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Chapter 3 - Shindig 1

Used to be an old mining town, ‘til all the gold veins ran dry. Though that wasn’t really true either. Somebody started a rumor, and somebody dug a hole. Though one does always end up finding something if they dig deep enough.

Jack sat on the rusty metal floor and focused only on catching his breath for a half-hour. He’d need to muster the strength required for his healing magic. And there wasn’t much time to waste, for the alligator and the raccoon both had wounds that would turn nasty very quickly if left untreated.

Finding water would be trickier. Jack knew a spell to distill water vapor into potable water, but the two animals lacked any vessels to catch it in. That particular step in the pursuit of survival wasn’t too pressing. They could survive the rest of the evening with parched mouths. The train rattled on down the tracks, and soon after, the raccoon took it upon himself to cater to another biological need, curling up in a ball between plastic-wrapped crates of cardboard-clad paper products in order to try and nap. The cold, iron floor was less ideal than a warm, soft bed, but Poet’s body wasn’t too picky given the circumstances.

He woke up to the sound of someone whispering.

The sun was still up, but hues of orange and pink started to bleed into the available blue. New England fields rolled by, accompanied by the occasional patch of forest, and both field and forest would soon find themselves dappled in dripping rogue.

Jack was clutching onto something, and as soon as Poet was able to rub the sleep out of his black-masked eyes, he was able to perceive that the gator’s object was attached to a string with shiny black beads around the reptile’s neck.

Poet had been around Tystwoles enough to know what was going on.

“A Catholic Awngaimene,” interrupted the gator’s persistently conversational companion. “That’s a first.”

Jack quickly cut his prayer short and shoved the rosary back underneath his hole-riddled jacket. He snapped angrily, though faint traces of flustered embarrassment weren’t left entirely abandoned. “Shut it, Poet, I don’t need-”

“No, I’m not trying to- Sorry. I didn’t mean it offensively.”

“Good. Then let’s not talk about it.”

“I just don’t see Christians who actively practice witchcraft all that-”

“I said drop it.”

The raccoon clicked his tongue in response. “Certainly.” Poet couldn’t keep himself from tumbling through the mental gymnastics one would have to perform in order to believe both in the Bible and in the provable magical world. One could argue that divine miracles were vaguely magical, but the would-be procyon philosopher changed the subject after theology started giving him a headache. “Do you know where we are?”

“I don’t know. They don’t have ‘Welcome to Massachusetts' signs on the railway.”

“I don’t think Maine borders Massachusetts.”

“Either way, your guess is as good as mine. We haven’t really stopped anywhere. I did get in contact with a couple of guys from the Pack of Cards. They’ll be able to set me up with transportation in Boston. You can probably get back to New York City pretty easily-”

“You can just call it ‘New York.’”

Jack exhaled, diffusing the ever-persistent urge to blow up at the raccoon. “Either way. We’ll have to jump off the train before we get to Boston, but I imagine we could take a taxi or something to Bunker Hill- I told them to meet up at Bunker Hill. It’s not downtown.”

“Wonderful! Then I can just drive back to my apartment in New York.”

“Or do whatever, I don’t care-”

“Except I can’t. Because you wrecked my car.”

Against all odds, Jack’s anger waned when such a comment normally caused it to wax. Poet thought for one fleeting moment that the alligator sounded guilty. “We can buy you a new car, I don’t think the Pack will have a problem with the funds-”

“It’s OK- Actually, no, I will be penciling that note in for later. I would love a free car. But don’t feel compelled to worry about that right now.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I have the time to go car shopping with you.” Poet blinked in confusion, utterly stunned that the alligator attempted sarcasm. He crawled on the creaking iron floor towards the alligator, sitting off to the side of the open train car door in order not to look too conspicuous to passers-by. The mammal sat cross-legged next to the reptile, realizing that the gator was easily twice his size; more in weight than in terms of height, but there was easily a foot of distance between the two. Both of the animals leaned their backs into a stack of crates. “So I guess you’ve changed your mind about letting me tag along on this little adventure?”

Jack’s voice rose once more. “I kind of thought you’d pick up on that hint after I left you at the motel-”

“And stole my car. Yes, I remember.”

The alligator suddenly snapped. “Is that supposed to change my mind?”

Poet shrugged. “Eh… I suppose you’re right.” The countryside passed by in silence, and the raccoon made a second attempt. “I’d like to convince you otherwise.”

Jack turned away. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish. I’m probably not going wherever your friend went. She sure as shit isn’t going to Mexico-”

The white streak of fur above the right side of the raccoon’s mask curved upward in an inquisitive arch. “Mexico? Now that’s a destination.”

The sky looks stunning over a dusty plain.

Jack turned back and opened his muzzle wide, on the verge of shouting something, but then he decided against it. The alligator was clearly upset that he’d let that detail slip, but Poet couldn’t really parse what the alligator feared that the mammal would do with that information.

“Please, Poet, drop it. You’re not coming.”

The curious mammal silently watched the fields pass by for a few seconds. “Remember how you stole my car?”

“You can get to your point, if you want-”

“And do you remember how that’s a crime? Like a felony?”

The gator squinted his eyes, trying to gauge if the threat was genuine. “I thought you hated cops.”

“You don’t have to like them to exploit them.” Poet chittered lightly to diffuse the growing tension. “It’ll just be until I find another lead, I promise.”

“I still don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish.”

“Finding my friend.” But then the raccoon clicked his tongue. “I guess I am suckered in by the mystery a bit.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped the alligator.

“The murder mystery?”

“This isn’t a fucking mystery. There was a murder and they’re investigating it.”

