So, it's been a few days.

    Asher closes up faster than he opens, although I see him whenever I'm making measurements to determine, on Sheryl's request, if the bannisters are technically against international regulations. I do not know why we have regulations on bannister height. I do know that at this time in our last excursion out of the country, Sheryl and I were fighting a minor chaos deity. Instead, I'm hanging in the CLUE house with the world's angriest red-haired potato, two adults who have the vacant look and friendly smiles of people who have likely committed numerous felonies, a cat, and gun. I'm fairly sure firearms are banned in Britain, including magical firearms, so her existence, on every level, is an enigma to me.

    That morning, the wind is blowing through the drapes, which are a heavy mahogany color. They make me think of once of the ocean locations of A.R.S.E (it's short for ARSENAL... supposedly), which often had white drapes on their otherwise dismal, small rooms. The way the wind caused the light fabric billow made them look like twin strands of sunlight, filling the room with sea air and warmth.

    The wind runs over the town like it has somewhere to be, stopping only briefly to tickle the town beneath its wood and stone chin.

    There is a dead cat in the yard.

    I jump out the window. Asher is already on the patio and he lets out a screech like an animal in the process of being murdered. I calmly wheelie up to the body, which has its neck slit-- cleanly, if I had to deduce, the length of the slice indicates a knife. The unusual part is the burned fur. The singing is too regular to be that of a human fire. This was done with intent, not only on the part of the murderer, but of the fire. The dark lines form letters across the poor creature's underbelly, which I begin to read as I turn its limp body over.

    Asher is still stammering behind me. "How are... legs?" he says, looking down at my wheelies. "That was several meters, easily--"

    "Chill, it was like twenty feet. I have pads in my wheelies for magical shock absorption. It's a fun party trick... once I jumped out the third story of an apartment building during a party back in America." I smile to myself. "Golden days. Anyways, who burned 'I'M STILL HERE' into a cat? Seems excessive, not to mention cruel. Wait, this isn't--"

    "No, it is not Aitamah, but rest assured, she is about to be livid."

    "Livid. God bless Britain." I whisper, massaging the thick, burnt fur as tenderly as I can. Turning around to cast Asher a winning smile, I ask, "So, uh... what've you been up to?"

    He returns me the most incredulous stare, and I get the feeling he's trying to burn through my head again. "That's none of your business, now, is it?"

    "We-e-e-ell..." I begin. I lift the cat's shoulders up, so that it looks like it's shrugging posthumously. "I'm trying to solve a meowstery, but this big red hairball who's been assigned to me isn't being very coopurrative."

    "That is a dead animal and you're sick." Asher says.

    Stab in the heart. I don't know why I depend on him enjoying my one-liners, but I'll make sure to file down that he's not into black humor. I'll try to cough up something a little less meowcabre in the future. "Geez. Why are you so prickly all the time?" I lean in, fingers still running through the texture of the decidedly magically burned fur. "Prickly and vacant. You've been doing 'border patrols', right, Mr. I-Don't-Need-A-Partner?"

    "At least I'm not a... I'm not a..." Asher huffs. "I've got important things to be up to and you're not getting in my way."

    "I know when to give you space. No biggie." I step back.

    He lifts an eyebrow. "Are you giving me space?"

    Yeah, I've followed him around a few times, but he is notoriously good at losing me. I definitely don't want him to realize that I think he's moderately competent, insofar that he'd make a decent criminal... alright, so he's probably already a criminal. There's also a chance he might have killed someone? That's one of my leading hypotheses on the case, and it's still about as far-fetched as this whole thing being some kind of bizarre practical joke or an alien abduction.

    (Aliens are a whole other topic for debate. If there are extraterrestrials, which one could form a fairly cohesive case for at this point, they have a lot of batshit crazy behavior to answer for.)

    "I should probably, uh, go... ask the town if they've lost a cat. Looks like they're not getting it back."

    Asher finally takes the cat out of my hands. He examines the dead animal like it's a civilian, lovingly stroking the fur, and says, "We should at least ask if they've seen anything out of the ordinary."

