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"Pardon me..."

Cory Wind Runner looked up from her book, expecting to see Benedict before her, not merely because the accent sounded like his but also because who else would be haunting the Extra Credit café at this point of a midweek day in mid-December? With the campus more or less deserted by now, it wasn't likely to be much of anyone else... but instead, she found herself looking into eyes of deepest lapis lazuli, set in an equine face bearing a wide white blaze and muzzle, while his dark taupe hide, almost as black as his long forelocks and braided mane, drew Cory's eyes even more deeply into the casual grace of the powerful young stallion who towered over her.

"...is this seat taken?"

The cremello palomino mare barely recovered her wits enough (and to keep her nostrils from flaring suggestively) to glance around the nearly empty café before looking again at the gentle interloper, smiling a little. "The place is packed, isn't it?"

"Drat," the Clydesdale grinned, "you've twigged to my dastardly plan!"

"Hoping to chat me up?"

"Chat, certainly." The stallion's attitude warmed, but in a way more like candor than seduction. "I've landed in a college town just after semester's end, and there's hardly anyone around to meet or converse with."

"Point taken." The lady horse jutted a chin toward the chair opposite. "You'd better claim that seat quickly; the place is filling up fast."

"Thank you, Dr. Wind Runner, I appreciate it."

Cory's eyes knotted, the suspicion returning. "You've an advantage. How do you know me?"

The young male set down his cup, lowered his two-meter frame into a chair with grace born of his spectacular musculature. "First, in fairness, let me remove the advantage. My name is Gabriel Clyde - yes, cliché, isn't it? Clan names go way back, in my part of the country, like 'Smith,' 'Barber,' and 'Fletcher.' I'm to be a grad student starting in January, but this was the best time for my various travel arrangements, so I'm about three weeks early."

"Grad student in...?"

"Literature, hence my knowing you." The stallion smiled, a genuine look, not the least calculated in appearance. "Unless there's another equine of your gender, coloration, and bearing, of whom I've not heard, you must be Dr. Cory Wind Runner."

The mare nodded appreciatively. "Nicely phrased, Sherlock. Do you also hail from Baker Street? I detect an English accent more southern than north or western. Almost a BRP, rather like our famous - or should I say infamous? - Dr. Spenser."

"Notorious dragon in residence," chuckled Gabriel. "Although I must correct your intuition, Watson. I'm here from Melbourne."

"Ah," Cory acknowledged. "Good point. In the States, we all think Aussies must sound like Paul Hogan and Steve Irwin." The cremello mare sipped at her own brew, the color in her cup almost the same as her white-golden coat. The stallion, she noted, took his in the old formula: Black as the Devil and sweet as a stolen kiss. "What's your literary focus?"

The young male (perhaps 27 or so, she guessed?) waved a nonchalant forepaw, his well-kept white feathers flowing along with the motion. "A creative writing focus, actually, although I'm going through an unusual door for it, so to speak. I've got a thesis based upon the three British queens of crime of the 1930s. Quite a lot of interesting literary criticism in that arena."

"I would guess one is Agatha Christie, but who else...?"

"Dorothy Sayers..."

"Ah!" The mare sparked a connection in her mind. "The Lord Peter Wimsey works. I know at least a few of those, and I was a sucker for Ian Carmichael - before your time, I expect. Who's the third?"

"Margery Allingham." The stallion sipped at his brew, then smiled. "Least known of the three, usually. Her detective was Albert Campion. Peter Davison played him - fifth Doctor, if you're a Whovian."

"Well referenced!" Cory chuckled softly. "Sounds like your paper will be analytical and comparative. You mentioned weaving creative writing into all this, so I assume you've got a literary angle as well. What do you hope to accomplish with your study and thesis?"

The young male bolted through that open door with great enthusiasm, a thoroughbred at full gallop chasing after an academic fox that could not help but be overtaken. Despite other possible judgments regarding the lad, Cory had to admit that he knew his subject well. Just within the casual conversation, he brought in elements of similarity and difference between the authors, their subjects, their characters, and their male contemporaries, from S. S. Van Dine to Hammett and Chandler. He sounded ready to defend his thesis even before he'd written it, which is no mean feat. Most grad students have at least some interest in their chosen direction, but few had passion. The mare was quite enthralled with the running commentary, so much so that she hardly noticed that Royal had come up to ask if they needed anything.

"Might I trouble you for some more of this... what did you call it?"

"We call it our Pitch Blend, just for the pun."

The stallion chuckled good-naturedly. "It certainly works! I hope I'm not insulting anyone by asking for five sugars? It's strong enough that I really need something to cut it, but using cream seems like a sacrilege somehow."