“Sure, sure.” The raccoon kept his tone aloof. “In any case, I would like to help you solve your little sister mystery.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to even do? You never even learned magic, God knows why. You’re just gonna get killed by other Pack members if you-”

Now both white streaks raised in confusion. “Why would I get killed by a Pack member?” The sarcasm had drained entirely from his voice. Poet knew that someone was hunting the pale reptile, but he didn’t expect it to be a coworker.

Jack brought a few claws up to his scaly forehead and started scratching frantically, thoroughly frustrated with how the conversation was going. For as much as the gator valued secrecy, the insistent raccoon kept snatching up all of his cleverly concealed bits of important information as though they were low-hanging grapes. “Could you please stop asking me questions about-”

“Jack, is Malvina safe? I don’t care what else you tell me. I want to make sure Malvina isn’t getting hunted by you guys for something.”

Jack waved a claw around in aggravation. “Well, I’m sorry. One of us is killing other members of the Pack.”

The procyon was quick to connect the dots. “One of you killed the Queen of Hearts.”

The gator nodded his head. “Yeah, and now they’re after me.”

“And you’re sure that it’s an inside job-”

“Trust me, I’m sure.” Poet scanned the reptile’s features for any clue as to what that meant exactly, but the alligator’s pale, snapjaw face remained stoic and unreadable.

“So it had to be someone at the Gala in Switzerland, right? Who was invited?”

Jack hesitated, but no longer felt bothered to keep any secrets hidden. “Well, I guess the suspects are Daggory the Decrepîte, the Good Bon- he’s a necromancer- the Producer was there, Powell the Demolitionist was there, and, well…” Jack mulled over whether or not he should tack on the last article on the guest list, and decided to say it anyway. “Malvina was there, too.”

The implication offended the raccoon, but he tried to hide that with a cocky little laugh. “Yeah, you don’t have to worry about her. Malvina’s not a murderer.”

Jack hesitated yet again, but continued to blabber. “Well, I’ve never met her. I can’t just… you know, take your word on that.”

Poet crossed his arms. As much as the logic stung, it was sound enough to deter arguing against. “I guess it’d be too much for me to ask to come along again? Just to make sure you don’t kill my best friend on sight?”

The two locked eyes for a moment. Both held their breath as though they psychically decided upon making a competition out of it. Poet meant that last comment as a joke, but beneath the procyon’s words, a fierce commitment held fast that Jack knew wouldn’t be abandoned.

But there was another feeling between the two animals, and both felt it mutually. Whatever this conspiracy entailed, both the mammal and the reptile were merely caught up in it, and both suddenly knew that there was no reason to be so mistrustful of the other animal. The alligator was the first to cast his gaze away. “Fine…” He hung on that word, struggling to commit to the decision before shaking his head. “I guess- Yeah, fine. I really don’t want you to, but I won’t stop you.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Just don’t get killed, please.”

“That can be arranged.” Poet nudged his shoulder. “I’m being silly. I really appreciate this a lot, Jack. I’ll keep in your sight and everything.”

“Yeah, good.” The alligator struggled to articulate any words with a syllable count higher than two. Something was making him uncomfortable. “And yeah, you’re welcome.”

Jack was telling Poet to prepare himself mentally; Powell and the Good Bon were the two guys that they’d be meeting with in Boston, and both were present at the Gala. There was nothing to worry about, though. Powell was a long-time friend. Poet declined to treat the cat with the same derision that Jack maintained for the raccoon’s childhood friend, even though Poet’s and Malvina’s friendship was older.

Jack didn’t have much more in the lieu of helpful information. The conversation ceased, and the raccoon started to space out as he stared out of the train car door, the blurred rustic landscape hypnotizing him into recollection. Malvina didn’t really tell Poet shit at the Gala. His mind replayed the second-to-last conversation that he had before Malvina went off to handle important Pack of Cards matters, and before Poet peeled off to set up residence at a barstool.

Even though the luxurious villa sat a kilometer higher than the modest city of Grindelwald, the imposing Swiss Alps continued to dominate the skyline. It wasn’t as though the mountains and the horizon were at war for the vista; the horizon capitulated long before the first battle ever took place.

A few kilometers off, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty fell to their deaths at the Reichenbach falls, until angry fans protested the famed detective’s death and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had to retcon the whole thing.

Poet had a friend who was a full-time immunologist in New York, though she happened to write a semi-successful hospital romance series in her ever-dwindling free time. She forged Poet a doctor’s note, telling any border control personnel that the raccoon was a learned academic in the field of disease research, and that it was of vital importance that he meet with her colleagues in Switzerland. It was a favor devoid of any quid pro quo, and Vinny, as the immunologist referred to the raccoon, was thankful.

Malvina, naturally, relied on L’kizbaqk Shadowcraft magic to sneak past the international borders and onto the aircraft. It was a risky manoeuvre, but the robin was the newly-crowned Jack of Spades, and the raccoon had little doubt that she could pull it off. No one saw or heard her during the entire voyage.

At the party, no one had worn a mask.

Neither Poet nor Malvina had any real friends at the Gala. Malvina’s friend and liaison from the Pack, a fox known as Matty of House Dee, wasn’t going to be present this evening, and most of Poet’s friends were Tystwoles. The two animals hardly kept tabs on anyone who attended the Teleraine Academy: the magical institution which decided to flex its wealth by having a party during a pandemic. Most of the students weren’t even invited; it was mostly an event held by Deans and financial benefactors. The Producer, the pseudonym of the axolotl who served as both the public relations manager of the Pack of Cards as well as the King of Diamonds, insisted that Malvina make her first public appearance as a member of the Pack at this particular prestigious event. Poet’s parents weren’t in the mood to travel internationally, and asked Poet to represent the wealthy House Vindonnus in their stead. The raccoon would have declined if Malvina didn’t beg him to come along.

