3. Griff #2
Gradually, the pinpricks of light began to expand, sketching out the glowing outline of an image. Griff squinted, studying what it revealed: a scarred table surrounded by chairs. Cards and coins lay scattered across its surface.
So, that was where he’d seen these particular cards before. But where had this game taken place? He’d been in a hundred spots all across the city that might host such tables, from taverns to private homes.
“Broaden the scope,” he said. “I need to see more to tell where this was.”
“You know the drill,” Nathaniel replied. “I’m just supplying the magic. The rest is up to you.”
As unhelpful an answer as ever.
Griff stared at the conjured image while straining to focus his mind on a singular thought: where.
He still couldn’t place the location in his conscious memories. Yet the lights blurred as they resumed spiraling. The image of a table vanished, replaced by a rough sketch of a building’s exterior. Gradually, the lights resolved into a ramshackle front along the edge of a dock.
Griff recognized the place: a tavern called The Last Drop. Shady place, owned and operated by a known associate of the Brotherhood who styled himself Bald Locke. Griff had had the displeasure of crossing paths with him once or twice before in the course of investigations.
He’d have loved to put the Void-eater away for good, but the Brotherhood had hands in far too many pockets to make anything but the most ironclad accusation stick, and Bald Locke knew better than to give Griff that.
If he was involved with Blackjack, it would be tricky getting him to talk.
Then again, linking the two might be exactly what Griff needed to take him down as well.
Either way, it was a solid lead, and that was more than he’d had an hour ago.
He snatched his hand back from Nathaniel. The instant he broke the physical connection, the dawnflame lights winked out. His chair skidded over the stone tiles in the courtyard as he rose.
“That’s all I need. Thanks.”
Returning the playing cards to his coat pocket, he turned to leave, but Nathaniel’s voice gave him pause.
“Be careful out there, Griffin. No matter how good you are, never forget that someone else is always better.”
The unexpected show of concern—even if it was a bit of backhanded compliment—caught him off guard.
He shivered, and for a moment, he was a young man standing in a darkened office elsewhere in the estate, staring at the blood soaking into the scattered papers on the floor as his mother’s lifeless eyes stared back at him.
Shaking away the memory, he glanced back at Nathaniel and gave a reluctant nod. “See you around.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he fled.
Griff stepped back just in time to avoid the front door of The Last Drop from slamming in his face.
That had gone about as well as expected.
It seemed his reputation preceded him. Either that, or Bald Locke had spread the word about him to his associates because Griff had barely taken a single step into the tavern before all eyes were fixed on him.
Then again, maybe they’d have reacted the same to any inspector poking his nose into their business.
He’d kept one hand lightly on his revolver as he’d spoken with the barkeep, just in case the roiling tension in the room overflowed. Fortunately, the thugs there had shown better restraint than that.
Bald Locke, however, had proven less than helpful.
He’d claimed no knowledge of Blackjack or the cards Griff showed him, merely shrugging when Griff pointed out the matching decks being used at the nearby tables.
And when Griff had pressed him, he’d clammed up entirely, refusing to talk with a prottie—common slang in this part of the city for protectors—without a warrant.
Bald Locke’s aura hadn’t been much help, either. Constantly shifting and comprised of dark hues, it was the tattered aura of someone who wasn’t too scrupulous about what they did or who they hurt. Griff could tell instantly he had something to hide. But then again, who in a place like this didn’t?
That didn’t mean it had anything to do with Blackjack.
It was entirely possible Blackjack had procured the cards from the tavern without ever making his presence known, just another random customer.
Or there could be no connection at all, Blackjack yanking Griff’s chain.
After all, he’d have to be supremely reckless or overconfident to use cards that could be traced back to him.
Yet Griff’s instincts were screaming at him that Bald Locke was somehow involved. He knew more about Blackjack than he was letting on.
Griff took a moment to ponder his options.
He could speak with a magister, see if he could convince them to grant his warrant.
