FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 7 - A Burglary in Chicago

A manilla envelope arrived at my doorstep a few days later. There was no return address.

Inside of the envelope were two things. The first was a poster for a performer’s show in some theater in Chicago. And it wasn’t even a theater I recognized. The guy seemed to be a peacock, dressed in a white button-up shirt and a black tie, as though he moonlighted as a Mormon. His name was “High Sage Marsden,” and he did psychic readings, apparently. And from what I knew by word of mouth, he also flirted with the Awngaimene society; enough to dabble in magic, but not enough to not piss off everyone in the process of exploiting it. He apparently used his limited abilities to swindle Tystwole animals. He had four shows this weekend. It was Wednesday.

The second thing was a poor quality black-and-white photocopy of another photo. It was almost impossible to make out any of the details, but when Florence saw the main image in the photo, her eyes went wide immediately.

“That’s my mother’s book.”

Written in pen, at the bottom of the photocopy, was the phrase “Marsden has stolen the book.”

We had to see Marianne.

The four of us were huddled around the coffee table in Marianne’s lounge, debating the contents of the envelope. Palais was there too, passing around little key lime pastries like he was Marianne’s butler. I was the first to offer a theory, which was a mistake.

“So you think Marsden’s the one that went after Florence and her mom? He kind of sounds like an asshole.”

Marianne responded with venom. “And of course, Forseti latches steadfastly onto Ockham's Razor and, lo! The investigation is concluded.”

“I’m not committed to that theory, it’s just- nobody else was saying anything.”

Florence chimed in, “Do you have any idea yet, Marianne?”

The Sphynx lifted up the photocopied image and studied it further. “I have an idea, but I won’t be certain about it until we steal back this book.”

I cocked my head inquisitively. “You wanna steal the book back-”

“Forseti, that is literally what I just said-”

“I know! I was dubious! You don’t steal things… or go to places like Chicago.”

“Don’t you have that bird friend? The thief?”

I went to fish out my phone from my pocket. “I’ll call Touch.”

“Is that new slang, or-”

“Marianne, his name is Touchstone.”

“...I’ll go over the details at Esu’s tonight, but yeah, we’re going to be doing a heist-”

“Please don’t call it a ‘heist,’ this is just a burglary,” corrected Touchstone on the other end of the phone, a cool demeanor preventing the correction from sounding annoyed. I was alone in Marianne’s front landing, not wanting to make a phone call in a room full of other animals. It felt rude. “But yeah, I’ll help out with it.”

“I appreciate it, you’re a beautiful person. I’ll Venmo you when I hang up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Though-” the blackbird thief dragged out that syllable unnaturally long, “Do I have your permission to steal anything valuable from this Marsden guy, if I see anything?”

“I think you gotta ask the US government before you ask me for permission. But I’m cool with it, and I won’t tell Marianne.”

“Thank you, my dear fox. See you at Esu’s tonight.”

“Tschuss!”

Marianne pulled me into her darkened lab for a tête-à-tête. The beakers and flasks on the table bubbled with glowing, brightly-colored fluids, a strange, moist vegetable scent hung in the air, and I could tell that the furless feline was probably annoyed that we were interrupting her work. But it was for something important, and it turned out that the boiling flasks weren’t the most important concern on Marianne's mind when she demanded, “Do not let Florence go to Chicago with you.”

“Are you sure that I should be going? I think I’m going to be laying the eggs any day now.”

Marianne exhaled through her nose, the way she does when something’s bothering her that she can’t just ignore. “I can’t tell you why, just yet. But I need you to be there, and for Florence to stay as far away as possible.”

“So you do know what all’s going on?”

“Fox, I need you to trust me on this, please.”

I rubbed at the fur on my chin, mulling it over. This level of pleading was uncommon with the cat. “Should Palais at least be there? To watch over the eggs if I lay them?”

“There’s no way we would get away with having a gargoyle there without exposing him.”

“Bruh, it’s a city. There are a weirdly large amount of gargoyles around- or grotesques, or- Well, y’know, the statue kind. I think he’ll be fine if we keep him indoors at night. I really think you should be more worried about the eggs than you are right now, though, Marianne.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, something else has me far more worried at the moment-”

“That’s, just- That is so ominous.”

“Just trust me, fox. And don’t let Florence come.”

I nodded slowly. As bothersome as she was, Marianne was rarely wrong. It was going to be hard to convince the arctic fox not to see her mother, though. “I can come up with something.”

“Thank you.”

I had another phone call to make. I didn’t want to pay for a hotel in Chicago. “Beck! How’s it going?”

“Yooo, Aaron, what’s up!” It’s always weird, when I hear my pre-Awngaimene name. “We were doing a bar crawl last night, and I kept telling Annie- we miss you so much, bestie!”

“Bestie, I am actually just about to make plans to hang out again! But I also don’t think I can drink at the moment. I’m pregnant again.”

“You stay getting pregnant.”