And so, the robin and raccoon stood against the sturdy glass railing of the villa’s balcony and basked in the fresh air and imposing alpine landscape. Malvina was drinking a plain Coke Zero, and Poet decided to start off with a Long Island Iced Tea. Poet was wearing skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with a print of a tuxedo on the front. It was a garment worn out of spite.

“So, first time in the Alps, Mal. What’s your take?”

“They’re mountains, Vinny,” spoke the bird flatly.

“They’re mountains, indeed.” Poet didn’t need to say anything further. The two animals clinked their glasses, picking up on cues that one could only notice with close childhood friends. Malvina had a habit of speaking plainly and meaning it earnestly, which contrasted starkly with the procyon’s ever present theatrics. “Did you know that the tallest Alp is only barely taller than if you… um, Ok- than if you cut Mount Everest in half and made a mountain out of that half?”

It took the robin a moment to stumble through the poorly-constructed sentence, but she arrived at his conclusion before too long. “Wait, that’s actually a bit difficult to wrap my head around.”

“Right? I mean, looking at these mountains makes me feel cosmically insignificant. Imagine if we held this party in Nepal or something.”

“Too bad Nepal isn’t a tax haven,” joked Malvina.

“Wait, is Switzerland a tax haven?”

“Yep. The tax rates for rich foreigners are… I don’t know, I wanna say the fifth or six lowest in the world or something? I’m not gonna do the math on that.” Malvina then chuckled, “I’m not gonna pretend economists have real jobs.”

Poet took a sip of the potent cocktail, relishing in how smooth the well-paid bartender crafted it. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I thought that term only applied to city-sized nations or what have you, like Liechtenstein.”

Malvina then fully snorted in uninhibited laughter. “Aren’t you rich?”

The raccoon cackled loudly in return. “Girl, not tax-evasion rich.”

“Yeah, that’s more a problem for your folks. You’re only artiste rich-”

“Ooh, there’s where you’re wrong, dear. An artiste is a performer. I’m simply a humble, modest, artist. Who pays his taxes.”

“How strong did they make that?” She pointed towards the cocktail in the raccoon’s grubby clutches.

The little mammal giggled, then spoke each word slowly. “It’s potent.”

“Is that your first one?”

“Well, yeah. You know, dear. I always start with a Long Island. It’s far more pleasant than finishing with them!” Poet laughed loudly at his own quip. Malvina was a bit quieter with her laughter. “Are you just having a- What is that, rum and coke?”

“Nah, just Coke. I’ll probably have something boozy after the weird…” She waved her wingpaw around freely, “Y’know, business stuff.”

“That’s entirely reasonable. Just find me whenever you’re ready to do shots. I cannot imagine being sober for an event like this.”

Just below the villa, a cacophony of cowbells ran out as a herd of long-haired, feral cattle walked leisurely across a field beneath the villa. There weren’t any farmpaws nearby, and Poet rubbed his head in curious contemplation, unable to discern what exactly prompted this sudden exodus. “Huh, cows.”

Malvina stared blankly at the herd. “I should probably meet up with the Producer.”

Poet put a free paw on the robin’s shoulder. She was wearing a sleek, black gown that went all the way up to her shoulders; being a bird, Malvina didn’t have the chest support to hold up many other strapless dresses. She looked like an entirely different animal in the garment. Poet was far too used to the denim jacket embroidered with badges and patches, and any other number of ripped up shirts with the graphic logo starting to fade.

“What are you doing here, Mal?”

Malvina didn’t need to state her case. She’d brought up her obsession and borderline fanaticism for the Pack of Cards as far back as the fifth grade, when Poet first helped integrate her into the secret magical world. Poet knew the answer. Malvina once again performed her lines. “Don’t ask me that.”

“I’m serious. You look miserable here, Mal. You’re not the type of animal to just casually forget about the sunk cost fallacy-”

“Vinny, please, I don’t want to keep defending this.” It was good that Malvina had interrupted her lush friend. He was a mere breath away from criticizing the Pack for just being a weird club for rich people, which Malvina hated. The robin chuckled nervously, almost as if she were manufacturing a method to break the tension. “I love my job, I just hate doing the weird fancy shit. I can grin and bear it to-”

“You can’t grin. You have a beak.”

“Well I didn’t fucking make up the turn of phrase!”

Poet pulled Malvina in for a side hug. “I’m just saying, you better be out there slaying… not dragons; that’s insensitive to dragons. What’s a fantastical creature that doesn’t actually exist?”

“I don’t know.” Then she knew. “The Loch Ness Monster.”

Poet patted the bird’s shoulder once more. “Right. You better be on the hunt for the goddamned Loch Ness Monster next week instead of doing weird PR party chicanery, or I’m going to have to start getting sassy.”

“Dude, Long Island Iced Teas make you really touchy-”

“Am I overdoing it?” The mammal reflexively pulled his arm away.

Malvina clapped her own gray-feathered wingpaw on the raccoon’s shoulder. “No.” She took a sip of her drink. “I appreciate you checking in. Do stop being a bitch about my dream job.”

“Bitch, stop wistfully staring out at the Alps like we’re in a goddamned Virginia Woolfe novella! Noted, though.”

“I appreciate it, Vinny.”

She never could break the habit of using the fake name that Poet’s parents made the young raccoon use in public school.

“Was she actually a wolf?”

“Who?”

“Virginia Woolfe.”

“You’d know more than I do.”

Poet instead jumped from topic to topic as though his sentences were chain lightning. “What’s the Producer having you do?”

“I think I gotta meet a couple of the older Foulgydan that sponsor the Pack, and we’re definitely doing- I don’t know, something with the Deans of the Teleraine Academy. And I should actually meet two of the other Pack members. I haven’t met all of them yet.” She finished off the last half of her drink in one gulp. “What are you planning on doing?”