    "We?" I ask.

    Asher nods hesitantly. "If I let you out alone, you'll probably have a mob on you by the end of the day. That's no good for my family's reputation, so I suppose you'll need a handler, like the petulant child you are."

    I flash him a smile, surprised by how genuine it is. "This petulant child is happy to have you around again, shortstack."

    He ducks out of my way before I can ruffle his hair affectionately. He gets a shovel and begins digging a grave for the cat near the flowers, with the kind of quiet reverence that is entirely beyond me. I once got sentimental about a bird one of the kids at ARSE shot down and the kids joked about it, put feathers in my bed, and made distressing (but admittedly hilarious) CAW CAWing noises at me, regularly, to get a reaction. I was ten at the time and I haven't cried over an animal since.

    I watch Asher run a few fingers across his face, going for tears or sweat. It's not warm, so probably the former, but geez, it's just a cat. Asher watches the dirt as if looking for answers, and his mismatched eyes are haunted as he looks back up. "You haven't seen anything, have you?"

    "No. Wish I had." Asher says. "So, shall we...?"

    We kind of fail to grasp for each other's hands, then stand at a distance that isn't quite conversational but still makes it obvious we're in 'a group' together, and Asher sort of storms out, his fists clenched. We look like we're going to war to avenge the cat. Feline crusaders. The armeowy. Alright, even I can admit that one is bad. I have a lot of expertise in humor, but I wouldn't consider puns my furte.

    I bite my tongue.

    Asher roams the streets with practiced ease, and I delight myself in the cars driving on the wrong side of the road and quaint signs. The buildings are stone pitched-roof cottages, with a matching cobblestone road that wears its age proudly on its sleeve. Outdated streetlights stand vigilantly over the sparse crowds and cast dark shadows in the windows, which are set up less for attracting customers and more with personal memorabilia. Every building is worn enough to look lived in, and there are window plants everywhere.

    It reminds me of a few villages I'd been to back in America, faintly, although one of those villages ended up being packed with zombies and the other one was home to a cult. The villagers... citizens... people... don't look happy enough to be cult members. There's an earnest cast to their face, and people look at each other and nod, sharing histories.

    "You have to take those off." Asher says, pointing at my feet, even though we're way out of the area in which I could have taken off my shoes already.

    Nonchalantly, I kick back. "It's not a cairn. I'm pretty sure I'm not being disrespectful to the natives by wheelieing through their town."

    "The natives. Come off it." he sneers.

    "Oh? Wrong terminology? Should I call them... the chaps? The jolly good sirs?"

    "Americans are so disrespectful."

    "Hey, we weren't the ones who colonized half of the formerly free world."

    Asher laughs dryly. "You don't want to have that conversation."

    "You're right," I say. "Speaking of conversations, what do you say about talking to..." I gesture blindly to one of the storeowners, who is sweeping up in a sunshine-yellow store.

    "Mr. Wilson? He'll bite my head off." Asher scoffs. "Let us just say that following an incident with a gnome he couldn't see and a certain someone knocking over several cans of paint onto hardwood flooring, I am banned from his store."

    I nod. "So, uh, who... owns cats then?"

    Asher raises an eyebrow. "People don't usually own cats."

    "What?"

    "They just... meander. They're cats."

    "Oh. Yeah." I say, as if this makes any kind of sense. We are working on foreign logic, in a foreign world. Speaking of foreign, being on the base floor is giving me the creeps. I search the main road for a nervous tic of the head, the shuffling pace with which fae walk, or the slight iridescence that the reflections of their bodies might leave, but everyone here is suspicious. I cross my arms and wheelie on, eventually veering a hard left and entering a store. Asher runs after me, the bells tinkling as the two of us enter some kind of parlor. "Anyone lose a cat?" I yell.

    "Gus, you absolute dunce," Asher begins.

