope they stop? Leave an offering?"
"Nope. Ya gotta vote for someone, or no one today, and decide what powers to give out,” Jeanette answers. “Aside from that..." She goes to sit on a bench, "I'm just here to observe. It's my town, so I have to be neutral."
"So it's someone here doing it?" the cogs tick over in Addie’s mind, "Wait, no-one is going to blame me are they?"
"That's the name of the game, sadly,” Jeanette says. “Everyone gets blamed at least once."
Addie raises her hands in a defensive gesture, as if to protect herself against incoming accusations. "Whoa, whoa, whoa... I'm just a visitor. I didn't do this."
Jeanette shrugs again. "Like I said, I can't intervene."
Addie turns to the others, "Was it one of you?"
"And who's going to answer yes to that?" Shining Jennifer of the Twilight's voice is mostly controlled. "If anyone here is a compulsive confessor, please do make yourself known." They shake their head dismissively. "No, we simply need to gather evidence. I must say, I wasn't expecting you to put on your very own tiend for me; I feel quite at home!"
"I was just trying to make it easier!” Addie cries.
"Yes, well." Shining Jennifer turns to the rest of the crowd. "What do you mortals use to become wolves? Wolfskins? Herbs? Kinky ancestors? Don't be shy about that last, it takes all sorts to make a world."
"Nah, just a very specific kind of Cast that induces a physical transformation,” Jeanette says. “Or so I've read about."
"Are you saying, then, that there is no physical evidence that someone could be a werewolf?" Jennifer’s face breaks into a wide grin. "Well, Addie, it looks like the two of us are on equal footing with the humans, then!"
Suddenly they spin back towards Jeanette. "This isn't Faerie, and you, madam, are no Queen. Nor are you she that laid this curse. Are these rules true as true, or just one of those things mortals make up, like Newtonian mechanics or parliamentary democracy?"
“The rules had better be true, seeing as how I’m the one who wrote ‘em,” says Jeanette dryly, basing the rules from what she knew of the old coven’s procedure from the 1460s.
“Interesting,” muses Jennifer, tapping her chin in thought.
Jeanette hands Jennifer a few papers. “Did you miss them?”
Wicked Wishes would step out from behind a small group of townsfolk before somewhat swaggering her way over to basically the only person she really knew in this place, which was Jeanette. She was still wearing that luxurious looking long black fur coat from the day before. She would stop and sweep her gaze across the gathered people. "This isn't a fun gathering, is it?"
Jeanette shakes her head. “Nope. The postman’s dead, and you lot have to find out who killed him.”
Wicked would just frown before letting out a very displeased little grunt. "Gods damn it, I'm on vacation, here. Why do I always have to clean everyone's magical messes?"
Jeanette shrugs. “Fate, I guess.”
Addie kicks the ground, "I have the worst luck. I come here to do some research and I end up being part of all this. It's not fair."
The pink unicorn mare just lets out a huff through her nose. "Well, Fate can eat my ass." One of her black hands reaches into her coat, pulling a large black revolver from it with a long compensated barrel. She is of course quite careful about not pointing it at anybody. With a quick motion of her wrist, the cylinder flicks out, showing five empty chambers. She lifts her other hand, a large black pistol cartridge with a silver head held in her fingers. "So, who exactly is the one that is going to be dispensing justice, hmm?"
“Whoa hold on," Addie starts back, "Why do you have a gun?"
The masked mare just acquires a toothy little grin. "I always have a gun. Woman's best friend, if you ask me."
"Not really the best thing to pull out when we're trying to find out who killed the postman,” Addie points out reasonably.
Wicked would rolls her eyes, although this was generally something that was generally imperceptible. She quickly slots the cartridge into one of the chambers before closing the cylinder and slipping the firearm back into her coat. "Whatever. So, do we have any real leads that might take us in particular direction?"
