The harsh, metallic click of a shotgun being cocked cut through the chill in the air. A gravelly voice followed it. “Cold Iron Detective Agency. This is a raid.”

Tallis turned and saw a full brigade of detectives coming down the street, all wearing high boots, leather vests, long coats and iron bracers. It was standard battle dress for the agency. Each piece was layered with spells and enchantments, leaving the men and women coming towards practically bulletproof.

Callan leaned in close and whispered into his ear. “You are too tired to run, you are unarmed, you have no magic. How do you think this will work out for you?”

Tallis licked his lips, his tongue was like sandpaper and his mouth might as well have been packed full of ashes. “We haven’t really done anything wrong have we? How bad could it be?”

Callan laughed but there was no humour in the sound. “We’ll see.” The Fae reached gingerly under his coat and drew out his sawn off shotgun, holding the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He set the weapon down, got on his knees and held his hands in the air.

Tallis made the mistake of opening his mouth to speak. A detective took a lunging step towards him and hammered the butt of a shotgun into his guts. He went down gasping for breath. The detectives fanned out and kicked their way into houses. People were hog tied and thrown into the mud. Children were crying. Somewhere someone tried to put a fight. A shotgun roared. An agent rolled Tallis onto his stomach, jammed a knee into his back and handcuffed him.

He lay there for what felt like a long time, until a rough pair of hands grabbed him and wrenched him to his feet. He came up staring into Allistair’s beady little rat eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

The sergeant pulled a cigar out of his pocket, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke into Tallis’ face. “This your plan all along, boy? You let that Changeling go. You cheated me in that interrogation. You tried to sell me up the river to the captain. And here’s why. Can’t say I’m shocked really.”

“Sergeant, please. That’s not how it is.”

“How is it then?” He punctuated the sentence by blowing another cloud of smoke into Tallis' face.

He coughed, eyes burning from the smoke. “I’m trying to help,” he mumbled.

Allistair leaned closer. “Help? Did I hear that right?”

He nodded. “I’m on the inside now, sir. This has been going on right here for who knows how long. Let me go and I can help you crack this smuggling ring.”

“Tallis,” the sergeant spat his name like it was poison. “I need you to give me one good reason not to take your gods damned head off, right now.” He took one of his revolvers out of its holster and pressed the barrel under Tallis’ chin.

The detective next to him drew her gun too, aiming it at the sergeant. “You can go ahead and drop that. Now.”

Something was off about the detective, her vest was lighter than everyone else’s, her boots were short, and there were no runes etched into her bracers. She fit in from far away but up close it was easy enough to see that this woman did not belong in Cold Iron.

Allistair lowered the gun and turned on the imposter. “Who in all seven hells do you think you are to be ordering me around like that?”

The imposter grinned, but didn’t have a reply. Instead, she pulled back the hammer on her pistol and fired. Allistair leapt back with a curse and the gun flew from his hand. Tallis stumbled backwards and tripped, landing flat on his ass in the dirt. The world exploded into chaos. More gunshots ripped down the street and the detectives stormed out of the houses they’d been searching. An ear splitting report roared down from a nearby rooftop and one of the detectives caught the round square in the chest. Light flared from the spells stitched into his coat and he went down in a heap.

The detective didn’t get back up. Tallis blinked in shock.

The battle turned and the chaos washed over washed over him, sweeping him up in the current and dragging him under. He found his feet and ran. Not knowing where he was going, he plowed forward and tripped over a discarded rifle. A gun cocked behind him and a shot split the air.The bullet slipped up his back and split the chain holding his handcuffs together. The round barely kissed the collar of his shirt and snapped into a building in front of him. He scrambled to his feet and took off, threading his way through narrow streets and sprinting to the north gate of the city. The gunshots continued to roll behind him but he left them behind. Scrambling through the gate and staggering to a stop by the side of the road. He let out a long shaking breath and collapsed. There was nothing left. A slow, jagged pain splashed over his entire body, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He felt like sleeping for a week. Hell, he felt like he could lay down and die.

With nowhere else to go, he found his feet and staggered towards home. He was in a fog, moving like a ghost, a shadow of himself. Something warm trickled down his arm and ran off his fingers. He held up his hand. It was covered in blood. When had that happened? He shook the blood off his fingers and kept staggering forward. He would fix the arm later. The road took a turn but he kept on straight, after the day he had he deserved a shortcut. The trees swam and spun in his vision, and he found himself in the small clearing Ed had taken him to. The storm owl was still there, sitting on a low branch as if it had never left.

“You were not a good omen,” he said pointing at the owl with his blood stained fingers. “You were a damn curse.”

The owl ruffled its feathers, sending a spray of multi-coloured sparks dripping to the forest floor.

He sat heavily and picked up a small stone. “Don’t look at me like that.” He threw the rock at the bird.

It answered with a hoot full of scorn and a bolt of white lightning jumped from its forehead. With a crash of thunder, the bolt landed in front of Tallis’ feet, burning a blackened scar into the earth. It spread its wings and hopped off the branch, landing in front of him.

He couldn’t meet the owl’s stare and looked down into the patch of burnt grass. “Sorry,” he muttered.

The bird seemed to accept the apology and flew back up into the trees. It’s head spun nearly all the way around to look back at him. It gave another hoot.