    A plump woman practically drops some poor girl's hair halfway through a trim, still brandishing her scissors like she's trying to kill someone with them. "Asher Northcott! If it hasn't been a while. How's your--" She cuts herself off as Asher begins making violent swinging motions at his neck. "Well. You boys aren't playing one of your silly games, are you? Looking for all kinds of fanciful things. Now, Mr. Deckham says your family has been knocking out all his peonies, and Ms. Deckham is entirely cross--"

    "We've been trying to avoid stepping on her flowers, yes, I'm very sorry, apologies for interrupting your work, will not happen again, salutations." Asher says, bowing out. He grabs my arm and jerks me out of the store, whereupon I turn to him, caught between a mischievous smile and an expression of either shock or confusion. He gives me a loathsome expression. "You're lucky she had scissors in her hands or she might've hugged us to death."

    I snort. "Okay. Is she some kind of British spirit?"

    "Worse. A family friend. Let me handle this." Asher says, making a confident motion that extends from his shoulders all the way down to his hands. He makes a show of sauntering through the streets, hand on his dormant crossbow (now I can see the disguised fae- they're the ones who turn around when they pass, skipping our faces and looking at Asher's integral). "Anyhow, your interrogation skills are lacking."

    "I guess I'm rusty." Two weeks before coming here, I held a man at gunpoint.

    Asher more confidently strides into another store, this time, what appears to be a butcher's-- I wasn't even aware old fashioned butchers existed, but here they are, and here's a man who is wiry as he is well-muscled, swinging about a knife like it's no one's business. "Pardon, has the neighborhood watch perchance noticed peculiar events occurring recently? As part of the town security committee, the Northcotts are concerned..."

    "Aven't seen a thing." says the man. "Ask the missus. You're not in here to place an order, are you? You know how I feel about being troubled at my work, Asher."

    "Trouble? I barely know her." I say from the back, taking in the smell of raw, raw meat. What a place.

    "Gus, if you don't shut your insolent face I will take your lower jaw and shove it up through the roof of your mouth into the cavity where your brain should be." Asher kindly informs me. I think my lower jaw falls off of my face.

    "Hey, have you considered taking an intern?" I ask the man, putting a hand on the counter. "See, small fries over here can't cut, but he knows how to roast."

    "I have a lot of experience with pigs."

    The man's face turns mutinous. His teeth scrape the stubble above his upper lip. "Haven't seen the pig around. Tell him I know he ate all my veal an' your family's payin' for it one of these days, one way or another."

    Asher turns right back out the door and I look into the man's eyes. "Pig?"

    "Yeah, yeah. Lanky sonofa--" the man begins, and Asher can't hold me away this time. I grip the counter tighter, and the man simply says, tilting the knife dangerously close to Asher's startled countenance. "The one tha' looks like him."

    Asher leaves the butcher's. I follow, watching him roll his thumbs over each other so fast they're practically spitting off sparks. He runs his fingers through his hair a few times, growing progressively more frantic, and then he mutters something under his breath. I remove my earbuds from my ears, even though they don't have music in them, so I doubt it'll help... "Come again?"

    "I didn't say anything." Asher snaps.

    "I heard enough."

    "You'll be wanting... answers." he says.

    "I don't know. I could definitely tell Sheryl about this and I'm sure she'd have more of an answer. I guess I'd rather hear it from you, but really, Asher, it doesn't matter much either way."

    Asher's eyes narrow with intense hurt. "Look, let's just... do our investigation and then I have somewhere to be tonight anyways. Who cares."

    The next place we enter? A little quieter. Next one? Silent. People don't know shit. People don't, generally, because civilians, normies, whatever you call them, have the attention span of your average goldfish and enough irrational fear to keep them from poking their noses into places they don't belong. Asher avoids the library like the plague, taking a round route around what is, true to my expectations, a small town with only one real main road. Most of the residential houses are empty, which becomes disconcerting when Asher starts tramping through them at an ascending pace.

    "Hey, we didn't find anything. It's fine. Slow down." I say, wheelieing along behind him at a concerned, reasonable distance. (Man needs his space.)