"Shouldn't someone examine the body or something?" Addie feels everyone's eyes on her, "Not me! That's gross, I'm not touching it."
“If you want leads, you have to vote to give the right power to someone,” says Jeanette. “Other than that, it’s just hunches.”
Wicked folds her arms across her chest. "Well, I for one feel that it's too early to make any kind of informed decision. I would rather not start blasting without even a vague idea of where to shoot."
"A sensible opinion," Shining Jennifer chips in, having skimmed the rules and thrown them over their shoulder. "So then, given our options, do we what are our priorities, hmm? Defense... or offense?"
Blake steps out from the shadows. "Well, defense seems like a sensible option if we were dealing with a competent set of killers. But all things considered, the flagrant stupidity on display demonstrates that these are not serious people. So let's take a cautious offensive approach."
The masked unicorn turns, making a prominent dismissive gesture with both of her hands as she does so. "You can all do as you please. I'm going to enjoy my vacation for a little longer at least, which has of course been severely complicated by having to keep my eyes open for bloodthirsty miscreants." She would then begin to walk away from the gathering.
"I'm glad someone can enjoy themselves," Addie says under her breath. She turns to Blake, "You're a detective, right? Can't you detect who did this?"
"Someone who wants to keep information off the streets,” Blake says. “Not many clues here. Just the story being told. It's the end and the beginning. The circle is about to close."
Jeanette checks her phone. "Not for a while it's not."
Blake walks into the town hall, goes to the registry office, and looks through the files of everyone of note in town. As they do this, Jeanette stands in the doorway.
Jeanette waves. “What can I do for ya, Blake?”
Blake turns their head to see the woman behind them. They keep looking. "How familiar are you with the story we're in?"
"Pretty familiar, considering my aunt was involved in a similar incident 500 years ago,” Jeanette says. “And I've heard tell that even that incident wasn't the only one out there. There've been more, across time and space."
"No, no. Not the specific one,” Blake says. “The genre. The narrative we find ourselves in. The noir mystery with the flair of the fantastic." They keep looking.
"It's a pretty old story,” Jeanette says. “A tale as old as time... or something like that."
"Well, there are specific rules and mechanics to these sorts of stories,” Blake points out. “And if you know the rules, then you can use them to your advantage. Take, for example, poor, dead Steve. Why kill him?"
"You're barking up the wrong tree here, Blake,” says Jeanette. “My hands are clean, I'm just here to watch."
"No, no. You misunderstand,” Blake says. “I want you to speculate, not to be accused."
Jeanette shrugs. "Because he was inconvenient, I guess? I don't pretend to know why the wolves do what they do."
"They are creatures of magic, of stories,” Blake says. “What narrative purpose does a dead postman provide? What does such a death represent." Blake skims through the files with focus and implication, looking to all the world like they're still looking.
Jeanette shrugs. ”A death to get the plot going?"
Blake nods, “Yes, but why him? Kill a librarian, and you signal a game of distorting history for story. Kill a child, it's about innocence being lost. Kill a liar, and it's about truths being revealed. So why kill a postman?"
"Well, postmen deliver the mail, don't they?” says Jeanette. “And post contains information. In a story where information is power, some people may not want any information going out."
"Exactly." Blake turns to look at Jeanette. "Information. But it's more than just keeping information from getting out, isn't it? There's something in the air. An implication of stories lurking around the halls with envious eyes. You say this is a story with time travel in it, right?"
Jeanette nods. "Yup. But what does that have to do with it?"
"A time travel story is always about the impact of our actions,” Blake says. “What we have done, what we wish we could have done. Any regrets we might wish to... change. The curse rotates once every 500 years, no? Why is that? And why this year in particular?"
"The only person who can tell us is the Caster, and she's dead,” says Jeanette. “Some things just come down to luck and happenstance."
Blake makes a noise that isn't quite in the affirmative nor the negative. "But this is a story, my dear. With tropes and implications. The femme fatale with a hidden agenda. The innocent waif with a terrible secret. The red herring whose truths belie a deeper meaning. The detective who walks these mean streets. Which do you think you are?"
