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City of Shadows

Chapter One

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

14th October, 2024

All Rights Reserved.

In a city shrouded in shadows, a relentless private detective races against time to untangle a web of murders. As the lines between ally and enemy blur beneath flickering neon lights, can he crack the case before he becomes the next victim in a deadly game of deception?

As Cerise rose and stepped back towards the door, she glanced over her shoulder, her fearful, furtive look making Silas's eyebrow quirk in curiosity. “Just remember, Silas... no one outruns their shadows forever.”

With that, the door creaked and hissed closed, leaving him more perplexed than before she had entered. His thoughts were tangled and restless, a cacophony of unease filling his mind. A quietness settled over his office, but it was the kind that made his skin prickle, as if her spectral essence had seeped into the very cracks and crevices of his space, leaving an unsettling chill in the air.

He sighed, leaning back in his creaking leather chair, letting his paw drift beneath the table to the holstered revolver, its weight a grim reminder of the danger he faced. He’d seen strange cases before, but none with this kind of menace. A familiar itch of curiosity sank its claws deep into him, urging him forward.

Reaching for his notebook, he jotted down what little he knew: murder victim... wealthy... mauled... a revenant. The list echoed in his mind, each word dripping with brutality. He drummed his hooflets on the desk, the hollow sound resonating in the stillness. Who else knew of these murders? Were they all so savage, like some beast unleashed?

He flipped the notebook closed, retrieving a cigarette from its pewter holder. Striking a match, he stared into the flames, the flickering light momentarily illuminating his troubled expression before he shook it out and let the cigarette drop to the floor, crushing it under the decisive grind of his cloven hoof—he couldn't afford distractions.

She wasn't the first restless spirit clawing back from the dirt—or wherever they had left her. He couldn’t recall where she’d been laid to rest, but he’d bet it was just an empty casket by now. Still, she was different. Persistent. The hint of something buried in his past stirred unease in him. The dead weren’t bound by the rules of the living, but getting them to talk was rarer than rocking horse manure.

Silas knew that from experience...

Tomorrow, he’d visit the police station to uncover what they weren’t telling him, hoping to piece together the shadows lurking in the corners of the city. Then, he’d dig into the morgue files to see what rumors swirled around the recent murders she had mentioned, searching for answers hidden beneath layers of silence.

With a final glance at his office, Silas killed the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He left the building, locking the door behind him with a soft click. Outside, the streets stretched ahead, cloaked in fog from the bay. Each step of his cloven hooves led him deeper into the unknown, promising to unveil more secrets than he might be willing to accept and confront. Indeed, it was a city of shadows, and they did not give way to the light easily.

*

The morning light filtered through the dirty window of his office, casting a sallow glow that seemed to pulse like a sickly heartbeat over the cluttered space. Silas's head throbbed; a hangover from hell ravaged him, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He'd intended to go home, but found himself ensnared at some illicit bar, a speakeasy awash with jazz music, smoke, and the acrid scent of bootleg alcohol. He'd drunk too much, as usual, and had no recollection of how he'd gotten back—or how he’d stumbled into his office that morning.

Slumped at his desk, his fingers tapped on the open notebook, each click of his hooflets echoing like a revolver shot in his ears. A cigarette, burned down to almost his lips, hung precariously from the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t slept; instead, he'd replayed every word exchanged with the revenant stoat lady, tracing the skeletal outline of a case that still felt far too thin. But that wound on her neck—it had been too real. Too deliberate. That wasn’t the work of some feral canine...

With a sigh, he crushed out the stub of the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and slipped on his trench coat, its familiar weight settling over him like a shroud. He left the building, tugging the collar up higher against the persistent chill. Gazing around, he noticed the fog hadn’t lifted much, thickening the air with a briny taste that clung to his exposed fur, adding to his discomfort. He moved quietly, head down, paws stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, retreating from the world.

His destination was clear, even if his mind was muddled. He'd head to the precinct and put the screws to his contact, Detective Calderon. If anyone would spill the truth, it’d be him.

As Silas crossed the street, a flicker of movement through the fog caught his eye. A shadow skittered furtively along the edge of a building before ducking into an alley. Instinct had him almost reaching for his revolver tucked beneath his coat, but he twitched and breathed out, shaking his aching head. Paranoia, he reminded himself, was a job hazard.