“Yeah, that’s so true. I might- OK, so watch out. Weird request. I’ve got weird Awngaimene stuff I gotta take care of in Chicago. So do you mind if me, Touchstone, my weird old friend from Louisiana, and also a gargoyle spend the weekend? Maybe Hawthorn and Claudia? We’d get a hotel, but I don’t think we’d get away with hiding the gargoyle.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” That was easy. “I think I’ve got shows on Saturday and Sunday, so I might not be around a bunch, and I’ve got to sleep a little bit, but if you make it before the show, I can leave you a key.”

“Thanks Beck, you’re saving my life. If I give birth before Sunday, we should totally get drinks.”

“Are you going to be giving birth in my apartment?”

“It’ll be a clutch of eggs, no mess whatsoever, I think.”

“You’re so crazy for that. You coming over Friday?”

“Yeah, at least before the sun goes down, so we can carry the gargoyle into the apartment.”

“I’m not helping with that, right?”

“Oh no, we’ve got it. Especially if Hawthorn comes.”

“Cool, cool. See you Friday then bestie!”

“Love you a bunch!”

“Love you too!”

“So- wait, why doesn’t Marianne want me to come?” Florence was stoically staring out the window. Another flurry of snow was in the midst of falling, but with hardly the intensity of the storm a few days prior. Even though she only had access to the clothing she haphazardly thrust into her luggage a week ago, I could tell that the arctic vulpine was slowly growing more comfortable with her alternative style. She wore a spiked collar, and a single black glove that went up the entire length of her left arm.

An exasperated sigh escaped my muzzle. “Honestly, I wish I could tell you.” And honestly, it was true. I had no clue what Marianne was getting at.

But instead of prying the point wider with her proverbial letter opener, the other fox laughed a little. “I’m curious, if Marianne did tell you why, would you tell me? Or are your allegiances with her too stark.” A subtle hint of sarcasm dripped from the last sentence.

“Damn, I’m being accused of plots, in my own home.”

“It’s a regular episode of Adastra with you lot.”

I cocked my head dubiously, “Yeah, like- Like later seasons of Adastara, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me, the, like, early era of the show was way less-” I waved my paws around maniacally, searching for the right word. “Shakespeare-esque.” I felt a need to defend myself, not that I was ever worried about being called a nerd, “Zuma and I binged the show a few years back. Also, the wolf’s hot.”

Florence shrugged, “I can’t say I’ve seen many episodes, honestly.”

“Nah, though, it’s so good- But to get back to your question. I would keep a secret from you if Marianne had, like, a good reason to keep the secret, and told me that good reason, and bada-bing bada-boom, it’s the Forseti’s Judgement Call arc, but otherwise, I’d tell you.” I scratched at the fur of my right cheek, “Honestly, the fact that she’s so ominous about the whole thing kind of make me less-than-excited about this trip.”

Florence nodded, staring out the window once more. I could tell there was a pang of disappointment. She’d probably be more than willing to be there at her mother’s side if something dark and terrible had indeed taken her captive, despite any overwhelming odds. But even though Marianne had an aggravating secret-keeping habit, Florence recognized how rarely the cat was wrong. it would be wise to bring the key. “I don’t want to sound like I don’t trust you both, it’s just- I’m worried about my mother, that’s all. I don’t even know magic, so it’d be a wretched idea- I just worry, I suppose.”

“I’ll call you ASAP once I learn anything.”

Florence squinted her eyes. “So, do you not text people, or-”

“Florence, I am writing a book, and putting text messages into writing feels contrived, like, It’d all have to be italicized and- I will not be bullied in my own home!”

Hawthorn, Claudia, and I were at Esu’s, a night before the trip to Chicago.

“Touch is coming, did you two wanna tag along?”

But the wolf looked sullenly into his whiskey-on-the-rocks. “Sorry, I have to, y’know, actually do my job, I haven’t actually done it for a few weeks.”

“Oh no, yeah, that’s totally fair. Claudia?”

The skunk made direct eye contact. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, for sure, for sure.” It was going to be an annoying drive anyway. The fact that the car wouldn’t be so packed was a decent enough silver lining.

Thankfully, there was enough salt on the roads, and enough of a break in the precipitation, that by the time the four of us were ready to hit the road, the drive would at least start smoothly. I made sure to bring my witch’s hat. this was going to be an important day.

Palais made an effort to squeeze himself into a convenient fetal position by the time the sun rose, so that he would fit in the backseat of my car. Petrification is luckily unlike sleep, in that such a position wouldn’t give a gargoyle a sore back once the sun set. Unfortunately, Touchstone’s car was a coupe, Hawthorn’s truck was being used by Hawthorn, and Marianne never bothered to get a driver’s license, so it was my little sedan that would get its backseat torn up by the stony tips of the gargoyle’s wings.

It was a weird car ride. Marianne, by merit of being centuries old and, as I mentioned earlier, bereft of a driver’s license, gets really weird in cars. It’s usually a cross between carsickness and claustrophobia, despite the fact that she’s not normally claustrophobic. The Sphynx remedied this by indulging in early generation smartphones and cheap headphones a few years ago. She made a point to keep them on airplane mode. I asked the cat what genre of music she listened to, and she answered with: “Debussy, Ravel, a bit of Satie; have you lost interest in the conversation yet? I can go on.” But I actually liked the impressionists.

