| She sits every day on the same train, the eight-ten, wearing the same black overcoat with the same overweight, balding businessmen staring at her. Every day her face wears the same bland expression, gray eyes veiled by long lashes. Holding her head high, she rocks and sways with the tilt and rush of the early express. And of course, every day she gets off at the same stop: Tenth St. Station. No one thinks to watch her as she hurries along the sidewalk. Just another drop in a sea of faces, they think. She pauses to drop crumbs in the square, leftover from a breakfast croissant. The hungry pigeons gather around her, but she quickly passes through after only a glance. She does not stop moving until she reaches the object of her relentless advance: A building. Just that. A building, like so many others in this city. Perhaps it is the location which makes it extraordinary. It is a house, old and gabled, out of sync with the angular modern office buildings. Sandwiched tidily between a health insurance office and a Greek deli, it retires from the busy street. She opens the handsome oak door that reads “Horatia Alberts & Co., Private Investigative Services”. Underneath the large sign is smaller writing that reads “Discretion and Courtesy Our Specialty”. “Are there any messages Andrew?” she inquires. The serious young man with the brown hair and wire-rim glasses regards her silently for a moment. “Yes, actually, there are three. Two from Mrs. Fenner, the old bat seems to want our… ” The woman nods, gesturing impatiently with a finely boned hand. “Go on, the third?” The young man takes a moment to hunt through a small heap of papers. “Here. A man came to see you. I think he may be one of our specialty clients.” Andrew air quoted around the word ‘specialty’. One of Horatia’s finely arched eyebrows moved imperceptibly. “Did you recognize him?” She chose to ignore Andrew and his air quotes. He always was a little giddy after being there all night. Andrew shook his head. “No, but there was something very familiar about him at the same time, so I requested that he return today at 10:30. He promised to come, but he did leave something for you. I put it in your office.” “Thank you Andrew,” she said as she swept past him through the double doors in the rear of the room. This had once been a formal hall, this outer part, and the room she entered now was once a dining room. Some people thought that leaving the chandelier in place was a bit ostentatious for a woman in her line of work, but she thought it was a charming touch. She shed her coat en route to the massive table that served as her desk. There was the package Andrew had promised, square and brown and utterly plain looking. With the precision her hands applied to everything, Horatia undid the wrapping, but the contents of the package gave her pause. Nestled comfortably amidst a shredded copy of the Times was a wooden stake, beautifully carved to resemble a dragon’s claw. Horatia regarded the stake for a moment, tracing the finish lightly with one finger before placing it on the desk. Her finger came away tingling, as if something from the stake had passed itself into her. Rummaging through what was left of the shredded news she searched for something, some sort of explanation. In the bottom of the package was a note: “Dear Ms. Albert, Someone close to me had intended to bring this to you when she acquired it under circumstances which she did not reveal to me. She said that you helped her in the past with something referred to only as the ‘Silver Chain’. I am sorry to inform you that she has recently passed away. Unfortunately I called at an inconvenient time, but thought that I would leave this with you so that you could see what I bring to you by way of a case. I know that you choose your cases with utmost care, and hope that you find the time to look at this one. Sincerely yours, Stephen De Poullier Horatia read the note in silence. A shadow passed over her pale face, but she took no time to steep in sorrow. She preferred the comfort of her work to sadness. She stared into space for a moment before picking up the phone and ringing through to the front office. “Andrew? Yes, yes, I see what you mean. This certainly sounds like one of our ‘specialty’ cases. Do you remember the Silver Chain?” Horatia pulled the phone away from her ear to drown out Andrew’s shout. “I thought you might. Yes, of course I’m taking the case. When Mr. De Poullier returns, please do send him back, I’m eager to speak with him.” After hanging up the phone, she wondered briefly where her partner, Julia, was. Of course, Julia had never made it to anything on time in her life. She took out her old black journal and carefully wrote: A new case has come in. Strangely, an old case has surfaced again as well. Victoria DePoullier has passed on, leaving her legacy of mystery to an heir of some sort. Stephen, his name seems to be, although I’ve never heard of him. A dragon’s claw stake has arrived. I must confess, I’m puzzled by the object and what it has to do with the DePoulliers… Horatia paused to contemplate for a moment, gazing at the stake. The stake is roughly 10 inches in length and appears to be fashioned of ebony polished wood, type unknown. It seems ancient, I honestly can’t say that I’ve seen anything quite like it. Stakes come in all shapes and sizes, but rarely as claws. Possibilities of Origin for the DCS 1. Symbolic Meaning—Dragons? 2. Vigilante Hunter’s Tool 3. CEO Run Amuck Vampires, demons, it’s all the same and I’m getting bored. No matter, it’s still just another day at the office. Hearing the outer door to the office bang, Horatia closed up her journal. That would be Julia, arriving with her usual flair. The graceful doors opened with a bang to reveal a short, dark haired woman whose arms were overflowing with papers, books and a dangerously tilting cup of coffee. “Good morning,” Horatia said, “You’re late.” Julia struggled briefly and finally dropped the papers. They scattered all over the polished floor. “Oh hell, can you possibly get these Rai?” Horatia bit back the sharp words that rose to her tongue. Really, if it were anyone but Julia who had messed up the tidy office and then had the audacity to use her old nickname they would have regretted it instantly. Horatia knew that her wit was barbed at times, and Julia at times brought out the worst in her so that she had learned how to force back the sharp words that so often tumbled out when she didn’t mean them to. “Julia dear, have you ever thought of investing in a briefcase?” “Actually I own one. You gave it to me 3 Christmases ago. Big thing with my initials carved into it. Gorgeous, but every time I put anything in it I forget that it’s there and then I spend the rest of the day bumbling about trying to find something that’s been in there all along, so I’ve just given up on using it,” Julia called over her shoulder from just outside the doorway. Horatia straightened up from the floor, papers neatly stacked in her hands To Part 2 |