“Endear myself to rich witch bachelors. I haven’t gotten laid in a while-”

“Vinny, shut the fuck up!” It was meant lovingly and said flatly.

“I have no clue otherwise. These bougie shindigs are boring!” The young mammal hung on the first syllable of “boring” for roughly five seconds, trying to find himself within earshot of another patron. Nobody else was out on the balcony.

The robin put her glass on an empty table. “Then I’ll find you later, and we’ll do some blowjobs or something.”

“Aren’t you asexual?” Poet knew she was referring to the shot with whipped cream, but couldn’t resist making the obvious joke. The robin had come out as ace all the way back in high school.

“You are an actual menace, you know that-”

“Wait, wait, Mal, are you seriously trying to convince me you didn’t set that joke up for me?”

“It’s the only shot I can actually tolerate drinking!”

“You’re just saying that because it’s easy to do blowjobs with a beak.” Poet marvelled at the sentence that he was certain no other animal had ever said before.

He also wouldn’t get his answer to the prior question. “Don’t fall off the balcony, jackass.”

“I do believe that’s speciesist against donkeys.”

Malvina flipped off the raccoon as she made her way into the building.

“...And that’s why I find myself particularly drawn to the Death’s Head design choice for graves; it’s more… well, invocative, I want to say, of this idea that the death of flesh doesn’t equate one-to-one to the death of the soul. It’s… well, a puritan belief, but it really resonates with me. That’s a personal thing, mind you. but the winged skull is such a stunning design. And I’ve only ever seen the design proliferate here, in New England. Now, of course, I’m not entirely certain who first carved that design into stone, but with the various cemeteries we’ve seen along the Freedom Trail today, it’s safe to say that they’re a Massachusetts native, wouldn’t you agree?” The two animals, a flamingo and a cat, were simply standing on the open sidewalk of the park for a few moments, engaging in a one-sided conversation. The Good Bon didn’t relish silence.

Powell had never really gone to Boston before. He had no clue that the monument at Bunker Hill was just a smaller version of the Washington Monument. But then again, the feline wasn’t born in America, and had very little interest in American history. Even though he’d lived for years in Massachusetts, he never felt compelled to visit its capital. This was his first time. The brown-and-black tabby cat sucked on the tip of a cigarette, and blew smoke into the warm summer air. “I think you are the only reason necromancers get a bad reputation, Bon. That whole speech was uncanny.”

The cat wore a plain, black cowboy hat, to keep the setting sun out of his eyes.

The pink-feathered necromancer punched the cat’s shoulder, his feathers flailing inarticulately in a clear indication that the flamingo didn’t know how to properly punch people, even just to tease. “Don’t be rude.”

The Good Bon, however, had managed to strike the feline at the perfect point to summon up a coughing fit, for Powell had twisted his torso at the last second. It didn’t help that tar and nicotine were regular guests in the cat’s lungs. The flamingo suddenly turned a shade of pale, if one could see his skin under the bright pink feathers. “Oh, Powell, are you OK?” The tabby cat continued his labored coughing fit, unable to find the required respite to form words. “Powell, do I need to call-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” A few stray spasms fought their way out of the feline’s throat. “Don’t hit me like that after I smoke, man. People are gonna think I got Corona.”

The Good Bon started panting as though he were the one hacking up a lung. “Well don’t scare me like that, Powell.”

“What, you don’t know how to help a guy who’s choking?”

“Well- I can in theory, but you weren’t choking!”

“You worry too much, Bon.” His cigarette in his paw had already burned half of the way down during the two animals’ meager display of mummery, but there was certainly enough left to enjoy another pull.

The Good Bon then asked, “Did Jack say when he was supposed to arrive? He hasn’t texted me.”

Powell shrugged, then glanced at his phone once more. “No sé. He needs to jump off of a moving cargo train, and then book an Über. Don’t ask me what that means.”

“Powell, I know what an Über is.”

“That’s not the- Nevermind.”

But the cool demeanor masqueraded a troubled thought process. Powell was a highly suspicious beast, and knew that someone dangerous was after his old college friend. And no matter who the perpetrator was, the fact remained that the truck Powell had organized for the alligator with Pack funds was out of commission. He never imagined that jumping onto a train like a Great Depression hobo would be a suitable contingency. He didn’t want to imagine what could destroy an entire truck thoroughly enough to make that sort of plan necessary. The only reason that the tabby cat didn’t straight up drive to Maine himself was the constant assurances from the alligator that he was safe.

“Shouldn’t he have a car?”

“Yeah, that’s got me worried.”

The Good Bon strode boldly over to a free, iron-wrought bench and proceeded to take up half of its width with a flamboyantly spread-out sitting position. His cape draped over the black-colored railing. Powell couldn’t figure out what prompted the flamingo to wear a ragged black cape in public. “Because this is just the van Leeuwenhart treasure hunt, right? I’m not the expert, I’ll say that. But I can’t think of a single dangerous aspect to that quest, right? It’s just a ghost.” Powell told the Good Bon only about the ram’s ghost. Not about how the feline found that information.

Powell joined the bird on the bench, leaning back with both of his elbows on the railing. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“In regards to who…” He strangely started to stutter on a single word, “K-killed Squirrely?”

Powell didn’t appreciate the name being dropped in public, but what Tystwole would derive any meaningful information from that pseudonym alone? “Yeah, I think they’re after Jack next.”

“Who do you think would go after Jack?”

The tabby cat shrugged. “I’m thinking someone from the party. Not you, obviously.” The flamingo and cat had been in the same vicinity ever since they left Switzerland. “Either Dags, the Producer, or the new girl.”