The skunk proprietor laughed happily, his long, thick tail flicking with mirth. "Cory, we need to shield this poor innocent from Benedict. Once he discovers that the fellow has this much respect for the bean, our dragon might get possessive."

"No fair," the palomino raised her eyebrows in mock annoyance. "I've got first dibs on this one!"

"And at the risk of telling tales out of school, multiple puns intended," the Clyde grinned, "I think he'd find I'm not batting for his team. That won't take points from my thesis defense, will it?"

"Never," Cory said, gently but firmly. "Benedict is an incurable flirt with a huge... track record..." The mare found that she enjoyed the other equine's laugh immensely. "...but he is meticulously fair in his academics. I rather think you'd impress him. Disappoint him as well, since you're not likely to be his next conquest, but he'll take academics first every time."

"And allow me to drop another secret if I may, my good fur," Royal added, leaning in conspiratorially. "Benedict enjoys his second cup of Pitch Blend with two generous dollops of house-made Cornish cream, no gay jokes intended. As he puts it, 'The first for taste, the second for satisfaction.' Would you like to try it?"

"A suggestion of genius," Gabriel intoned, "act on it instantly!"

The mare blinked; it was a direct quote from one of the Ian Carmichael performances of Lord Peter Wimsey..._Five Red Herrings,_if she recalled correctly. Was that in the book also, or only in the television production?

Royal sketched a bow, indicated Cory's cup; the mare declined, and the skunk padded off to prepare the brew for his newest customer. The dark taupe equine brushed a forelock out of his eyes (why, Cory wondered to herself, is that always so incredibly cute on stud his size?) and smiled at his hostess. "I don't even get proper Cornish cream at home. I may have to emigrate!"

"There are a lot of good things about a university town, and this one in particular. I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay. When the students get back, there'll be more activities and festivities planned. I rather think you'll fit in well."

"Thank you." The Clyde looked down at the table for a moment, then seemed to realize he'd been letting his silence stretch for too long. "Excuse me, Doctor; first, I monopolize the conversation, then I clam up completely."

"Not a problem. Good conversation has its gaps. And please, call me Cory. There's no rule against adults being adults, even in the same department."

"Gabriel, please. And this doesn't count as fraternization?"

"Only if you were my student and my lover at the same time."

In the moment before the younger horse could react fully, Cory found herself looking into the lapis lazuli eyes and wondering just what it was she was seeing there. She'd been hit on before, by males markedly younger than herself (few, she had to admit, were of quite these epically Olympian proportions), and it was never a bother - more like an amusement, particularly because the vast majority of them were so damned clumsy at it. In this case, if it was indeed a come-on rather than mere conversation, there was at least a certain element of style, and the young stallion had intelligence as well. So okay, the accent doesn't hurt matters; it was one of the things that made her heart flip a bit when she was still a foolish filly and student activist and had fallen for Benedict, whose reputation had somehow escaped her until just a bit after she started having her crush.

This situation was at least slightly different though, in that a stranger to these shores, this town in particular, was set adrift to fend for himself in a town nearly abandoned of the vast majority of like-minded furs in his age bracket. Hell, in his IQ range, more than likely. This was no dim bulb, offering little light for a fast screw and a few Whats. He was quite bright enough to light up the whole room and to make any fortunate female's eyeballs read TILT.

Allowing herself a brief moment of fantasy (it had been a very long time since the last smidgeon of reality had visited her, and she damn well deserved a bit of fantasy by this time), she saw much in the muscled young equine to admire, strictly from the physical standpoint. A finely-formed muzzle and head, with a shapely, muscular neck spreading down to broad, strong shoulders and on to what appeared beneath the pressed Oxford shirt and sweater vest (with leather-appearing accents, she noted idly) to be a solid mass of well-kept torso. She'd already had the impression of hips, legs, and finely sculpted glutes (she was seated, and they were at eye-level after all) that would make quite the catch for a good gallop around any proper bedroom, or anywhere else, for that matter. His jet-black mane was loose above the eyes, making that whole infinitely-cute forelock thing, the rest woven into a perfectly-kept braid, and his tail, jet black, long, gleaming from proper grooming, was a fascination unto itself. She'd not had the time to check on such short notice, but she'd wager that his white hooves were a Ferrier's textbook example of proper care.

Add to this intelligence, eyes of lapis lazuli, style, wit, manners, and that lovely accent, and it was all Cory could do to keep her libido from screaming_cha-CHING!_

The young stallion had yet to form a riposte to her last thrust. Cory shifted casually in her chair, trying very hard not to "Play the Game" physically. That wasn't fair to anyone. She'd no need to pretend to be the coquette; if she really wanted a chance to roll in the hay, bounce the bedsprings, or outright fuck on the carpet, she could just say so. It simply seemed a bit precipitate. Delicious, but precipitate.