    "Has to be somewhere we can go. What time is it?" He asks. When I don't immediately respond, he says again, more angrily, "Give me the time. If I'm going to be late, I'm going to blow."

    Not the only thing about to blow. I stay quiet, put some music on, click the time on. "Almost six. Why, did we miss tea time?"

    "I hate you." Asher says. His pace accelerates. "No, I have a business meeting of a sorts." He's practically running now, which is hilarious, given that it's Asher--he's basically angrily scooting along like the world's most furious gremlin.

    I guess his location once he's past the last turn-off to a friendly road, winding us into the woods. I can sense the ill magics surrounding us, even without the gates' vision to give us a better idea of what's going on. The last bastion against the darkness is a building bursting with amber. It looks like it has been set on fire, and the flickering light warms my skin like the sun when we get close. Despite how welcoming this is, the building itself is quiet and low-occupancy, with a few older men at its chipped-paint tables. Mounted animals hang from the walls, staring down at us with empty, taxidermied expressions, and a collection of mismatched cups hang along a row besides a bar stacked more thickly with spirits than Asher's house is filled with books. Though the smell of beer is rich on the air, mixed with the sharp undertaste of sweat, it's not as bad as the American dive bars I've been to.

    "Your town's cute, Northcott." I say sarcastically.

    "I'll have you know our town is brimming with culture." Asher says. He raises a hand, and a man wearing a scarf and trenchcoat perks up at the bar. He has a long, muscular face, almost beautiful... for a guy. His fingernails are polished with gloss, and when he drums them on the surface of the bar it reminds me of a horse running.

    I shrug as we situate ourselves next to this... man, with Asher on the right of the man and me crammed into the cozy corner. "Hey, I'm not British. It's all culture to me." I raise a hand to the bartender, retrieving my wallet and summoning my confidence. Not that that's all that difficult. "I'll order a scotch on the rocks." I say.

    "What do you think you're doing?" Asher hisses, his pupils catlike.

    "The drinking age in america is lower." I say as the drink rushes out of a tap.

    "N-no it isn't!" Asher says, slamming the bar.

    I cast him a dull look and put a finger to my mouth. "You've got business to attend to. Wouldn't want us to get thrown out, would you?"

    Asher gags as I take my drink and sip vigorously. I'm a few months under the drinking age, so what the heck. Isn't the first time. Won't be the last. I peer over Asher's shoulder as he begins conversing with this... well, if I had to guess, a fae, but he's not a minor spirit. No twinkling pixie could pull off a disguise like this. I look over his hair and clothes again from around Asher while Asher begins babbling in code to this man, asking about books in the library.

    "You haven't checked out Bridge for Beginners, have you?"

    "No. I think it's out of the library."

    "Do you know who has it?"
"Someone might have..." The man leans in. "Well, I was thinking someone dropped it in the woods, but it looks to me that someone might have plucked it up."

    "No plans on returns?" Asher asks, mismatched eyes wide.

    "You guys are really invested in Bridge, aren't you?" I say under my breath. Come on, Gus. No blowing this for one liners. No blowing this for mediocre one liners.

    "Hmph. You know, I have some friends in the trees who've expressed they might like bridge. Also an old friend... a certain ginger..." Asher trails off.

    The fae's fingers drum against the table. His voice is guttural, ancient, and utterly untrustworthy when he responds, "I didn't drag her into the lake, if that's what you're asking. Frankly, I resent the statement."

    "Woah nelly." I yell from my corner.

    "Have you considered you might just be getting in the way, Gus? Because you're very much in the way right now." Asher says, turning around.

    "No need to be so serious." I say, taking a sip out of my beer. It's got a certain spice to it I can't place, like drinking in a sunset. Must be regional. It's excellent.

    Asher raises his hand. "Get me a big one. Lather it up."

    The bartender only raises his eyebrow. Our fae friend raises a lithe hand and says, with a winning smile, "Oh, don't worry. He's my friend."

    Charmspeak. Long face. The back of his hair is damp. The fingernails.

    Bingo.

    "You're consorting with a kelpie?" I ask. "Has he..."