Touchstone was also a bit sick of car trips, having just returned from a rather long trip to Morgantown a week prior. The two of us were chain-drinking coffees, and immediately regretting it when the surplus of caffeine actually made us feel antsier in the car. To make up for it, Touch, being an avid ska enthusiast, insisted that we indulge in the uptempo genre as an outlet for such energy.

“I brought a couple of CD’s.” offered the black-feathered songbird while he dug through his rucksack. “Shame your car’s actually older than we are. I didn’t charge my phone enough this morning.” A Slaughterhouse Five album in a scratched-up jewel case shone in his talons.

“I mean- I have the cigarette lighter thing.”

“But do you have an adaptor?”

“No, I never got an adaptor.” My voice went timid. I failed to learn from that mistake for five straight years.

“CD’s will see us through, fox. Worry not.” Every album in his collection was a ska album. Touchstone lost himself to the music. He didn’t even sing along to the lyrics, he just closed his eyes and beak-synched. But it looked cool, certainly.

At some point, near Green Bay, I tried to probe a little bit about how his trip out East went, and how his family was holding up. But his responses were two words at most, and he went into little enough detail that I got the hint and dropped the subject. The blackbird was on good terms with his family, but there was always a degree of baggage to their relationship that I couldn’t understand.

It was late afternoon by the time we made our way to the Chicagoland vicinity. Normally, people take the toll road and catch a lovely glimpse of the city-scape in the process, but Marianne, out of a mistrust of government institutions in general, demanded we take other roads.

Beck was my old roommate in Chicago, before I joined the magical society. They’re a hedgehog working backstage gigs in the Chicago theater circuit. I may or may not have gotten a few jobs by merit of knowing them. Of course, I couldn’t disappear from the world for a month and just leave Beck in the dark, so when I came back from the Fungal Entity’s lair dimension, I made a point to get Beck through the right channels, and partially integrated into Awngaimene society. After all, they wouldn’t buy any of the excuses I came up with for my month-long absence, especially when rent was due. The hedgehog doesn’t really participate in the society, outside of when I visit and invite them to parties, but they do pay the dues, and have sworn to keep the society a secret, lest the Psychic Wardens come. As a result, we hang out every time I visit the Windy City, though tragically, it hasn’t been nearly as often as I’d like. I still haven’t been able to get them to come up to Marquette, but our schedule’s are crazy, so it’s to be expected. Beck also recently came out as non-binary.

After luckily discovering a convenient parking spot in the Edgewater neighborhood, Touchstone and I approached the old Chicago-style brick building that constituted Beck’s apartment and pressed the buzzer. The air was cool and breezy, prompting me to zip my jacket up to the top. Marianne elected to remain in the vehicle with the still-petrified Palais, even though I assured her that no one in Chicago would think we were weird if we left a gargoyle in the car.

Instead of pressing the buzzer, Beck came downstairs to meet with us in-person. They were dressed up in a plain black shirt and plain black jeans; standard fair for stage management personnel. They opened the door with an enthusiastic “Hey!” as the two of us tried to hug in a way in which I wouldn’t get skewered by hedgehog spikes.

“Beck, thanks for letting us over!”

“Yeah, anytime! Here’s the keys.” They placed a simple keychain in my paw. “How’s it going, Touchstone?”

The bird nodded cooly, looking out at the street as he spoke, for some reason, “You know, hanging out.”

Beck continued, “Girl, same.” They then turned to address me. “Brandon wanted to stop by-” a long-haired cat friend from college who also was our roommate, “-but he’s got crazy script-writing seminars the next few days in Detroit, so sorry”

“You have nothing to apologize for, but I’m literally going to punish Brandon.”

“Definitely do that. I’ve got to run upstairs and take care of a few things; don’t worry about me being late, you made good time. Traffic OK?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad at all!”

“Incredible! Sorry about the no-elevator, but let me know if you need to borrow, like, a dolly to help carry up your gargoyle.”

“I think we can manage it?”

We had barely managed it. Marianne is a surprisingly strong individual, but unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Touchstone and I, so the next ten minutes involved the grueling process of navigating the stony body of Palais up three flights of awkwardly curved stairs. But in the end, we succeeded, leaving behind a half-dozen scratches in the apartment building’s wallpaper.

“So I don’t have a lot of food, right now-” began the hedgehog, “But I have a lot of sandwich stuff, this week has really put me on the Aldi’s frozen dinner vibe.”

“I’ll eat, like, just bread or something, and pay you back. My curse is hungry.” The artist’s apartment was in a state of disorder, but not utter chaos. Clothes and wrappers were strewn about, papers and notes scattered across tables, and coffee cups were left all over the place. But at the very least, the guest bedroom was organized, and enough space was cleared for an air mattress.

Beck looked over to Marianne, “He was- or I guess, what’s your gender right now, bestie?”

“Just hanging out.” I answered.

“Nice. I was going to say, you’d be surprised, he actually said less normal things in college.”