The Good Bon shrank slightly, tucking his knees in to bring his long, dark pink legs up onto the seat. “Gosh, I wish I kept track of who flew off to where. Nobody told me if they were headed off to Canada.”

The missing information was bothering the cat. “I’m sorry, what’s that bird’s name again?”

“The new Jack of Spades? Her name’s Malvina. Did you not get a chance to meet her?”

“Bad with names.” Powell spat, then flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk in front of him. He was less concerned for the upkeep of national monuments than most animals were. His gold fang glinted in the sun.

Powell was designated as the Queen of Spades, though he much preferred his other nickname: the Demolitionist. The cat was mildly upset when Desmond bestowed upon him the feminine designation; he was trans, after all. But he didn’t complain to the King of Clubs. He just couldn’t figure out why the Pack stuck with the playing card motif when most of the members had their own nickname or title anyway. “The Demolitionist” didn’t roll off the tongue flawlessly, but it sure as hell was accurate. The tabby cat was an expert on Point Explosion magic by intuition. It wasn’t the paltry destructive magic of an arsonist who practiced basic Fire spellcraft. Powell was able to focus on a specific point and imbue said point with enough pressure to cause a rapid, unpredictable explosion. The sudden temperature of the blast was incredibly high, and more often than not, the local gasses would catch on fire anyway, but that was moreso a messy side effect of the magic rather than the intention behind it. It was the sort of magic that helped the feline out in a pinch, but was tricky to get away with using in public.

Powell and Jack studied magic together. Both started trajectories regarding force and pressure during their time with the Teleraine Academy. The two animals were actually roommates for a few semesters. Powell always believed that his and Jack’s magic were basically the same field of study, with only the most minute difference in application. He was always in awe at how the slightest change in the application of expanding force instead of pushing force gave him the ideal toolkit to be a world-class demolition expert, as opposed to someone who could perform the Spell for the Moment on a whim. He’d learned other spells at the Academy, naturally; no one would get hired by the Pack if they only knew one spell. But his skill with the Point Explosion spell was certainly what earned the tabby cat his position as the Queen of Spades.

The Good Bon was not only the most skilled necromancer that Powell had ever met, but he was also a High Priest in the Pious Circle for the Pale Hound on High. The God of Undeath. Chgoxá, the Pale Hound, was a rare deific being, in that his actual presence had been confirmed and recorded by many, many different witnesses. This allowed Chgoxá the designation as a Canon God, despite the fact that he had never never been connected with any known pantheon folklorically. He only discussed the nature of his being with the High Priests of his Pious Circle.

Fangdyne Tystwoles often come across the Pious Circle for the first time and falsely label it as a cult. Even though the Necromancer’s Religion involves spellcraft with corpses and an uncomfortable complacency with death, the members of the religion are completely against proselytism, granted permission to leave the Circle without any pressure whatsoever, and not even expected to pay tithes. The Good Bon was born not to an Awngaimene House, but instead to a High Priest and Priestess in the Circle, which is just as prestigious of a position. The flamingo reached the position of High Priest himself shortly before graduating high school, and went on to transfer his skill in necromancy into his role as the Jack of Hearts. He was admitted into the Pack a mere year before Jack and Powell.

And presently, the High Priest was concerned with a murder investigation. “Did you ask where everyone went after they shut down the party?”

Powell stroked at the light brown fur of his chin. “I know the Producer went back to… Idaho, I want to say. One of the western states- I’m not good with the states. Dags went off to who-the-fuck-knows where, but I didn’t see him at the airport. But that new girl… she’s a thief, you know?”

“I thought she was a master of stealth?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. She can mess with shadows and sounds. That’s what the Producer told me at the party.”

The flamingo scooted over until his black-tipped beak was right up against the feline’s ear. “So you think it’s her?”

Powell put his paws up defensively. “I’m just saying. She’s got the toolkit for it.”

“She could have easily snuck walnuts into the room-”

“Man, shut up about the walnuts! The Producer just made that up-”

Both animals were now speaking at full volume. “Nope! The Producer told me that it was a murder, but walnuts were the murder weapon. Why would Squirrely have them in her room?”

“She was just spinning the story so that sensitive information doesn’t get leaked-”

“There were walnuts in the room, Powell.”

“Shut up about the walnuts!”

“Fine! I’ll drop the walnuts!” The Good Bon pouted. “All I know is that those Teleraine guys wouldn’t let me reanimate her corpse to interrogate it. It was apparently ‘profane.’” The bird’s talons were used in air quotes to help accentuate the sarcastic tone he adopted for the last word. “We’d have this little mystery solved already, and I could sleep soundly.”

“You’re not sleeping well?” The cat’s concern was genuine.

“No! Not with a killer in the Pack!”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” Murder was extremely rare within the Awngaimene community. It quickly puts you on edge, when a witch murders another witch. “Lo siento.” He went to grab a cigarette before he remembered that the bird didn’t smoke. He couldn’t even smoke normal cigarettes; not with that hulking beak.

Powell continued. “You’re right, though. I’d sleep much better if we found where that Malvina disappeared to.”

“You and me both.”

Jumping off of a moving train wasn’t the most difficult thing to do in the world. One only needed to bend their knees while they jump, and expect to roll onto their back. It was easier to pull off on soft grass than it would be on the loose stones of a railyard. The yard was also likely to have some form of security. Feral dobermans rarely enjoyed surprise guests. Jack’s exit from the train was smooth and graceful. Poet got a cut on his upper arms, and scratches on every knee and elbow. Loose stones wriggled their way shamelessly into the tall, weedy grass after all as the clumsy raccoon tumbled about them.