Jeanette shrugs. ”I think I'm the narrator."
“First person then,” says Blake. “Partial to specific players who knows more than they should. Standing outside the narrative while being integral to the whole structure. You know who killed the postman, who's going to kill us all. You could save the day at any time."
There is no malice or anger to these next set of words. Only resigned acceptance. "But you won't. It would be against the rules you laid out for us. You're still in here with us. If you didn't want to be, you'd've died instead of Steve. It's an election year, after all. Lot of people want you dead."
"Now that this is going on, I honestly wonder if I'm going to live to see my third term,” Jeanette mused.
Blake smirks before walking off. "It's not that kind of story.” Shortly after Blake disappeared from her sight, Jeanette realized they put something in their jacket pocket. She turns and investigates the files. None have been taken.
Regan had woken up to the blare of his cell phone. While his first thought may have been "damned alarm", the second was his realizing that he was still alive.
Another day to keep moving like things are normal ...
Though the first thing he had heard was not good news.
Regan had heard the Reader's Digest version of what happened overnight. The postman was found dead, likely killed by a werewolf. So I got spared ... He felt like a short joke would lighten the mood. "I guess it's a good thing my paperwork is electronic and doesn't need to be mailed" An embarrassed clearing of his throat. "In any case, this isn't good, but I can only wish I could add anything of value to the discussion."
Shining Jennifer's eyes narrow at Blake's monologue. What does he know? "What do you know of circles, Detective?"
Blake looks at the fae folk. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I know your name. May I have it?"
"You may hear it,” Jennifer says. “It is my name, after all." They consider for a moment. "But then, I have not heard your name, Detective."
“Quite." Blake refuses to give it.
Regan could only look on at the comic scene before them. "Well, ..." They pulled Blake to the side, asking in a hushed tone, "um ... I'm in a slightly older generation, is Mr. still good for the time? Or did you prefer different?"
"Well, sometimes they call me Dr. Worm,” Blake says. "But what is the name of our free folk friend here?"
"I have the same question, ... Mx. Quite,” Regan says finally. “But a good morning to the both of you." Regan returned to the square, unsure how to respond to what was going on, but surer of their need to have things resolve.
“Good afternoon, y’all! What’s happening? Guess I waaaay overslept!” Magdalene rubs her eyes. They’re a bright, vivid gold, marking her out as a Dark Caster… but where Lena’s eyes had been cold, Maggie’s were more like honey, albeit still vaguely feline.
"Well, cuz... there's been a murder,” Jeanette replies.
“Fuck! Who did the Angel of Death go after this time?” Maggie says, with a resigned sigh.
"The friendly postman Steve," Jeanette replies. "Damn shame... he was two weeks away from retirement! Also, Auntie Lena's ghost visited me last night."
“God, the poor fucker,” sighs Maggie. “That close to retiring! Lord! Also WHAT??!!”
Jeanette nods grimly. "She said she made a pact with the wolves: if all us villagers die, she'll come back to life. And if the wolves die, we banish her spirit back to the Dark Fire from whence it came."
Maggie nods. “Okay, good. Auntie Lena needed to be back in the Dark Fire ages ago. More to the point, when did this happen? Has anyone told Steve’s family yet? And how do we find whoever killed him? Are they still loose??”
"This morning, as soon as I found out, and we're working on that,” Jeanette answers. “Right now, you have to place a vote for execution, and a vote to give someone a power."
“Right, but how in the heck do we avoid executing an innocent individual?” Maggie asks. “And do we have evidence as to how many wolves we’re looking for?”
"Today, we have the option of voting for no one,” Jeanette says. “As for how many wolves we're looking for, just one. I guess the rest of the pack got cold paws."