Marianne, who was buried in an old, dusty tome, barely registered the hedgehog host, and completely failed to use a tone that indicated she was paying attention. “Is that so?”

Beck got the hint, and politely exited, saying without sass, “Oh, so sorry. Don’t let me distract you from your book!”

I scooched over next to the Sphynx, careful not to glance at the book. “May I ask what you’re reading, Marianne? If it’s important to the situation-”

She slammed the book shut, “It is important and it does regard the thing I told you to trust me about earlier, so don’t ask me anything else about it.”

Touchstone, who was cooly leaning against a doorframe in a doorway, chimed in, “Should we be worried, Marianne?”

With a sigh, the feline explained a little, “Assume psychic chicanery is at play. But rest assured, we’re not in immediate danger. You, bird; I just need for you to steal back the book, and after we do a bit of ritual work, I’ll explain everything. It should be at that point that this situation is entirely behind us.”

“That’s a good way to jinx us,” challenged the avian thief. but it would be inevitable.

Marianne sipped a bit from a mug, “Beck, I didn’t mention it earlier, but thank you for the tea.” She turned to Touchstone, “Don’t be worried about anything until I tell you to worry about anything.”

From the kitchen, the hedgehog meekly called out, “You’re welcome!”

Touchstone nodded, “So, as for the fox and I, we get into this Marsden guy’s house, burgle the book back, and you’ll be able to do the rest? Figuring there’s no point in asking what exactly ‘the rest’ constitutes.”

“You think you two can manage that?”

“I do not know where he lives.”

A brief silence hung in the air. “Do any of the Awngaimene in Chicago know?” mused the cat, before she admonished the thought, “No, he’s a conman, I doubt he actively has friends in the community.”

But a flash of inspiration hit me, “We know where he’s gonna be tonight, though.”

“Where’s that- oh, the show.” Marianne shook her head, “I highly doubt he’s going to bring the book with him.”

“But if we snoop around enough, we can probably figure out where he lives.”

“That makes sense, then.” The blackbird agreed as well.

Beck called from the kitchen once more, “So, like, I’m not going to go to jail for having you guys over, right?”

“It’s fine!” I called back, “Don’t worry about it!”

High Sage Marsden was holding his show at the Pygmalion Theatre in River North, in a far larger space than he had any right to book, considering what sort of performance he was putting on. Obviously, Awngaimene society is very detestful to those who try to actually practice magic in front of the public eye. But when it comes to using just enough magic to still claim plausible deniability, there’s a bit of a moral gray area. And it was true that I was actively hanging out with a notorious thief, but when it came to collecting money from unsuspecting Tystwoles, it left a bad taste in my mouth. Touchstone tried to only steal from assholes. And it was true that Marsden was probably employing some degree of actual magic, but probably not enough to justify any ticket above twenty dollars. These thoughts were swimming around in my mind as we navigated through the Chicago neighborhoods by car, but by the time we reached a convenient parking lot, I decided that it was totally moral to steal something from this guy, especially considering the fact that the object in question was already stolen. And after all, Marsden may have actively put Florence’s life in danger. Who’s to say? I chose to ignore the fact that Touchstone was going to steal a considerable amount of other things from this peacock.

I ponied up for the exorbitant parking structure prices, very unenthusiastic about the double-digit fee. As the two of us stole up to the theater, we discussed our plan.

“To be perfectly candid,” began the blackbird thief, “This is going to be a mundane and boring step of the process. The likelihood that Marsden has bouncers is null to zero, so sneaking backstage while you watch the show should be a seamless process. Just sit towards the back, and text me if anything changes.”

“Excuse me, I have theater etiquette. I turn my phone off during shows.” A hearty chuckle escaped my muzzle, returned only with a cool nasal exhale from Touchstone, indicating amusement. “Bits aside, what are you hoping to find backstage again?”

“Ideally, Marsden’s phone, assuming he doesn’t bring it onstage. Either that or a wallet, anything with his home address. I don’t think we’re going to be so lucky that he’s brought the book here.”

“You don’t think anyone’s going to be in the dressing room?”

“I intend to try this new technique, I believe they refer to it as ‘stealth.’”

“Fair enough.” We had made our way to the glass double-doors leading into the Pygmalion. “After you.”

“Why, thank you, fox.”

The Pygmalion’s lobby was a gorgeous space. Lush, deep-red carpeting contrasted brilliantly with the striking, rich golden hue of the walls and railing. A grandiose, spiral staircase led up to the mezzanine. To contrast with that vibe completely, a gray, plastic folding table was set up in the direct center of the room, with naught but a cash box, a tablet, and a card reader. A completely disinterested rat woman sat on a rolling office chair, adjusted for her short stature. A dozen-or-so animals loitered in the lobby, completely decked out in turquoise jewelry and misused symbols from eastern cultures. The number did seem small, though I imagined that most of the audience was already in their seats. Two plastic signs adorned the table; one indicating that pre-order ticket orderers could pick up their tickets on the left end of the desk, and those wishing to purchase tickets could acquire them for…

“Eighty bucks?” I whisper-screamed, not too cautious about who might have heard.