Jack was quick to mend the surface wounds. They weren’t anything severe when compared to the gashes caused by the Ghendryhkt Bloodhound. The Jack of Clubs didn’t need a wand, nor assorted magical herbs, to pull off the medical magic. Poet hadn’t met a lot of Apothecaries, who worked with the Mulgywai to aid the community in matters of medicine, but those seemed to be the only witches who practiced that sort of magic by intuition alone. Jack had learned it recreationally. In a small alleyway in a suburb somewhere, the pale alligator had gotten the job done in under a minute. They also luckily found a box of hand-me-down T-shirts that weren’t covered in bloodstains. Poet reluctantly wore a plain white shirt for the first time in his life.

The two animals stopped by a combination gas station-Dunkin’ and made a feast of donuts and bottled water while the raccoon let his phone charge with a new cable he’d bought. He’d even brought it upon himself to purchase a modest, black-and-gray nylon backpack in case anyone committed grand theft auto again and left him without useful supplies.

Poet had also purchased a little notebook.

The sun had set a while ago, and the vagabonds needed a locale that’d be open 24/7. The package with a symbol of the sun sat on the table next to the phone.

“Jack, you’re killing me with this package.”

The alligator was neither angry nor suspicious. He spoke with a plain, flat voice, as if the parcel wasn’t the inciting incident to Poet’s involvement in a grand mystery. “It’s just a package, Poet.”

“What’s the reason you haven’t opened it yet?”

“I just don’t want to open it.”

“I can leave the room if you want. It’s just weird that you haven’t opened it yet.”

“I’m not going to open the package.” The stern gator’s voice penetrated Poet’s casual demeanor like a hot knife through butter. It wasn’t worded like a warning, but the message was still very clear. Poet was almost stunned by the alligator’s almost monotone timbre, but the mammal relented, and silently slipped the plastic bottle under his mask before sipping a third of his water supply instead of responding.

After his phone had reached thirty percent, Poet offered to order the Über that’d take him and Jack to Bunker Hill. From there, they’d get a quick coffee and Jack and Poet would head off. The raccoon was curious as to why they wouldn’t leave right away, but Powell was an old friend. Jack would feel bad if he collected the car and left within a minute of seeing the cat.

The Boston rideshare prices at that hour of night were exorbitant. The Über driver, an ostrich, didn’t feel compelled to make much conversation with the reptile and mammal, and the two passengers hardly felt it prudent to discuss their magical affairs in his presence. But rideshare drivers always manage to say something within the first minute of half-awkward silence, and the ostrich’s method of attack came in the form of a casual question. “You two tourists?”

“Meeting up with an old college buddy,” answered Jack.

“Right on.” And the large avian didn’t find himself curious enough to speak again. The bird had a mask on over his beak. Birds weren’t too keen on talking often if it meant that the meticulous placement of the mask would be uncomfortably altered. The ostrich dropped the two witches off at the foot of the well-lit monolith built to commemorate American patriots trying to keep the bloody British lobsterbacks at bay. The surrounding area to the monument wasn’t open to guests anymore, but no one was banned from loitering on the sidewalk.

“Why Bunker Hill?” asked Poet.

Jack scanned the dark Boston streets for the other Pack members. “First Boston place that came to mind.”

“I would have gone with the Common.”

A gruff, gravelly voice called out from the other side of the street as soon as the rideshare vehicle pulled away. “Jack, over here!” A brown-furred tabby called the alligator’s attention. He had a thick white sweater with black stripes, and a black cowboy hat on his head. At the feline’s side stood a tall, lanky flamingo wearing a ragged cape, torn up black button-up shirt, and a gleaming, silver necklace with shining black baubles. A sweater in summer was a questionable choice unto itself, but the procyon writer found himself utterly baffled that the bird took the fashion disaster a step further by choosing to publicly dress himself in Renaissance faire attire. The cat’s golden fang glistened in the streetlight.

The flamingo bowed deeply, proclaiming, “Ahh, dear Jack of the House of Rivers, it’s been-”

Jack pinched at his own forehead with two claws. “Just Jack-” But before any more titles were proclaimed, the cat gestured widely towards Poet. “Who the hell is that?” His voice was rich with grit and bass, as though he’d shared a sizeable chunk of DNA with Clint Eastwood. The flamingo shrugged, then, strangely, began to study the raccoon, not adding any pertinent dialogue.

Jack walked towards the cat until the two animals met in the middle of the street. It didn’t take longer than five seconds for another car to usher the two animals back onto the sidewalk. “This is Poet, he’s a friend of Malvina’s- Y’know, the new Jack of Spades.”

“Dahbin io,” murmured the raccoon subtly.

“Yeah, sure.” Powell casually dismissed the traditional Awngaimene greeting. “Why’s he with you, though?”

The ill-clothed flamingo had crossed the street. His eyes were practically glued to the raccoon, but he continued to say nothing.

“Should I explain, or do you feel more compelled, Jack?”

Jack felt more compelled. “Squirrely told me to meet with Malvina yesterday- Or, that yesterday, Malvina and I should meet. But the robin disappeared, ever since the… y’know, the event that- I’m sure you know what I’m referring to-”

“You don’t have to use so many words, Jack. Get to the point.” One could almost hear gravel rattling about in the cat’s throat.

“Poet here is a childhood friend of Malvina’s. He was also in Switzerland, but he left separately from Malvina, so now he’s looking for her.”

“I’ve got it!” interrupted the pink-feathered bird. “You’re Vinny the Poet, right? Your face is on the inside cover of your books, I’m sure I recognize it!”

Poet made a little curtsy. “I am, indeed. Good eye.”

The bird opened his black-tipped beak wide; an avian version of a smile. “Vinny’s a successful author, Powell. But…” The Good Bon’s eyes went wide. “Wait, you’re Awngaimene?”