Inside the station, the air buzzed with the low hum of murmured voices, ringing phones, and the staccato clacks and dings of typewriters. Silas's muzzle curled into displeasure, and he rubbed at his pounding forehead, the noise amplifying his discomfort. The desk sergeant, Officer Haskell, raised an eyebrow at him before adopting an unhappy, annoyed expression.

“What do you want, Durand?” Haskell's voice dripped with sarcasm, laced with disdain. “You’re about two steps from an early grave; I can smell it on you. You reek of bootleg hooch. You know, I could have you arrested for—”

Silas snarled something unspeakable, his eyes narrowing and focusing oddly on Haskell's throat, where the uniform collar met the pale skin. For three beats of his heart, Silas watched the jugular pulse, an unwelcome hunger stirring within him before he shuddered and placed a hand on the bull's swinging gate. “One step,” Silas growled, his voice low and menacing. “One…”

“I’d believe that. You know what? Fuck you, Durand,” Haskell shot back, his bravado faltering. “You think you’re just the shit, don’t you? I didn’t think you liked us blue-coats.”

“I don’t,” Silas growled, his alcohol-induced headache worsening. “Besides, you’re not my type, Haskell. Quit being useless. Where’s Calderon?”

Haskell shook his head in disgust. “Christ, you stink. You sleep in the gutter last night? Ever considered bathing, you know, like a normal person?”

Silas ignored him, pushing his way through the swinging gate and past the various desks, making his way toward Detective Calderon's office. Throwing open the door with a force that slapped it against the wall, Silas marched in and slammed his paws down on the desk, leaning forward in a dominant, threatening posture.

Behind the desk, Detective Calderon looked up, muttering into the phone receiver, “I’ll have to call you back...” He hung up the phone, then fixed his gaze on Silas. “Well, if it isn’t the fawn who thinks he’s too good to wear a badge... What do you want, marching in here and darkening my day with your delightful presence?”

Durand twitched, snorted, and strolled around the desk, rifling through the drawers until he found a box of painkillers. He tore it open, scattering the sachets across the raccoon detective's desk. Snatching up four of the powdery packets, he emptied them into his muzzle before grabbing a four-hour-old coffee cup and draining it dry, slamming the cup back down like a declaration.

Slumping into the chair, Silas rested his aching head in his paws, the haze of his hangover thickening.

“...help yourself, why don’t you?” Detective Calderon snorted, disbelief dripping from his voice.

“Some pain relief for starters,” Silas shuddered, fumbling out his notebook and flipping it open. He lifted his intense gaze to lock onto the startled eyes of the raccoon. “I’ve got a lead on something... unusual. A murder, actually. You know, those things your people are meant to investigate and solve?”

Calderon's expression shifted, frustration bubbling to the surface. “In this town? How many do you want? A dozen? A hundred? Since when did you care about the specifics of corpses? Did you suddenly find a conscience at the bottom of a whisky glass? Stick to snooping on cheating husbands and wives; let the police handle the real detective work...”

Silas glanced down at the table, then snatched up a photograph, staring at it with sickened horror before slapping it down and spinning it around, pointing at it. “I started caring when they stopped being dead and started turning up at my office. Ms. Cerise Selanis, to be specific...”

Calderon’s smirk vanished, his masked eyes widening in disbelief and horror. “You’re joking...”

Silas glared at the detective, his anger rising exponentially. “Tell me about these murders... now!”

The detective hesitated, staring for a moment before shuddering and walking across his office to pull open a filing cabinet. He slid out a modestly thick folder, then dropped it on the edge of his desk as if it might bite him. “She isn’t the first... as you may know,” he began, lowering his voice. “Wealthy, respected citizens, found with... injuries. The kind we didn’t release to the public. It was like they were...”

Silas’s jaw clenched, his patience wearing thin. Calderon’s vague responses danced around the truth like every cop he’d ever dealt with.

“Their throats torn open, like what happened to Ms. Selanis. Like they were ravaged by a wolf, for example. Now you want me to say it, right?” Calderon continued, his words laced with condescension. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. What did you expect me to do? Stand outside with a sign?”

Silas took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Just tell me what you can.” He narrowed his eyes, feeling frustration simmering. “I know you have more. Who’s on the list? What other strange things have happened lately?”

“Seems a killer with a taste for flesh has emerged in the city,” Calderon said softly, his brow furrowing. “And you just made the situation worse by showing up here, so now I have to make excuses to my superior about how I lost sight of a detective when I should’ve had him under control.”