“Well, damn,” cooed the black-feathered songbird, our voices once again at a more private decibel, “That sucks.”

“I hate psychic performers. Make sure you steal at least two-hundred dollars’ worth of goods in addition to the book.”

“You dream too low, my dear fox.”

The two of us approached the table, completely devoid of a queue. The ticket seller wore a uniform to indicate that she worked for the theater, as opposed to Marsden himself. My shaking paws reluctantly pulled out my wallet. “Hello, ma’am, we’re here for two tickets!”

A complete lack of salesmanship dominated the rodent’s demeanor. “That’ll be eighty dollars.”

“I can also cover my friend here.”

The rat remained uninterested, “That’ll be one-hundred-and-sixty dollars.”

I handed my card over. The rat swiped it, handed off two pieces of cardstock stating only the phrase, “Ticket,” without any barcode or number.

“Is there assigned seating?” I asked, snagging my card back.

“The first three rows are for the High Sage’s Psionic Circle. The rest is free seating.”

“OK, thanks!” The rodent ticket seller never regarded the two of us for the rest of our mutual lives.

Touchstone and I made our way to a corner, away from any entrance to the theater. Without looking my way, nor speaking above a whisper, the blackbird quickly observed, “We have ushers at each of the entryways to the theater, none to the doors backstage. Seems like theater staff. Make a misdirection, I’ll sneak backstage. Got it?”

I returned with a brisk nod, “Got it- You know you can look at me, right? We came in together. It’s not like we need to hide our association.”

“Force of habit. Alright, go!”

Touchstone walked away, unassuming and blasé. I went with the first idea that came to mind. “Hey, um, sir!” From seven hindpaws away, I called at one of the ushers; a pigeon man, dressed in the same red-vest and white button-up shirt. “Is there a bar open?”

“Um… ma’am,” the pigeon looked toward me awkwardly, “Um, not, uh, for this show, but are you, um- Are you sure you should be-”

I looked down towards the visible pregnant bulge of my belly and blushed, “Oh my gosh, I completely forgot- I mean, um-”

“Should… Do you need help, ma’am?” The pigeon looked visibly mortified.

I came up with a plan to blend in. “You must forgive me, Earth Traveler. Being beget with a brood of cosmic eggs forces me to forget my earth identity. Thank you for being considerate of the brood.”

The look of shock melted into a look of resigned bafflement. “Of course, ma’am. Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you, but the star travelers already know where my seat is located.” I was glad that I chose to wear a stereotypical witch’s hat that day, aiding in my manic mummery.

The pigeon blinked. “Yeah, and the seats are- It’s free seating, ma’am.” I made my way into the theater.

But then I snuck a look at my phone. Touchstone had messaged me. I guess, yes, that does technically count as a distraction. Nobody has respect for my plans.

And indeed, the High Sage Marsden had taken full advantage of the theater’s sizable proscenium stage. There were over a couple hundred animals in attendance; more than half of the seating available. But Marsden was not yet on stage, prompting me to send a heads-up text to Touch. I took a seat, towards the back, though not altogether separate from anyone else, and consulted the Record.

the consequences of the Sphynx’s secrecy will lead to death and ruin.

It was not the best premonition that I’d ever experienced, and I definitely wasn’t a fan of the ambiguity. I went to my phone, to message Marianne to see what exactly it was she was doing that may lead to death and ruin. I also saw a text from the avian rogue. He was hiding in a prop cabinet. And also, there was a massive, muscular wolf bouncer after all.

The next fifteen minutes involved the two of us chatting back and forth, with Touchstone assuring me that he didn’t need any help. But for just one moment, I’d like to pretend that this book was a bit more dramatic.

I stood up, ready to come to the red-winged blackbird’s aid. But the lights dimmed, the spotlights trained center stage, and the vibrant, red curtains rose. The peacock had even bought a few smoke machines. Only the machine on the left side worked.

High Sage Marsden spoke with the sort of theatricality I learned in college. A clear, resonant baritone rang from his small, pointed beak. “Hmm, interesting, there seem to be two-hundred-and-thirty-seven animals in attendance; I know, I know. A paltry psychic trick, who amongst you in the audience would take the time to count it out? But alas, every once in a while, I peer into the Record and snatch up odd little details as such. Welcome. Welcome, one and all, to my humble demonstration.”

The peacock forwent any sense of fantastical dress, but he did wear a sleek, black button-up shirt and cream vest in addition to wearing a cream-colored fedora that almost made the psychic look like an incel. His feathers were fully fanned out at a complete one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

Psychic on stage. I texted subtly, shielding the dim light of my phone with my furred sleeve.

I can hear him from back here, but I appreciate the update.

Marsden continued his show. “Now, to those who know me, take comfort in the fact that I hate long introductions, but to those who don’t know me, worry not. There will, indeed, be an introduction.” That got a chuckle out of the audience. If his psychic fraud wasn’t so annoying, I’d be so bold as to admit that the peacock had a fantastic stage presence. I guess it wasn’t exactly “fraud,” but I was still too annoyed to figure out the morality.