    "He's a positive influence on the community." Asher crosses his arms.

    I gesture to him. "On in years. He's killed people, hasn't he?"

    "I killed a domestic abuser." he says. "By the way, my name is Diandre, though you blokes are free to call me Drew."

    I suppress a wheeze of utter shock. "Dude, the Commission is going to crack down on this town harder than one of those creepy nutcrackers. It will take it in its fake nutcracker teeth and swing that lever up and down until there isn't even a nut." Both of them are looking at me. "Dude."

    "Should I take him too?" asks the kelpie.

    "Honestly, I'm very tempted to say yes." Asher says, "But I don't know, his companion will be on you if you try, and so will the entire American government. You know, if all you have is a big stick, every problem just needs a good thwack on the head."

    "My department didn't let two people die." I respond.

    Asher laughs violently, then, resettling himself, he takes a sip of beer longer than the one I just took, making his way through the foam and closing his eyes, chugging until I think his tiny lungs are going to give. He puts down the emptied bottle and brushes the fizz off his lips. "Order another." He demands, and Drew puts his hand up to signal the bartender. Looking back at me, he says, "Whatever, Gus. You just wouldn't get it. Now, if you don't mind, the adults are doing business."

    "I'm older than you."

    "And this is none of your business."

    "I know you're not talking about bridge."

    "I know you have no idea what we are talking about, and that I can't be more screwed than I am already. You can't fight me, Gus. I'm a desperate man. A rabid animal."

    "At least we agree on something." I say.

    Drew whistles, which is comical, given that I now know he's a horse. Can you imagine a horse whistling? With those lips? He leans down to Asher and says, "You'll be paying me, won't you? I do want that hair gel." Drew runs his hands up his admittedly well-groomed hair.

    "Give me some more information." Asher demands.

    The two of them fall back into verbal tango, dancing in a pair around any useful information I could possibly glean. It's not that their code is particularly hard, nor professional, and Drew keeps slipping, but they're talking about two people, two abductees, and our cases for both of them were empty. One of them was a girl. One was a guy. One of them had to be him... pig, upper bunk, ghost in the house... Conway.

    Asher's eyes are fierce with determination. I can deal with monsters, but determined humans have always had this was of overcoming deities and impossible odds. It's inspiring. Kind of reminds me of a shonen anime. Anyways, it's the kind of battle you don't want to be on the wrong side of.

    My mind wanders, addled by one more beers than my slacker liver can handle, and the conversation spreads out into a thick mist, a tension that could be cut by a knife. Asher's voice grows more frantic as we fail to find Bridge for Beginners. The kelpie's looking irritable. There's nothing more I can get out of this. I'd have to get it out of him, personally. I just can't connect to him... wait.

    Time to use my five minutes of research.

    "There's an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean..." I sing, just loud enough to rub up against his conversation.

    Asher turns, "What do you think you're doing?"

    I belt louder, "Where we used to sit and dream, Nellie Dean, and the waters they flooooow...."

    "Seem to murmur sweet and low," continues the bartender, who has in his infinite wisdom and mercy decided to grant this confused teenager a break. "You are my heart's desire..."

    "At the old mill stream I'm dreaming, Nellie Dean," I yell, getting up on one of the chairs, and through sheer force of bravado, the chorus in the room begins to swell.

    Drew raises a glass. Asher looks around, confused, as we go through four verses of Nellie Dean. My voice ascends with the sad warbles of drunken men, and the light takes on new, frantic quality as it blurs around us, refracted off beer flying from mugs slamming on the chipped wood.

    "What..." Asher asks.

    "Join in," I say.

    "That's a soldier boy you'd wed, Nellie Dean..." Asher says, looking hesitantly at me.

    "You've got it." I say.

    The whole bar is pounding with noise now, and it crescendos around us. Asher's voice is hesitant, but he takes the next verse like a rock climber pulling themselves up onto an outcrop, and slowly, he lets his voice rise with mine. I grin, overflowing with alcohol, confidence, adrenaline, and testosterone, absolutely sure that I have no clue what I'm doing. I'm freewheeling through life. I can't think of anything more liberating than this.

