The Changeling's Ghost (Thirteen Gates #1)

Well, It's Not What You'd Call A Tavern Brawl

    So, it's been a few days.

    Asher closes up faster than he opens, although I see him whenever I'm making measurements to determine, on Sheryl's request, if the bannisters are technically against international regulations. I do not know why we have regulations on bannister height. I do know that at this time in our last excursion out of the country, Sheryl and I were fighting a minor chaos deity. Instead, I'm hanging in the CLUE house with the world's angriest red-haired potato, two adults who have the vacant look and friendly smiles of people who have likely committed numerous felonies, a cat, and gun. I'm fairly sure firearms are banned in Britain, including magical firearms, so her existence, on every level, is an enigma to me.

    That morning, the wind is blowing through the drapes, which are a heavy mahogany color. They make me think of once of the ocean locations of A.R.S.E (it's short for ARSENAL... supposedly), which often had white drapes on their otherwise dismal, small rooms. The way the wind caused the light fabric billow made them look like twin strands of sunlight, filling the room with sea air and warmth.

    The wind runs over the town like it has somewhere to be, stopping only briefly to tickle the town beneath its wood and stone chin.

    There is a dead cat in the yard.

    I jump out the window. Asher is already on the patio and he lets out a screech like an animal in the process of being murdered. I calmly wheelie up to the body, which has its neck slit-- cleanly, if I had to deduce, the length of the slice indicates a knife. The unusual part is the burned fur. The singing is too regular to be that of a human fire. This was done with intent, not only on the part of the murderer, but of the fire. The dark lines form letters across the poor creature's underbelly, which I begin to read as I turn its limp body over.

    Asher is still stammering behind me. "How are... legs?" he says, looking down at my wheelies. "That was several meters, easily--"

    "Chill, it was like twenty feet. I have pads in my wheelies for magical shock absorption. It's a fun party trick... once I jumped out the third story of an apartment building during a party back in America." I smile to myself. "Golden days. Anyways, who burned 'I'M STILL HERE' into a cat? Seems excessive, not to mention cruel. Wait, this isn't--"

    "No, it is not Aitamah, but rest assured, she is about to be livid."

    "Livid. God bless Britain." I whisper, massaging the thick, burnt fur as tenderly as I can. Turning around to cast Asher a winning smile, I ask, "So, uh... what've you been up to?"

    He returns me the most incredulous stare, and I get the feeling he's trying to burn through my head again. "That's none of your business, now, is it?"

    "We-e-e-ell..." I begin. I lift the cat's shoulders up, so that it looks like it's shrugging posthumously. "I'm trying to solve a meowstery, but this big red hairball who's been assigned to me isn't being very coopurrative."

    "That is a dead animal and you're sick." Asher says.

    Stab in the heart. I don't know why I depend on him enjoying my one-liners, but I'll make sure to file down that he's not into black humor. I'll try to cough up something a little less meowcabre in the future. "Geez. Why are you so prickly all the time?" I lean in, fingers still running through the texture of the decidedly magically burned fur. "Prickly and vacant. You've been doing 'border patrols', right, Mr. I-Don't-Need-A-Partner?"

    "At least I'm not a... I'm not a..." Asher huffs. "I've got important things to be up to and you're not getting in my way."

    "I know when to give you space. No biggie." I step back.

    He lifts an eyebrow. "Are you giving me space?"

    Yeah, I've followed him around a few times, but he is notoriously good at losing me. I definitely don't want him to realize that I think he's moderately competent, insofar that he'd make a decent criminal... alright, so he's probably already a criminal. There's also a chance he might have killed someone? That's one of my leading hypotheses on the case, and it's still about as far-fetched as this whole thing being some kind of bizarre practical joke or an alien abduction.

    (Aliens are a whole other topic for debate. If there are extraterrestrials, which one could form a fairly cohesive case for at this point, they have a lot of batshit crazy behavior to answer for.)

    "I should probably, uh, go... ask the town if they've lost a cat. Looks like they're not getting it back."

    Asher finally takes the cat out of my hands. He examines the dead animal like it's a civilian, lovingly stroking the fur, and says, "We should at least ask if they've seen anything out of the ordinary."

    "We?" I ask.

    Asher nods hesitantly. "If I let you out alone, you'll probably have a mob on you by the end of the day. That's no good for my family's reputation, so I suppose you'll need a handler, like the petulant child you are."

    I flash him a smile, surprised by how genuine it is. "This petulant child is happy to have you around again, shortstack."

    He ducks out of my way before I can ruffle his hair affectionately. He gets a shovel and begins digging a grave for the cat near the flowers, with the kind of quiet reverence that is entirely beyond me. I once got sentimental about a bird one of the kids at ARSE shot down and the kids joked about it, put feathers in my bed, and made distressing (but admittedly hilarious) CAW CAWing noises at me, regularly, to get a reaction. I was ten at the time and I haven't cried over an animal since.

    I watch Asher run a few fingers across his face, going for tears or sweat. It's not warm, so probably the former, but geez, it's just a cat. Asher watches the dirt as if looking for answers, and his mismatched eyes are haunted as he looks back up. "You haven't seen anything, have you?"

    "No. Wish I had." Asher says. "So, shall we...?"

    We kind of fail to grasp for each other's hands, then stand at a distance that isn't quite conversational but still makes it obvious we're in 'a group' together, and Asher sort of storms out, his fists clenched. We look like we're going to war to avenge the cat. Feline crusaders. The armeowy. Alright, even I can admit that one is bad. I have a lot of expertise in humor, but I wouldn't consider puns my furte.

    I bite my tongue.

    Asher roams the streets with practiced ease, and I delight myself in the cars driving on the wrong side of the road and quaint signs. The buildings are stone pitched-roof cottages, with a matching cobblestone road that wears its age proudly on its sleeve. Outdated streetlights stand vigilantly over the sparse crowds and cast dark shadows in the windows, which are set up less for attracting customers and more with personal memorabilia. Every building is worn enough to look lived in, and there are window plants everywhere.