“I call myself a psychic. I don’t really dabble with exorcisms like those of the Catholic cloth, nor do I engage in healing crystals or strong herbs, hint hint, like those millennial spiritualists-” It was dawning on me that I couldn’t really clock Marsden’s age. “-I am simply a psychic. I can access the Record, and acquire information about the world at large, and if they’re willing to be contacted, I can even channel the spirits of those who have passed onto the Great Beyond-” The thought that you can talk to hypothetical spirits of once-living animals in the afterlife goes completely against common Awngaimene philosophy- “But, my dear audience, I also come to you with a few new surprises. For indeed, I have learned a few new tricks quite recently, and tonight is the first performance in which I shall showcase…”

Marsden held his right arm aloft, perpendicular to the floor. A plastic water bottle flew right into his open wing-paw, from a distance of twenty hindpaws.

Telekinesis was a nigh impossible task, at least as far as most Awngaimene were concerned. It took a pawful of decades to even so much as lift a feather with one’s mind. High Sage Marsden had commanded an entire water bottle. I silently hoped this was only a trick. A telekinetic foe was a horrifying prospect.

Marsden had begun to shift from magician’s tricks to his advertised performance; giving his audience psychic readings. Touchstone had messaged me once more. In the D. Room.

Fucking watch out, Touch. This bitch has telekinesis.

I waited a moment. Texting short. But it’s a trick.

Be careful, though.

Where most fake psychics would opt for a hot reading, pulling random names from thin air and waving their paws around in the hopes to snag an audience member, Marsden simply chose his interacting audience members himself before beginning his work. I paid little attention to the show, but it seemed as though he was doing just enough Record access to convince the guest in question that he did, indeed, know something he shouldn’t have access to. I was completely dubious to the claim that he was actually reading people’s minds like The Lady Juxtaposed. An older owl woman was being told that her mother was at peace and completely devoid of any resentment towards something that the owl didn’t feel like talking about.

Wallet in pants. Sending picture. The texting app indicated that a file was sending.

Can we leave then?

Wolf.

While in most circumstances, a small text like that would raise a bit of a panicked feeling within me, when Touchstone is operating, my first assumption was usually that the bird had found a convenient spot to hide, if he wasn’t texting full sentences. At the very least, the ushers kept still. I checked my phone again, and, indeed, a picture of Marsden’s driving license had sent.

“There, in the back. The fox.” Marsden was once again projecting with his voice. “I wouldn’t exactly call this show cheap, per se, so it’s hard to imagine why you’d want to be on your phone.” It took an embarrassing amount of time for me to realize that the psychic peacock was talking to me directly.

And it was at that moment where I began to panic. I couldn’t assume he had zero psychic ability. I had to completely clear my mind, to prevent the peacock from discovering our plot against him.

“I’m s-sorry. Pregnant. My, um, husband’s- er, my doctor just sent me a message about the, um, pregnancy. I have to go.”

But Marsden wasn’t so eager about that answer. “Oh, my dear guest, that’s indeed important. But if you must leave, at least let me give you a reading. If that’s alright, my dear Miss Wainswright.” He held the owl woman’s wing-paw gently in his own, asking her permission.

“Oh, of course, dear. I’m patient.”

I started to sweat a bit. “Oh, it’s no bother, I’ll be right back-”

“I insist, miss.” Marsden flashed a charismatic grin. I don’t really know why he called me “Miss” after I mentioned that I was married. “In case you can’t stay for the entire show.”

Were I not in a state of distress, I probably could have easily explained that calling my doctor was important enough to refuse such an offer. I acted sub-optimally.

“Th-thank you, High Sage, sir.” Tripping over my feetpaws twice, I sauntered clumsily down the aisle, to the top of the stage. Even if he couldn’t read my mind, there was no way Marsden could ignore what the Record had to say about me, with how often I accessed it myself. I climbed the stairs to the dark-wooden stage, and joined the peacock in the center. He reached his wing-paws out, and I joined mine with his.

Sweat clung to the fur of my neck as if I had just exited from a rainshower. Muttering infested my speech. And still, the collected composure of the avian psychic held intact as I held his wings. “Is there anything you’d like for me to ask the Record, ma’am?”

“Um- Uh, how the birth- Um, pregnancy stuff, I guess.”

Marsden closed his eyes and breathed deeply. And slowly, yet surely, a look of complete confusion washed over his face.

“You’re- well, I apologize, ma’am, usually the Record doesn’t throw me such unlikely occurrences. But the first impulse that came to me was quite humorous, if I may be so bold. If you don’t mind me sharing-”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Apparently, ma’am, you are expecting quintuplets, and they’re due very shortly- Far sooner than intended.”

“Oh wow, that’s-”

“And their father- Oh, forgive me for interrupting, I was going to say, their father… may be someone other than your husband. It’s all preposterous, I assure you. The Record is quite finicky with you.” The audience broke out in awkward, stifled laughter.

The degree to which I held my composure made it so that I didn’t even dare breathe for a solid minute. I nodded, and in the whistling voice of someone who had just dropped something heavy on their footpaws, I squeaked out, “That’s hilarious.”