    "Seem to murmur sweet and low... you are my heart's desire..." Asher finishes, winding down to the last verse. He looks at me, searching for something through my face, and his eyes break through his mop of hair and I envision the earth swept by ice, just breaking through into springtime. His pupils are like two twin starless nights, lit only by the glare of a dingy bar light that becomes our moon, and it dawns on me that he looks magical. The gatekeepers in this town are so close to their work that they can't even be set apart from it.

    "--Nellie Dean," both of us yell at once, averting our gaze. I fix this into an awkward half-dabbing motion, practically slumping back onto the surface of the bar with a moan, and the barkeeper comes over. Drew has abandoned us to the night, and it dawns on me with equal intensity that we're technically minors.

    "May I see some ID from you both?" he asks.

    All the light and noise fall into a long blur as we are promptly ejected from the bar. Asher lands at my side, still at that uncomfortable, just-past-hand-holding distance, and he holds his head, turning ruefully around.

    "Party's over," I say with a nonchalant shrug.

    "That was so unfair." Asher says. "There's just no respect around here. There's just no... respect..." He goes for his integral and almost falls forward as he mocks shooting the store.

    "In their defense, you were pretty tipsy, man. Are pretty tipsy. Maybe we should get you home." I hoist him up.

    "I've never had... he'd never allow..." He. Asher's face is all red. I can see the signs of intoxication from a mile away. I'm proud in the worst possible way. Cool lawbreaking is, of course, the only acceptable kind of lawbreaking. Cool lawbreaking is having a sip of beer and getting someone responsible to drive home, it's sneaking in to the government property you know isn't dangerous with the kids five years older than you who've been there a thousand times, and it's... hands.

    (What was I... trying to accomplish?)

    I'm breaking some kind of law, but more importantly, I'm breaking a personal promise right now. Asher's hand falls into mine and he presses against me like a cat. Actually, he almost reminds me of the zombies from that last village, barely able to stumble forwards.

    "Your parents are going to be pissed." Sheryl, depending on how much I immediately divulge to her, is going to be ecstatic.

    "They won't e-even look for us." Asher manages to slur. "S'ok."

    Geez. He has alcohol tolerance like a ten year old's tolerance for caffeine. I open the door for him and walk him through the walls of his own house, feeling my face flush redder than alcohol has done to me in years. It's not like I was taking vodka... not like I drink vodka, it's unamerican and full of potatoes... so I have no idea what's wrong with me. Asher looks like that burnt cat. He's all curled in on himself.

    I can smell burning flesh. I look up and the house is empty.

    Bright lights. Right. Will-o-the-wisp? Probably common in the area. I don't know why they'd be active, though, will-o-the-wisp are reclusive as anything. Bet the Northcotts pissed them off. Bet they got someone murdered.

    "You alright?" I ask Asher, who stumbles into his room and against the leg of the bunk bed.

    His eyes, their brilliant color catching every bit of light, fly open in alarm. "Con, don't mess with me... Con. He's not here." Asher sniffs, trying to get into the top bed. I barely remember whose this is, and so I help him up. "Right. Head's spinning. You're dead, W-Washington. You're dead."

    Like I got any kind of information. "Hey, your hubris. Who's... Con?"

    I don't expect anything.

    I get everything.

    Asher's voice chokes, and I realize he's sniffling up in the top bunk. Maybe I shouldn't have escorted him into my bed. Con's bed. Is he a sad drunk? Probably a sad drunk. He shouldn't even be drunk. I had more to drink when I was eight. In a trembling, keening voice that's way too small for the tremendous presence he's become, Asher says, "My brother."

    That would definitely explain some of the sass. To think I thought it was the kid he'd murdered or something. In fact, a relieved smile almost breaks out like a rash across my face, and I feel the tension in the room settle. "Oh," I say, rolling over in bed. "Well, good night."

    Asher is dead silent.

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Written by ChronaLilly