Royal padded elegantly to the table before she could formulate a sentence to bring the stallion back to his senses. "The second for satisfaction," he said, setting down the mug. "Just to warn you: Dragons can drink boiling water and not feel it, so Benedict does tend to quaff his second quickly. The cream has cooled it down a bit, but take it slowly - it's still a pretty hot brew."

"I appreciate the advice!" the stallion chuckled softly, recovering himself. In some ways, he made it worse by_not_giving Cory a leer at the words pretty hot brew. It would have been an open and obvious invitation, but he didn't take it. Another mark in his favor. Many more, and he'd be qualifying for the finals without further competition. That word, however, gave the mare another idea.

"Royal," she asked softly, "could you bring us a Pente board?"

"Delighted!" he said."Be right back."

The stallion's ebon brows came together below his forelock, setting off another reaction that Cory was going to have to break out her thesaurus for; "cute" was being overused and, in truth, a bit coltish. Charming? Endearing? Adorable? "What, exactly," he asked, "is a Pente board? Like a Ouija board, perhaps? Trying to learn my darkest secrets?"

"On a first meeting? How gauche." The mare kept the tone light. "If you've ever played the Japanese game of_go,_ which also means 'five' now that I think of it, this game is similar to the short game called_go-bang._ It's played on a board of 18x18 squares, making 19x19 intersections... ah, thank you, Royal." Cory made some room on the table for the board, which appeared to be a square, faux-leather panel set into a picture frame. Two plastic cups contained flat-bottomed glass beads, one set blue, the other red.

"These colors be all right?" the skunk asked. "We've got quite an assortment. Yellow, amber, green, black, clear..."

"I think these'll do," Cory smiled, handing the blue-filled cup to the stallion. "To match your eyes, of course."

It worked; despite himself, the stallion blushed a bit underneath his white blaze. Either he was genuinely not on the prowl (very slightly doubtful), or he was surprised by the mare continuing to take the initiative. Another bonus point - he wasn't upset by losing his macho, just unused to the idea. He might even learn to like it, which brought ideas to mind that Cory firmly put aside. For now.

The professor explained the game. Place stones on the intersections, not inside the squares; player going first always plays on the center-point. Take turns placing one stone at a time, anywhere on the board, with a goal of getting five stones in a row, which wins the game. You can also capture pairs, if one of your stones is in line with two of your opponent's stones ("in line" included the diagonal), then you could play a stone to close off that line ("surround" the pair) and remove your opponent's stones from the board. Get five of your own stones in a row, or capture five pairs of your opponent's stones, and the game is yours.

Moments to learn, years to master. Quick to play, also, with games lasting only a few minutes each, generally. Gabriel learned quickly (Cory's libido checked off another point, for mere spite of being set into the background for so long); he lost the first few games, as might be expected, but swiftly he picked up some skill and strategy to make the challenge that much stronger. At the point of 5-2, Cory's favor, it was time for both of them to stretch a bit. "This is great!" the young stallion said happily, momentarily almost colt-like in his enthusiasm. "Quite the icebreaker."

"Royal has a dozen boards and quite a large collection of glass markers, as you might have guessed. Some people bring their own stones and actually play_go,_ but the subtleties of the full game are lost on me. This does, however, bring people together for a chat. As I may have mentioned, this is a good town and a good place to make new friends."

"And the delicious coffee doesn't hurt." He raised his mug to Royal in salute and drained it. He chuckled when he saw Royal approaching with the pot. "Apologies," he said, "more of a toast than a cry for more!"

"I'll accept the compliment as well," the skunk bowed, smiling. "Refills are still free...?"

"Two's my limit on such strong brew," the stallion admitted with a grin. "I think I'll be following Professor Spenser's formula, though - a perfect combination."

"Shall I make that your regular?"

"Royal has an astonishing ability to remember everyone's favorite beverage," Cory explained.

"Ah!" Gabriel nodded with understanding, and put out his forepaw to shake. "I'm Gabriel, and until I've had a chance to sample others, perhaps I'd better not have a 'regular' just yet. However, if I glance over at you and snort plumes of smoke from my nose, you'll know that I'm after the Dragon's Special."

The skunk shook the proffered paw, laughing hugely. "In case I'd not introduced myself properly, I'm Royal, Owner, Bean-Roaster, and Bean-Counter... and if you can snort plumes the way Benedict can, I'll give you that one for free! Welcome to Extra Credit; as we like to say, 'Everyone relies on us eventually.' Glad to meet you, Gabriel."

"Likewise," the stallion smiled.

And that was the problem.