“Would you like another reading, in earnest-”

“I’m so sorry, High Sage, it’s really important that I make this call. But your work is remarkable, and I- Thank you much, for this reading.”

“But it wasn’t even- Ma’am-” I had already turned tail and descended the stage, power-walking to the exit. The pigeon usher from earlier opened the door for me, “You’re husband’s here right now, right? I don’t- um, think you should be out alone-”

“He’s in the restroom. He never made it in. Thank you.”

I made it an entire block away from the theater before opening my text again. I left. Cover was almost blown, this guy can at least access the Record, but he singled me out. Are you OK, Touch?

A minute went by without a response. And then another minute.

They’re going to actually call the police if I try to go back in there. They think I’m crazy. Please tell me you’re OK.

Marianne texted me back.

If you must know, I’m on my way to the home of Mary Johannson. By bus. The elevated train doesn’t go out that far west, not that I’d particularly enjoy that either.

I went to type out a response, but asking the Sphynx anything specific would probably just cause her to bully me. I had more pressing things to worry about. I sauntered about the Chicago city streets, as unassuming as possible, and tried to navigate the correct alleyway behind the Pygmalion. Texting or calling the blackbird any further was pointless. The sun had set, and the warm breeze took on a chillier temperature. I zipped up my jacket, and prowled, as casually as possible, through a series of alleyways.

I smelled the wolf before I saw him.

There was no mistaking it. I was behind the Pygmalion at this point. The heavy scent of tobacco, mixed with the aroma of canine musk, reached my vulpine palette quickly. I was only eighty-percent sure that the leather-jacketed, black-furred, body-building wolf was the same bouncer that Touchstone referred to, but the fact that he was now outside was a good omen. I silently watched from behind a dumpster as the lupine enjoyed his cigarette, and my mistake came to my awareness exactly too late.

“I can smell you lurking around there, fox,” threatened the wolf, “If you’re trying to score, I will fuck you up.”

I popped my head up from behind the dumpster, eternally thankful that I didn’t first meet the bouncer inside the theater. “S-sorry, dude. I’m just-”

“I don’t give a shit. There’s a show going on, fuck off.”

I nodded quickly, the tension from the earlier scenario not having left my body entirely. “Yes, dude- sir. I’m gone.” Clouds began to cover up the crescent moon; the only visible heavenly body in the heart of Chicago.

After making my way to the sidewalk once more, I checked my text. No answer from Touch.

My options were limited. Going back into the theater would be by far the riskiest option. Waiting for the bouncer to finish his smoke break had merit, but if I stumbled across him again while he was outside, it’d be curtains. I doubted that Marsden would have Touchstone killed, and would instead opt for the arrest option, and thankfully, there was a distinct lack of cop cars at the theater, so it was doubtful that such an activity was in process.

I had decided that patience was too annoying a virtue to keep, and snuck towards the back alley once more.

And then, a wing-paw tapped me on the shoulder from behind.

“Forseti, you’re picking up a USB-adaptor for your car first thing in the morning.”

A metaphorical tectonic shift caused a particularly violent wave of relief to wash over me. “Your phone died-”

“Died right as I was texting you that it was about to die.”

“So… we’re set?”

“Yep.”

“To Marsden’s house?”

“No time like the present.”

We had driven up to Wilmette.

The notorious Chicago traffic was thankfully absent on the suburban section of Sheridan Road that evening, but it didn’t change the fact that we were forty-five minutes away from the High Sage’s home. Despite my personal debacle, I was glad that our little reconnaissance mission went without any consequence. All we had to do was break in, snatch the book, and make our way back to Beck’s apartment before the show ended. It was still scheduled for a full hour-and-thirty-minutes. Touchstone flipped around a twenty-dollar bill between his wing-digits that he had stolen from Marsden’s wallet.

Far from the hustle and bustle of the Windy City proper, Wilmette was certainly a quieter neighborhood, save for the relentless pounding waves coming off of Lake Michigan. It was also inhabited mostly by annoying animals. I worked at a Starbucks up there once.

Apparently, the psychic trade was successful enough for the peacock to afford the outrageous prices that houses went for in this neighborhood, and while he was far removed from the literal mansions right next to the Great Lake, Marsden’s two story home undoubtedly cost more than any amount of money I’d ever see in my entire life. We were even a couple of blocks west of the Home Alone house.

We elected to park in front of a different house, though there was little doubt in my mind that every animal in the neighborhood had installed doorbell cameras anyway, so there was no way we’d be able to find parking completely out of the line of sight of a camera. The cool air blew far more brisk than earlier, as the blackbird and I walked as casually as possible towards the address I had plugged into Google Maps.

Touchstone quietly, yet cooly, explained his plan. “If Marsden’s even a little bit Awngaimene-adjacent, it means he may not use cameras or surveillance, but don’t count it out entirely.”

“That feels wrongs-”

“I’m talking about those cameras that are connected to those security companies’ twenty-four-seven feeds.”

