City of Shadows - Prologue -
Story by Cederwyn Whitefurr on SoFurry
Silas Duran is a private investigator, who has an unusual gift - not all of his clients are still in the realm of the living...
City of Shadows: Prologue
© Cederwyn Whitefurr
15th October, 2024
All Rights Reserved.
*AUTHORS NOTE: This series (six chapters) is being updated once a week. Of course, if you want the full story, hit me up on Telegram at https://t.me/+sXnw0OcAZXRiNjVl (my private writing channel, where I share my works), Patreon (patreon.com/Cederwyn) or DM me here on SoFurry, I love hearing from my readers, truly, so please, feel free to comment on this or any of my works!). I hope you enjoy it.
City of Shadows: Prologue
© Cederwyn Whitefurr
The door creaked as it swung open, its hinges crying out for a touch of oil. A figure slipped inside, footsteps cautious, almost reluctant. Shadows cloaked the room, deepening the quiet. Their pupils dilated, adjusting to the dim light cast by a flickering green-shaded lamp that barely illuminated the clutter of files sprawled across an aged desk.
Precariously stacked files nearly obscured a twenty-year-old blotter. An inkwell, layered with brittle dust, lingered at the edge, untouched for who knew how long.
Silas Durand glanced over his shoulder at the dusty window, where shadows danced in the faint light. His antlers cast dark, webbed patterns across the room, lending him a brooding silhouette. His dark, watchful eyes fixed on the figure standing just beyond his desk.
A young stoat, well-dressed and poised, her elegance a kind of armor. She raised a cigarette holder to her lips, hesitating before drawing a quivering breath. Smoke curled towards the ceiling like a wraith, shifting in the stale air. Her wide, unnervingly focused eyes held Silas's gaze, carrying something deeper than fear—something he couldn't yet name.
“Yes," she replied at last, her voice smooth yet shadowed. “I'd like you to investigate a murder, Mr. Durand."
Silas turned to face her, brow lifting. “Call me Silas. And whose murder, Miss...?"
“Selanis," she offered, her voice almost too soft to hear. “Cerise Selanis."
Silas nodded, gesturing to the wooden chair. She moved with practiced elegance, as if every step drew eyes away from something hidden. He kept his expression blank, instincts sharper than usual, like a predator sensing something amiss.
As she sat, she toyed with a scarf knotted high at her throat, eyes distant, deliberately avoiding his. “I was killed not long ago."
He let the silence drag, studying her. She wore the self-assured look of someone accustomed to hiding secrets, but a flicker of vulnerability crept into her gaze.
“Forgive my skepticism," he said, his voice edged with wry humor. “You look rather well for a dead woman."
Her lips curved faintly, but it wasn't a smile. “Perhaps. But I am... not alive, as you know it. Nor am I some apparition, passing through walls. I was taken from this life by violence... but I remain." Her voice faltered, almost spilling over its edge.
“And why should I believe that?" Silas pressed, tone even, though unease prickled at his fur. He leaned forward, studying her.
Cerise flinched back, a reflexive recoil she stifled just as quickly, gaze hardening again as if wrestling with a memory she couldn't shake.
“Others have died before and since me, some wealthy, others with nothing but their name. No one can find a reason, a motive. It's like a shadow moving through the city, taking who it pleases." She looked away, gloved fingers tightening around her scarf.
For a brief, breath-catching moment, Silas thought he saw the edge of something raw beneath her scarf—a jagged hint of darkness. He blinked, and it was gone, swallowed back into the room's shadows.
“You're not like the rest," she said softly, gaze intense as she looked up at him before pulling away again, trembling fingers leaving the scarf. “You're... different. You can help me."
He leaned back, arms crossed, tension tightening in his chest as memories clawed to the surface. Her tone felt unsettling, her unnervingly calm details disturbingly close to his own suppressed darkness.
“Why me?" he asked, voice edged with suspicion. “I'm no savior of lost souls. I deal in facts and flesh, not phantoms."
She straightened, calm exterior cracking to reveal anguish. “Because," she whispered, voice trembling with pleading, “you need to face your own shadows, Silas. That's the only way either of us will find peace."
Silas stilled, pulse heavy in his ears. Something in her words pierced like a splinter, aching beneath the surface. Revulsion twisted in his gut as he stared at her, caught between suspicion and something darker he couldn't quite name.
But she was already moving, fingers working the knot of her scarf, steeling herself to reveal the truth. With a deft motion, she pulled it away, and the light caught the brutal wound—a deep, jagged tear slicing across what used to be her furred throat, now exposed as raw flesh and muscle.
Silas went rigid, the sight hitting him like a shock of cold water. Nausea rose as he stared—a haunting presence but not a ghost, imploring him to find her killer. Deep in his gut, a twisting certainty gripped him: her death wasn't random, and the thing behind it... was something far darker.
God's help me, something in him spoke. I want to help her...
Involuntarily, he held out a trembling paw, hesitant. For a dozen heartbeats, he held this pose before she shivered and slipped hers into it, his fingers closing around hers, feeling the chill from her pads even through the glove.
“I don't work for free, Miss Selanis. I expect to be well paid for my time," Silas whispered. “My particular skill set is... rare."
“You will be paid, Silas," Cerise's voice was a low whisper, trembling as she swallowed. “You shall be paid in full."
He twitched, a chill rippling down his spine, as something unsettling settled over his shoulders like a cloak.
TO BE CONTINUED