Poet chuckled. “You read my books without knowing I was Awngaimene? I guess I can’t advertise that information on the back of the cover, but still. That’s funny.”

“Well, I only read Tighter Chambers-”

The cat named Powell had reached the level of being pissed off that Jack normally sat at. “Wait- Bon, shut it. So… You’ve just got a famous writer following you around, Jack?”

The gator shrugged. “I guess, I never read his books. I just know he’s a friend of Malvina’s.”

“Wait, wait,” It was now the raccoon’s turn to interrupt, “You haven’t read Hues yet? I thought I only had my headshot in that one.”

The bird chuckled nervously, his avian voicebox adding a few deeper pitches. “Well, I read maybe a third of it-”

“Bon,” warned the cat, his anger ever rising. “Shut up. Why are you following Jack around, Mr. Writer?”

“Because my friend disappeared, as was mentioned already, multiple times.” Poet turned his attention back towards the bird. “So- wait, you didn’t enjoy Hues?”

The flamingo shamefully inched towards the tabby cat. “It’s good, for sure. It’s totally well-written-”

“Bon, I’d hate to think you forgot about Jack’s extremely tight deadline. Please, shut up.” Powell shifted his exhausted striped face towards the other mammal. “If you’re following Jack around… You know that something’s up?”

It was now Jack’s turn to speak. “Yeah, Poet was there when a couple of animals ambushed me at the Canadian border.”

The Good Bon cut in once more, but this time, with a relevant question. “Wait a minute, multiple animals went after you?”

“Yeah, there was a Wolf and… I didn’t see the other guy, but I think he was a summoner.”

Powell hummed, mulling over the new information. He was about to add his two cents, but the Good Bon blurted out a full dime’s worth of words first. “But there aren’t any wolves in the Pack, let alone any summoner.”

Multiple cars had passed by. There were even a few pedestrians on the other end of the street. The sensitive conversation had spiraled towards its awkward center of mass where general public spaces would find a difficult time sustaining it. Powell pointed this out before anyone else said anything. “I think it's best if we don’t have this conversation in front of a national monument.”

Jack, who was perhaps the most normally dressed animal, agreed. “Yeah, you all look like you came from a costume party.” Indeed, the cat was dressed like a Village Person, the raccoon was dressed up like an even gayer Village Person, and the flamingo looked as though he came from a LARP taking place during Pride Month. The Good Bon was about to say something, but Poet was faster.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” The raccoon took offense immediately, but then remembered that he was wearing a black cowboy hat. Either he or Powell were going to need to change. “Nevermind.”

Powell clapped a furry arm around his reptilian compatriat’s shoulders and mustered together a friendlier tone than he’d used with the other two witches. “I think the Starbucks I was talking about is this way. Gotta get some coffee in you if you’ve got the hunt for the damned Treasure of the Sierra Madres on your paws.” Poet and Bon followed behind.

“Yeah, I didn’t see that movie.”

“You gotta watch more westerns, man.”

But the reptile halted his feline companion’s march in the middle of the sidewalk. “We really oughta get the coffee to-go, though. I appreciate the help finding another car, but… y’know, I don’t have a lot of time to completely catch up-”

Powell clapped the gator on his shoulders. “Right, right. Sunny’s probably-”

Jack forced his claws over the cat’s muzzle, shutting him up. The cat gulped almost loud enough for Poet to hear, having suddenly grown almost bashful. Both the flamingo and the raccoon looked upon him suspiciously. The gator did a poor job of hiding his sudden fear, spurned on by the mere drop of a name. Powell attempted to apologize casually. “Sorry, man, I don’t know who knows what-”

Poet was first to cut the tension. “If it makes you behave more normally, I promise I won’t ask about this Sunny for the next twenty-four hours.” He’d grown tired of the reptile’s constant secret-keeping and would rather rebuild the conversational momentum than verbally pry the gator open for further details.

Jack sounded uncharacteristically despondent as he began walking once more. “It’s like I said. He’s only after his friend. I haven’t told him who I’m after.” Crickets chirped in the available greenery, and the hot air was subtly oppressive, even without the sun overheard.

“What exactly do you know, Mr. Writer?” mused the tabby cat.

Poet looked over his shoulder to make sure that no Tystwoles were within earshot, but lowered his voice anyway. “In the interest of not using so many magical words in public, I’ll be vague. I was at the party with Malvina, I know that the Queen of Hearts was… prevented from passing away of old age, if you catch my drift, and I know that Malvina disappeared as soon as the party ended. She told me to deliver a package to Jack. She hasn’t once responded to my texts. And I showed up just in time for Jack to get his truck towed by assailants masquerading as cops, who then proceeded to shoot him. Other than that, I’m out of the loop.”

Powell paused slightly before deciding to continue anyway. “And to be clear, this is your close friend who vanished from the scene of a-”

“Weren’t you two also in Switzerland?” asked Poet, interrupting the feline before he finished his insinuation. “Sorry, I didn’t want to actually make an accusation like that. It’s just that I’ve known Mal for years. That’s not her caliber of crime.”

Powell shook his head; an indication that he didn’t trust this new writer character. Jack glossed over it. “Powell, Poet’s just an author. He doesn’t even know any magic, he’s just after his friend.”

The cat brought his paws up defensively. “You’re right, you’re right. You gotta forgive me, Mr. Writer, stuff like this just doesn’t happen with the Pack. I’m on edge.” He reached a paw into his gray jeans and dug for his keys, finding a loose cigarette along the way. “And Jack’s right. There’s an old Dutch treasure out there, and someone’s already- wait, I’m curious, where did the ghost say you had to go?” The cat lit his cigarette.

“It’s in Mexico, funny enough.”