Even if they refused due to lack of evidence, an appeal to the High Judge would likely work…
though that would undoubtedly require sitting through another tedious lecture on his future.
But the Brotherhood’s involvement made things messy. No doubt they’d hear about a warrant from one source or another long before Griff arrived. By the time he actually got inside The Last Drop to look around, they’d have ensured everything was squeaky clean for his benefit.
Another dead end, then. But that was fine. Detective work rarely went according to plan. Even if Blackjack eluded him for now, the Brotherhood connection was a new angle he could dig into. Eventually, he was bound to find something not even Bald Locke could evade.
Turning to depart, he pulled his aura blockers out of the pocket where he’d stashed them and went to put them back on, then paused. A strange aura trail lingered outside the tavern, leading away into the distance.
Usually, only particularly potent magic left a visible trail like this for any length of time. This one was faint, barely visible. Likely, it had either been there for quite some time or had been partially suppressed.
Yet even faded, it felt oddly potent, the ripple it left in the air sending an unpleasant tingle down his spine. There was something off about the magic—like a dark slash left in the very fabric of reality.
He’d learned to always be skeptical of coincidences, and discovering an oddity like this precisely where his investigation had taken him seemed like a fairly big one. Could this have something to do with Blackjack?
He tucked his aura blockers back in his coat and set off after the trail, carefully tracing its path down the street. It went for quite a while, heading toward the central Cathedral District before abruptly veering off down a narrow alley.
Griff eyed the alley, scanning for any threatening auras. Sensing nothing but the weary aura of a sleeping beggar, he set off down it, continuing to follow the trail.
It led him on a winding journey, mostly through back alleys and across rooftops. These, he tracked from the ground until he picked up the trail again. At last, he found himself outside the entrance to a shabby apartment building near the docks.
The door opened easily at his touch. He scanned the hall inside with one hand on the butt of his revolver.
Empty. The inside was relatively clear of trash or other refuse, but the smell of mildew hung in the air, like everywhere else here this close to the water.
The wooden panels on the walls were partially rotted while a single tattered banner flopped sadly in the breeze.
Not exactly threatening. Still, that aura had him on edge.
If its owner was here somewhere, then this place might be more than it appeared.
Griff had once cracked a case where a small temple had been used as cover for a cartel of assassins.
Once you’d seen a dungeon staircase hidden beneath an altar dedicated to the Dawn Virtues, you learned to expect the unexpected.
Remaining on guard for any signs of a trap or ambush, he continued to trace the aura up a set of rickety stairs to the fourth floor and down a hall, where the trail abruptly ended at a closed apartment door.
Griff hesitated only a moment before deciding the direct approach was best here. Every minute he wasted gave Blackjack or whoever this was more opportunities to cover their tracks. Best to catch them unawares.
He rapped lightly on the door. “Hello? Is anyone there?” When no answer came, he knocked again, harder this time. “My name is Griff Denton. I’m an inspector with the Derimay Watch. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Still no answer. Did that mean no one was home? Or were they even now making their escape out a window?
Before he could decide whether or not breaking down the door was worth the potential paperwork, it opened of its own accord, revealing an older woman dressed in a clean but weathered dress. She peered out at him, squinting as if struggling to make him out.
“Well now, what’s this racket all about? An inspector, you say? It was that creep Larf from 7b, wasn’t it? He always struck me as the type to get into trouble.”
Griff didn’t reply. He couldn’t, so stricken was he by the woman’s aura.
It was unlike any he’d ever seen before.
Despite their shabby surroundings, it burned so brightly that it was hard to look at.
Its mix of colors bled and swirled together in a constant flux he couldn’t help finding beautiful despite its tattered edges and darker streaks.
A thin black ring surrounded the rest which he wasn’t entirely certain what to make of.
Such flaws only seemed to enhance its ethereal beauty.
Merciful Light, who is this woman?
The woman frowned at him. “Are you all right, Inspector? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”