“What?”

Hoot.

“What do you want?”

Another bolt of lightning shot off into the trees. Tallis stood and followed the bird. He could have sworn it nodded and flew to the next branch. The bird led him out from under the trees and into the familiar fields surrounding the house. Something was wrong with the house. The front door hung open and the horses were wandering in the field, still harnessed. White hot panic burned the fatigue from his limbs and he rushed up the front door, calling out for his parents.

Silence answered him and the storm owl flared its wings and alighted on the house's roof.

“Norman?” Tallis yelled. “Ed?”

Cold, empty silence.

The house had been torn apart. Cupboards and drawers had been left open and the contents were strewn across the floor. He limped into his parents room, finding no less chaos there. Clothes had been scattered around the room, and Ed’s old notes were thrown across the floor, leaving loose pages everywhere. An empty box sat on the bed. He turned the small over in his hands and a clear stone the size of a small coin fell out. They’d taken Ed’s stash of crystal. Pain and fear met somewhere deep in his chest and curdled into a sour rage, and strangled scream bubbled out of his throat.

Cold Iron. They were the only people who could have done this.

He slunk into his own room. The spell books he'd borrowed from the office were gone. His own case notes were gone. Even the letters he'd written to his friends had been taken. It was sickening to see their entire life upended and scattered across the floor. Despair hit him like a fist of ice, smothering his anger. He sank to the floor and a fit of sobs overtook him. He was lost. Completely, and utterly lost.

What would his parents do?

He didn't know. He didn't think they'd have a single answer or piece of advice. All he knew for sure was that they wouldn't leave the horses out all night. He trudged out into the dooryard, bundled up everything that had happened today, and shoved it into a back corner inside his mind. He could solve this if he worked one problem at a time. Wrangling the horses took longer than it should have, they were scared and he had never been good with animals. He wished his fathers were here for just a moment, before shoving the thought from his mind. They were gone and he couldn’t let himself think about that right now. The horses were unhappy but they were brushed and fed and safe for the evening.

One job down.

His arm had mostly stopped bleeding but he’d torn the wound open again working with the horses. A little do it yourself medicine jumped to the top of his to do list. Stumbling back into the house he dug through the piled items on the floor until he found something that was mostly clean enough to use as a bandage and a half bottle of whisky. He tore the sleeve off his shirt, it wasn’t like it could get more ruined, and poured the alcohol over the cut. Another ragged scream escaped him. Wrapping the dirty bandage around the wound he checked that item off of the list in his head.

Two jobs down. How many more did he have before the world would start making sense again? He pushed that question out of his mind too. One job at a time. That was it. No thinking about what came next, just focusing on what was happening now. The rest of the day passed in a haze as Tallis moved like a clockwork doll. There were no thoughts, no feelings, only movement.

Only the next job.

He’d done his best to take care of the animals, put the house back in order, and lay salt lines down in front of all the doors and windows. The storm owl still hadn’t left and the last thing he needed today was some grim omen drawing in ghosts or ghouls or whatever the hell else. Making the house safer was a small comfort, but it did little to soothe the sick empty feeling inside of him. He had never really been a religious person, spending most Sundays struggling to stay awake through the sermons Norman drug him to, but maybe there was something there that could help. He knew his father kept a book of old stories in the nightstand by his bed. Most of the stories were allegorical in one way or another so it couldn't hurt.

He fetched the book and brought it into the sitting room, lighting one of the oil lamps. The book was a real work of art with beautiful illustrations and pages bordered on gold leaf. He almost felt like he should put it back for fear of breaking it. It was an excessively dense book, written in a flowing lyrical style with a precise measure. Every scrap of information was buried under layers of imagery and outdated turns of phrase. Each piece of advice was obfuscated by metaphors. Tallis closed the book and rubbed his eyes. Anyone who wasn't familiar with the text already would need a guide and a week's worth of provisions to make any sense of it.

He had successfully killed a few hours but had done nothing to make himself feel better. He needed something more tangible. Out of curiosity, he walked to the closet by the back door and took out Ed's old satchel. The herbs he'd burned during the change of seasons ritual were still inside. Tallis set the dry plants in a wide earthen bowl and struck a match to them, breathing deep as the kitchen filled with fragrant smoke. While the herbs burned, he walked back to his parents room and dumped the tiny crystal chip out of Ed's wooden chest. A pair of grey feathers bound together with a piece of twine. He was amazed his father had kept them all these years. When Tallis had been just a boy a whisky jack had flown into the window and hurt itself. They had spent the summer taking care of the bird and it was a sad day when it felt well enough to fly south before winter set in.

He tucked the feathers into the top pocket of his vest, collected the chip of crystal and returned to the kitchen. A trickle of spell power set the crystal aglow and Tallis watched the smoke pool around him. To be technical, his energy or aura or whatever you wanted to call it was properly buggered up. Letting things go was harder without Ed here. With no one to guide him it was next to impossible to clear his mind. Next to impossible, but not completely. A few curls of smoke drifted away from him.

It helped a little.

He shuffled back into his room, drew a line of salt down in front of the door, and collapsed into bed. Tomorrow was a new day. Here’s hoping that it would turn out better than this one.