Silas couldn’t suppress a scoff. “What you mean is that I’m about to walk right back out and dig deeper.”

“Or you could be a little smarter and leave it to the professionals for once,” Calderon muttered. “But I know you too well for that. Fine. But if you get caught, don’t come crying to me.”

He slid a few sheets of paper across the desk. Silas read through them carefully, each name blurring into a string of figures, each a statistic in the growing list of the dead. But one name stood out among them, the most recent victim—someone familiar.

As he glanced up, he met Calderon’s gaze, and the raccoon’s expression shifted, becoming even graver. “You’re walking a dangerous line, Silas. You need to tread carefully.”

He shoved the papers into his trench coat pocket. “That’s what I do best.”

*

Outside, the cool air hit him like a slap, clearing his foggy mind and sharpening his resolve. The Gilded Lantern awaited, a chance to pull at another thread, to unravel the terror strangling the city.

As he crossed the street, that familiar prickle on the back of his neck returned, like a ghost’s caress. Silas’s eyes swept the surroundings, his ears twitching, instincts honed to a knife's edge. He knew this city—it wasn’t as safe and friendly as the police and media claimed. His instinctual herbivore paranoia wouldn’t stop him. Not now. Not ever.

He moved swiftly, weaving through street traffic, dodging motor vehicles with practiced ease. Horses pulling carts reared and squealed as he passed, drivers struggling to regain control, but Silas didn’t pay them any mind. He had his heart set on his goals, and gods help anyone or anything that got in his way.

Just as twilight settled over the city, the fog rolled in, muffling sounds into indistinct murmurs and cutting visibility down to almost nothing. Silas strode with purpose. The Gilded Lantern loomed ahead, its flickering neon sign irritating his eyes and ears. This so-called gentleman's club kept up appearances; those with money and depravity found forbidden indulgences within.

Silas ground his teeth, forcing his paws to unclench against the anger surging within him. He took a moment to breathe before pushing through the doors. The haze of smoke, the scent of narcotics, and the sultry strains of jazz wrapped around him like a shroud. Shadows clung to the discreet booths, offering anonymity and a semblance of privacy. Scantily clad waitresses of every species moved about, serving drinks, selling cigarettes, and offering services to patrons.

It all seemed above board, but Silas surveyed the scene with sharp, predatory eyes, missing nothing. Prohibition's a joke, he thought bitterly. He knew why the police turned a blind eye to this place; the owner was greasing palms to keep the gambling, the open sale of alcohol, and the real horrors lurking in the back rooms under wraps.

As he moved, the crowd parted like water, an unseen barrier surrounding him. Silas was oblivious to them; his thoughts were on his mission—the man who held the keys to the questions locked in his mind. He was sick of trying to pick the locks.

Two hulking grey wolves guarded the door, dressed in tailored suits and holding tommy guns across their chests. They blocked Silas’s approach, muscles rippling beneath their pelts, lips curling in menacing grins that revealed rows of sharp teeth. These weren’t ordinary bouncers; they were killers.

Silas sighed and held his arms out, letting their gaze settle over him. One wolf stepped in close, rough paws patting him down with practiced thoroughness. When the revolver was plucked from his shoulder holster, the wolf grinned, holding it up for inspection.

“Nice piece,” he growled, breath stinking of cigar smoke and alcohol, making Silas’s lips curl back in disgust.

Silas’s stomach churned, a chill running down his spine as the wolf’s coarse fingers brushed a little too close, gripping Silas’s sheath through his trousers, making the deer involuntarily twitch.

“Got a thing for playing with fire, huh, deer?” the wolf sneered, voice low and threatening.

Silas glared back, heart pounding but refusing to show fear. The tension in the air was almost palpable. “You planning on teasing me all night? Or will you let me see your boss?”

“I could make you bleat, little doe,” the wolf taunted, breath hot against Silas’s ear. “Careful, Durand. You're not the only one with a score to settle.”

The frisking wolf handed Silas’s revolver to his partner, then, after a brief rhythm of knocks on the door, it unlocked. He gave Silas a final leer, squeezing his rear in a cruel taunt. “The boss isn't as forgiving as I am.”

Silas shot him a disdainful glance, voice dripping with contempt. “I’m looking for a real wolf—if I want a puppy, I’ll let you know.”

Without another word, he pushed through the door, leaving the sneering wolves behind as he stepped into the shadowed depths of the Gilded Lantern's private room.

TO BE CONTINUED...