The Ghosts We Made

3.

In the end, I don't head back to my place. Nah, that would be the sensible thing to do, and I can't play it safe or sensible. Not now. Not when I'm this close to the truth, so close I can practically taste it. Eleanor's out there, and I've got to track her down. If I don't, the entire city might pay the price for my failure.

If only Lily was by my side. Lily, delicate as her namesake, the best partner I never had. She's got a nose for trouble that'd put any bloodhound to shame. Give her a scent, and she'll sniff out secrets faster than you can say "gumshoe." But in a world where magic is as real as the gun in my holster, even she might not be enough to keep me safe.

I lean against a lamppost, nursing a damp cigarette, hoping my desperation will draw her out. Now more than ever, I wish she'd show. Lily's got a sixth sense for danger: knows when I'm about to step into it and knows just how to yank me back. She understands the stakes, the delicate balance that keeps Intervale from tearing itself apart.

Cars zoom past, their headlights casting ghostly trails on the wet street, but Lily's nowhere to be seen. Not tonight.

Damn it, I'm wasting time.

The soles of my shoes grip the grime-slick sidewalk as I tail a whisper through the city's gut. It's a hushed undertone, weaving between the cracks of the mundane and the murk where magic breathes. A lead as brittle as old bones, yet solid enough to lure me into the shadows of an enclave they don't put on the map for the average Joe.

"Keep your head, Thorn," I mutter to myself, the breath curling in the cold air like a wisp of cigarette smoke. The alleyways here are a spiderweb, and I'm no fly—just a lone gumshoe with a knack for sniffing out the places where light fears to tread. One wrong move, one misstep, and I could find myself ensnared in a trap I can't escape. The creatures that call this place home don't take kindly to intruders, especially not of the human variety.

The buildings lean in close, like crooked men sharing secrets over a game of dice, and their windows are dark eyes that don't blink. They've seen things, these walls, heard the silent screams and the murmurs of spells cast in moments of desperation or greed. In Intervale, magic is a currency, a weapon, a drug. It flows through the city's veins, pulsing beneath the surface, waiting for someone foolish enough to try and harness its power.

I can taste the tension, bitter as day-old coffee left to stew. Magic—it's palpable here, an irregular pulse beating beneath the city's skin. My trench coat feels too thin, a poor shield against the chill or whatever else might be lurking 'round the next bend. In a place like this, even the shadows have teeth.

"Damned if the past ain't a shadow that clings," I grumble, memories of cracked cases and lost lives haunting my every step. Memories have a way of creeping up on you when the night is thick and your pistol's weight is the only truth you can count on. But in Intervale, even memories can be twisted, warped by the arcane forces that hold sway over the city.

A cat scuttles from a pile of refuse, its eyes catching the dim light before it vanishes. Even the strays know to keep to themselves in this part of town. But then, they don't have leads that pull them forward, inch by treacherous inch, into the heart of the arcane underground. They don't have a duty to the truth, no matter the cost.

"Stick to the bricks, Vic," I remind myself, the mantra grounding me when the air feels charged enough to spark. "You're here for answers, not to become one of the whispered-about." In Intervale, those who meddle in the affairs of the magical often find themselves becoming cautionary tales, their names spoken in hushed tones as a warning to others.

But every step is a gamble, every corner turned a roll of the dice with fate. And in this game, the house always has the edge.

That's when I catch it—the low hum of voices, a chorus of murmurs rising above the city's heartbeat. I press against the wall, inching closer, a phantom among specters. My hand rests on the cold grip of my .38, an old friend in a world growing stranger by the second. But I know that bullets are of little use against the powers that be in this city. They're a comfort, nothing more.