Cory blinked, recovered herself quickly. "Well... I don't like to break up a party, but I do have a few things to do this afternoon. If you'll forgive me being so bold, Gabriel, do you have dinner plans? I ask because, if you're so new to town, you might not have settled in yet, and I never know if bachelors can cook."

"Actually, I cook rather well." The stallion brought a forepaw to his chest, grinning through his happily blatant immodesty. "However, I've got more a bed-sit than not, until the grad dorm is ready to open for the spring semester. You have guessed correctly that, short of what I can make in a microwave or from goods in the fridge, I'm pretty well undernourished. However, if it's to be a dinner, would you allow me the privilege of taking you out?"

"Compromise," the mare offered. "I did suggest eating out, but I didn't do it so I could pick your pocket. Let's go Dutch, and I'll introduce you to the Rathskeller. No obligations, no questions of impropriety, and I can order as expensive as I want without feeling guilty."

"My dear Dr. Wind Runner, I shall strike!" He shook her forepaw, gently, as she realized that he had used the classic Victorian form of_striking a bargain._ Style, education, erudition... she began to hope that he wouldn't become her student, despite that one moment... the one that made her wonder if he were really going to be here that long...

* * * * * * * * * * *

The Clydesdale shut the door behind him and flicked on a light, revealing the bare necessities of the motel room. Temporary accommodations were always inadequate in some way or another, this one, perhaps even slightly more so than others. Under its small list of advantages was the ability to pay cash without signing a registration card or showing identification, as well as its comparatively convenient location. The door locks would keep out the clumsy thief, and a pro wouldn't have looked twice at the place; no one with anything worth stealing would want to stay here. Combined with the careful creation of a false bottom to the easily-manipulated "dresser" drawer, this meant that he had a reasonably good chance of keeping his laptop safe. He'd have used a tablet or a notebook, but he didn't want to have to depend upon the Cloud for his programs and data. No problem finding information on the Internet, but keeping it there was always a mistake. He could turn off his Internet connection and work with his most secret information on a removable thumb drive. A few other automatic safeguards, and no one peeping through A Rough Whimper of Insanity could see his most private information.

Happily, he didn't think that level of security was necessary just yet, but it was his intention to stay in practice and be prepared.

He quickly rearranged a space on the bed for himself and his laptop. Before inserting the pin drive, he used the wi-fi to check emails, Skype, anyplace he thought that he might need to check for contacts. No new information from his sniffers, nothing to add, so he blocked the connection, locked it, and rebooted before putting in his pin drive. After everything was in place, he glanced back at jpegs of several newspaper stories that he had scanned back in Melbourne and kept on the drive. The information hadn't changed, of course, but he reread them often, wondering if anything might leap out at him that hadn't done so before. Details, always details. Every detective from Auguste Dupin to Lamont von Heilitz knew that.

As he read, various names popped out at him, as they always did: Demetrius (so few mentions)... Spenser... Parker... Bunting... Stackhouse... Williamson... Riddell, always Riddell, they were inescapable, down-under or otherwise... Neff... Dykes... Sumner... town names from the states of Kansas, Florida (more recently), and here, this idiot college town just far enough away from anything to be much more than a shit-splat compared to much of anywhere else...

Nothing was new. It was all the same, and nothing seemed connected, at least not enough to prove his suspicions. Exacerbate them, yes, but prove them, no. Cory Wind Runner was part of Spenser's department, but that's all he knew about her, apart from what he learned today. Williamson was the Dean, Stackhouse the coach, Bunting... no one was quite sure how he fit into anything, apart from his card being found in Parker's belongings. If it hadn't been for that fracas on the field, Gabriel might not have been able to track down Parker at all. He had been anonymous, invisible, untraceable, until that night on the field.

He fired up his word processing program, opened the current month's document on his pin drive, and began a new paragraph:

Ten days before Christmas. Weird to have to wear a coat at Christmas, but it's winter up here. Getting used to the idea. Met Wind Runner at the local café. Talkative, easy to chat, good looking; older mares are usually worth a second glance, but this one's more so than most. Might be my best "in." Dinner tonight will tell me more.

_ Spenser's a homebody, so he's here somewhere, and Parker has nowhere else to go, no family, especially not after Baldwin City; he was already in a foster home there, and he was practically a ward of the state till he got his college scholarship. That has to be from Riddell; no one else would pay for it, but the why escapes me, or even the how. Whatever the case, Parker is here, and that's who I've been after all this time. And if what I suspect is true, I'll do what I have to do, even if it's with my bare paws. Fuck prison. I'll rip that Akita's heart out and eat it in front of the jury for what he's done. It's only fair. All I need is the proof. I'll take care of the rest, I promise you I will, pup... I owe you that... I owe you, Demmie..._