“Jeanette, honey,” Magdalene gives a frustrated huff “I’m asking how we figure out who to execute, if we choose to exercise that option?”
Jeanette sighs the sigh of someone who has heard a lot of stories about this exact subject previously. "That... you'll have to figure out for yourselves. Tomorrow, most likely. As the mayor, all I can do is watch."
“But cousin, there is absolutely no hint anyone has given us that they could be an object of legitimate suspicion!” Maggie buries her head in her hands.
Jeanette goes over and hugs her cousin tight. "Hey... Cuz. Listen to me. I don't like this any more than you do. Maybe we'll luck out and someone will confess, like Auntie Lena did, but I wouldn't get my hopes up. This is just what we have to do."
Day 1: Nightfall
So you decided not to kill anyone tonight, huh? Makes sense, I suppose, since we all know jack shit right now. But I’m warning you: the wolves may have left you all alive last night, but they won’t tonight.
The good news? You have a diviner now. So that might come in handy.
Sweet dreams.
-J.D.Day 2: Daybreak
Damn, Regan Abergavenny is dead. The wolves must really have it out for historians. Maybe they want their crimes to be expunged from the history books? After all, history is usually written by the victors…
Anyway, you all have work to do. Another execution vote, and this time, you must kill someone. No getting out of it today. As always, good luck out there. See you at nightfall.
-J.D.
Regan was in his townhouse, having finished up some final work, about to head to sleep. He never heard the window slide open. Or the steps. He didn't have a chance to run or protect himself. He was fresh meat. He saw fur ... claw ... and nothing, as the last thing he felt was claws across his neck.
Jeanette was making coffee when she heard the victorious howl from across the street. The blood drains from her face as she runs outside to find Regan's body having been dragged outside to lie in the snow.
"SON OF A BITCH!" Jeanette screams. "DAMN YOU, AUNTIE LENA!"
She takes out her phone and calls the town doctor, L. McCoy. When he arrives, he takes one look at the corpse and says, "They're dead, Jen."
"No shit, Sherlock," Jeanette replies. "Just... get him to the morgue, okay?"
The doctor nods, and places a white sheet over Regan's body. The corpse is carried away on a stretcher.
Later, at Town Hall:
"How many people have to die before you break the rules?" Blake steps out of the shadows, cigarette in hand.
"What the hell are you talking about?!" Jeanette demands, infuriated. "Do you think I'm egging this on?!” Thunder rumbles outside town hall as a snowstorm suddenly blows into town. Jeanette's eyes are glowing green, and her black hair is twisting in a Casting breeze.
"You called yourself the narrator,” says Blake. “The person in the story with the most knowledge. Who listens in on all our conversations, our private lies just to they can be relayed to the reader. You cannot die, that would be pointless since you're neutral in all this. But someone might decide your cousin is worthy of the chopping block. Or worse, the werewolf's claw."
The storm gets even worse as Jeanette gets even angrier. "Maggie's a good girl, Blake! I told you that before!"
"I know she is,” Blake says. “But other people might not. They might see her as kin to Lena. Where was Jennifer last night?"
"She's Fae,” Jeanette says. “Not even the Casters go near the Fae, especially the Irish ones."
"Maybe you should,” Blake says. “Because last afternoon, I talked with her, played the magic game a bit, and, in jest, recommended she talk to someone with a bit of knowledge about history. Regan, to be precise."
Jeanette nods. ”Yeah, I know. I was there. And just like the Keepers of the Caster libraries, I am Bound not to interfere."
Blake: "And what happens when you break your binds? What happens when you free yourself from the chains?"
"I am destroyed,” Jeanette says simply. “That’s how my world works, Blake. We all have our place in the Order of Things, and if that order gets broken... chaos."
Blake sighs. Politicians. Always thinking that the way things are is better than the alternative. Even if it means people die and die horribly. That's just the way things are. The system works because it always has. It's not their fault people use and abuse them.
"Have a nice election season." Blake walks away.