The cat flashed an unenthused smile. “Huh, that is funny. Whereabouts?”

“Chihuahua- I don’t know where that is.”

“City or state?”

“Well, I’m assuming the state.”

“Hmm. Right across the border with Texas, then; and New Mexico a little.” Powell nodded his head, then proceeded to brag. “Born in Monterrey myself.” The cat took a long drag of his newly lit cigarette before continuing. “Shame I’m not coming with, could stop by my folks’ place.”

Jack clapped his friend on his back. “You and I can visit when we don’t have all this bullshit to deal with. If they’re still cool with me.”

“Yeah, they’re cool with you.” Powell then aimed a key fob at a compact, lime green hatchback parked parallel to the sidewalk of a street leading to Bunker Hill. Its red brake lights flickered in response. “That one’s all yours.” He tossed the fob, and Jack caught the keys with ease.

“I appreciate it a lot, brother.”

“Don’t mention it, just find what you’re looking for.” Jack went in to give the cat a hug that would make a full-grown bear feel like he had personal issues with his grip strength. The Good Bon threw his vibrant wings around the two animals in response, even though he wasn’t an active member of the sentimental parts of the conversation. He turned the split-second hug into a five second affair. Poet didn’t feel the compulsion to join. He instead ruined the moment by mentioning, “And Powell, in regards to trust, and who’s earned it, it’s like Jack said: I don’t know any magic, so I’m very ill-equipped to pull off any assassination.”

That joke seemed to appeal to the cat, who proceeded to chuckle heartily. “What the hell is your deal, Mr. Writer?”

“I’m a magnificent lunatic- Also, Bon, try giving Hues another read-through, there’s a lot of nuance-”

With the heartwarming moment thoroughly ruined, Jack wordlessly entered into the coffee shop that the quartet of beasts had finally reached.

Poet continued, undaunted. “Try giving it another shot.” The Good Bon only nodded awkwardly, and the raccoon, resigned, exited the scene to join the alligator. There was no doubt he’d need to be up all night as well.

But Powell and the Good Bon followed anyway. “Don’t go thinking you’re making some kind of dramatic exit. I want a coffee too. We’ve also got a busy night ahead of us.”

“You’re not all just getting hot coffee, right?” added the necromancer. “It’s ninety degrees out. You all better not make fun of me if I get a frap.”

The front door chimed. The four animals slapped on their masks. The discussion was over. Meaningful conversation came to a standstill, finding itself replaced by an innocuous conversation consisting entirely out of twenty-five words total, mixed and matched amongst each other. There were a half-dozen animals now within earshot. One could have correctly assumed that none of them were privy to the secrets of magic. Jack ordered a black coffee. Poet ordered an americano and pretended that it was something completely different from Jack’s drink. He slipped half-a-packet of sugar into his drink.

Powell’s gaze caught the alligator’s as he made his way to the door, and Poet couldn’t help but notice the single silver tear that dripped from his left eye.

“You stay safe out there, man.”

Jack nodded in earnest. “You too, brother.”

The raccoon couldn’t keep from nodding awkwardly as he followed his reptile compatriot out the front door.

Jack hadn’t even pulled out of the Bunker Hill neighborhood by the time Poet asked, “Wait, this is stupid. We should take a train.”

“Hmm?” Jack was only half-paying attention. His mind had wandered elsewhere.

“I think we should take a train; a proper Amtrak or something. To be honest, driving across the entirety of America sounds unpleasant. But if we took a train, we could actually sleep without needing to stop somewhere. Especially if that nasty little hound is still on our tail- I guess I don’t know the particular rules of that magical situation, but I imagine it’s got… some teleporting bullshit? I try not to underestimate everything terrifying with Awngaimene such-and-such.”

The idea had successfully captured the alligator’s attention, and he mulled the concept over with an accompanying hum. “I don’t dislike that idea, but at that point, we could take a plane.” He shifted in his seat; it was always tricky to sit in a car with a massive alligator tail underneath you. The raccoon wasn’t unfamiliar with the struggle.

“I was thinking that too, but aren’t you… not that I want to pry or anything, but aren’t you after someone? It sounded like you wanted to find someone on the way to Mexico.” Poet waited for a response, but Jack had none to offer. “I guess… I’m being silly, but I thought it’d make me feel like a cowboy, taking a train out west.”

“What’s so important about being a cowboy?”

“Just a… I don’t know, a feeling I’m trying to capture. For a book I want to write.”

Jack nodded, his eyes still glued on the road ahead of him. “Yeah… OK, sure. We can take a train.”

“Wonderful! We can leave this car at, um- I’d have to look up routes, but Albany or something. I imagine we’ll have to rent a car once we get to New Mexico, but I can spot the cash for that.” Poet was fishing through the glove compartment. “I was actually almost tempted to just ask to take this car as collateral, but I don’t see a title or registration or anything.”

Jack had once again returned to his thoughts, but paid enough attention to notice when Poet stopped talking. “Yeah, then. We’ll take the train.” He spoke in a sort of drone.

“Glad to hear it.”

The dusk-drenched suburban roads slowly melted down inside of their urban crucible until the mixture distilled into a proper highway. Both animals sat in silence for a moment longer, until Jack said, “Sunny’s my sister.”

The tired mammal took a moment to absorb the information. “OK.” He nodded, choosing his next words carefully. “OK. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Yeah. She, um… She also disappeared. Powell thinks she’s after the van Leeuwenhart treasure for, uh, a specific artifact, so I’m… It’s my only lead, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

For a brief moment, the raccoon hesitated with his paw mid-air, but he fought through his apprehension, and gently reached out to rub the alligator’s shoulder affirmatively. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Jack didn’t refuse the touch. “Yeah, for sure.”