“Oh, for sure. But, like, are you that worried about cameras? It’s not like we’re robbing a Tystwole, he’s not gonna go to the authorities-”

Touchstone cut me off. “Forseti, it’s the principle of it.” He had just wrapped up the organization of a lockpicking kit before sliding it into a hip pouch. The sheer amount of tiny pieces being finagled with in such poor light struck up a feeling of anxiousness within me.

“Want me to come inside?”

“No, just keep an eye out from the road. This morning, I set the settings on my phone to only buzz if specifically you text me, so just send a text if you see anyone. And don’t text me if anyone goes into the house.”

I nodded, adding a small complaint, “Why the hell did Marianne ask me to come, I’m feeling kind of useless-”

I had completely forgotten to respond to Marianne’s text from earlier. But to be fair, I was driving.

“Oh shit, I forgot to see what Marianne’s doing right now. Godspeed, though, Touch!”

“Catch you later.” A few seconds later, the thief had completely melted away from my field of view.

My paw digits furiously typed out a response. Sorry for not responding. Was driving. What exactly are you doing right now? I wasn’t under the impression that I was going to get a response immediately. I had built weak levees in preparation for that particular flood of verbal abuse.

Standing idly on the sidewalk of an affluent neighborhood at night wasn’t the best way to meet people and make friends. I silently reprimanded Touchstone in my head for leaving me out in the open like that. But I couldn’t deny that the cool breezes felt lovely on my fur. It was a far more agreeable temperature down here than it was up in Marquette, and totally reasonable to go for a little night walk, as long as I stuck to this particular block. I downloaded Pokémon Go again for the alibi.

I found myself in an epic, melodramatic conflict with a wild Gible in front of the Home Alone house when I noticed a modern Chevy sedan peel down the street. I probably wouldn’t have paid the vehicle any mind if it weren’t going three times the speed limit, which, consequently, was the speed needed for me to pay enough attention and catch a glimpse of the driver.

A driver who just so happened to be the wolf bouncer from the show earlier, with a peacock in the passenger seat.

I scrambled to close the app and go to my texts, typing out a brief. They’re back! A sense of panic began to well up within me. It was entirely possible that the two of them could have caught a glimpse of me. A wolf’s nocturnal vision is better than a fox’s. But the Chevy continued to peel down the quiet, suburban street, and neither passenger got out of the car to reprimand me. As soon as the car was out of my view, I tore off towards their home, hoping to catch Touchstone on his way away from the house before Marsden could catch him.

At the very least, I didn’t have to strictly travel the road. I climbed fences, ran down driveways, and committed several acts of trespassing on my way to the house. I wasn’t going to beat the car there, but I hoped I could at least get close. My mind was in a swirl. I couldn’t possibly fathom what could have caused the psychic to end his show early with such a large audience. Nor could I fathom why the bouncer was driving Marsden home. the peacock can access the Record.

I got my answer as I clamored near enough to the home. Apparently, the peacock and wolf were having an argument loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear, as if they were a couple.

Marsden’s was the first voice I heard; his cool, performer’s demeanor had completely dissolved into a crotchety, angry man’s voice. “I don’t care if the door’s still locked, she was a fox, they’re good at covering their tracks-”

The wolf replied with a surprisingly meeker voice, as far as I could tell from my hiding spot on the other side of a wooden fence. “I wouldn’t- You probably shouldn’t say things like that out loud- Let’s just go back, and you do the show-”

“Listen, Mark.” I couldn't see the two of them, but Marsden’s voice dropped low enough to indicate that they’d gotten really close to each other. “I’m not going to explain the ‘how’ of it out here, but I know that the fox was up to something, through my… You know, the new ability I can do now. And then you tell me you saw a pregnant fox sneaking around back. There’s no world in which that’s a coincidence.”

I bit my tongue and silently cursed myself. Of course I wasn’t going to get away with that. He just had to be able to read the Record.

I scanned the surroundings for any trace of Marquette’s stealthiest bird, meeting with little success. At this point, he should have found me first.

“Let’s go inside and handle this- And, I know I don’t have to say this, but the vixen is pregnant, be careful-”

“Wait, Marsden.” I heard a few distinctive sniffing noises. “She’s here.”

Fuck.

The peacock’s voice dropped low, too low for me to hear. I had slowly started to make a move to the other side of the peacock’s neighbor’s yard, eternally thankful that this house had nary a light on. It dawned on me that I could stay and fight, and probably end up getting the two of them to just trip on shrooms or something. But while I had a pretty good idea what the High Sage Marsden’s skillset was, the wolf was too much of an enigma for me to feel one-hundred-percent-confident that I could win that fight. It’s often the perfect stranger that knows your Hard Counter.

After all, if these two were the ones sending Shadow entities after Florence, or even if they knew the right Awngaimene in Chicago, they may know my address. Who knows what they’d do if I drugged them up and left? And on top of everything, Touchstone was probably still inside of the house, considering he wasn’t in my immediate vicinity. I lay down well below the sightline of the fence, the cool, wet dew of the lawn soaking into my facefur.

The likelihood that we were going to get away with this robbery without getting caught was too low. Bullets had to be bit.