*Corman

Now that Corman didn't have a job, nothing was standing in his way of covering his tracks after lying to the detective about being online, gaming through the evening.

He dropped his things and his car off at the house where he rented the basement. It was his cousin's house, but currently unoccupied except for him. As part of his plan, he set out on foot for The Bottled Arcade. He'd make a quick stop on the way. There was a working phone booth in the back of the comics store.

His pace quickened. This was good. This was a plan that make him look perfectly normal for a tech guy who had just been fired. Comics. Beer. Walking around town alone. He was a mountain man, covering his tracks in the snow.

He was taking charge of his life that had spiraled completely out of control. Plus, chances were extremely high that no attractive women would be at the bar.

As he hit the sidewalk in front of his house, he shaded his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun and headed for the cluster of shops and restaurants a few blocks away. It was nearly five—better known as happy-hour. At the doorstep to the comics store, movement caught his eye from across the street. Another suit-dude, exactly like the plainclothes cops at the station. Corman blinked. The guy was gone, lost in the small groups of people shopping and strolling up and down the avenue.

Right. Keep going. Stop being afraid of shadows.

Comic store. He strolled in, nodded at the sales assistant, who didn't look up from his phone, and thumbed through the stands on his way to the back. No one was in there but him and the young guy at the counter.

Good.

Corman stepped into the back hall and into the old phone booth. Settling onto the stool, he stared for a moment at the phone trying to figure out how it worked. Money went in the slot, presumably coins, and then the number was dialed.

And he had no quarters. By the Norse gods...

He returned to the counter, a ten in his hand. "Could I get quarters for this?"

The sales assistant nodded without looking at him. He set his phone on the counter, a video still running and pulled the money from the register, put it more or less in Corman's hand before returning to stare at his phone.

Good.

Corman returned to the booth. For a long-distance call, he needed a ridiculous amount of quarters.

When he had told the detective he couldn't count the online acquaintances as friends in the traditional sense, it wasn't entirely accurate. They were a community, and they had each other's backs. Corman had this number because the dungeon master didn't fully trust the gaming platform to not spy on the chats, and he saw it as his duty to split up the routes when distributing secrets to players. From what Corman understood, the man (at least he assumed it was a man) had over a dozen burner phones for messaging.

But there was a problem. They had never spoken together.

The dungeon master, a man by the sound, grunted after the third ring.

Corman stumbled over the name, trying to say, "Celthirxeaco?" but realized he had no idea how to pronounce it.

"Who is this?"

"Tibrall."

"Never heard of you."

"Wait!" Corman couldn't go online to contact him, the digital trail could be traced. "Tee-brall."

"Nope."

"Tie-brail? The mind flayer."

"You mean, Tih-brawl?"

"Right."

"Prove it," Celthirxeaco said, with another grunt.

"The last scroll I found was for raising the dead. You should know I intend to use it for Eavore."

"Why are you calling me from a landline?"

"Two nights ago, I wasn't playing. But I need to have been. I wouldn't ask except for—"

"Say no more. It's done.

"Just like that? Do you need—"

"From when to when?"

"Eastern time, seven thirty-ish pm to eleven forty-ish pm."

"Done. And farewell."

The other end went dead. Corman returned the handset to the cradle, the metallic bumps and clangs of the machine ringing strangely in his ears. While he wasn't sure how Celthirxeaco would cover for him in case of questions or inquiry, at least there would be some cover.

The strong, mountain man feeling was gone. Damn. He just needed a tall beer.

He stepped outside cautiously. The streets were clear, only a few normally dressed people were clustered at the corner. He walked down the sidewalk, heading for the bar, shaking his head.

Why would a couple of undercover cops at the station be stalking him, any—

A body slammed into him, knocking him into the side alley. Corman flailed, shoved by the person's momentum. He hit the ground and stars exploded, along with pain in his head and entire side. He gasped for air. A pair of hands dragged him deeper in the alley. They forced him face down on the ground behind the buildings.

"Hey—" Corman shouted. The click of a cocked gun stopped him short.

One of the suits squatted in front of him, while the other twisted his hands together, a knee on Corman's back to pin him down.

"Tell us who you work for," the suit asked.

"I was just fired by YouHealth Care, in the tech development. I don't work for anyone," Corman gasped.

"YouHealth? Is that like UHaul?"

"Health insurance. You pay, and you get care. If you're lucky."

The men paused. "But you don't work for anyone now. Are you trying to say you are freelancing?"

"Why?" Corman continued. "Are you hiring?" The gun moved closer to his face. He was sweating up a storm—it was a sodden mess in his armpits.

"Who was with you for the hit?"

"I'm going to need some context," Corman said.

"I think you know exactly what I mean. Who is the woman?"

Corman's mind went suddenly blank. His brain felt like a big fluffy cloud of nothing on the top of his neck. There was nothing in there. It was like the police station, but stronger. The smell of incense wafted in the air. Incense? Really? While threatening him with a gun?

The man clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I have been trained to do interrogations on the United States' most wanted terrorists. You are a fly on my radar, little boy. Now tell me who was with you at Michael McFerguson's house."

Corman's brain broke as the fog covered it. He blinked at the suit. Then words flowed from his mouth.

"You've got the wrong guy. I have no idea what you are talking about. That is, I heard about the murder, everyone did. I went to the police yesterday and today to tell them I might have seen the suspect. But I didn't go to the victim's house. If you want to keep interrogating me, I will have to call a lawyer."

He didn't have a lawyer or even know who to call to get a lawyer, but, same as with the detective, he sounded convincing even to himself.

"Is he telling the truth?" the guy with his knee in Corman's back asked. "I cast the truth-telling spe—"

"No. Check him for a sign. He has to be marked or wearing a leash."

"Let me go!" Corman yelled. Or choked, since it was hard to breathe face down on filthy concrete with a two-hundred pound man kneeling on you.

They yanked up his shirt, pulling him to standing, and the shirt off him. Buttons went flying. They were stripping him in the back alley. He struggled until the suit waved the gun at his face again. They inspected his chest, back and stomach, peered at his arms.

"Take off your pants."

Corman held up his hands. "This has gone far enough. I really need a lawyer present if you are going to strip sear—"

A punch to his gut doubled him over, sending the air from his lungs in an unpleasant whoosh.

"Get his pants down."

"You know they hardly ever put them below the—"

"Get this man's pants off now!"

"Wait, this is not necessary," Corman groaned. "Or legal!"

"Hold him," said one.

"Get the belt first, you have to unhook the belt before the pants."

"I know how to undress a guy."

"Damn it. Where's the gun, have him strip himself."

"Are you guys sure you're cops who are trained against terrorists?" Corman asked. They wrestled him to the ground again. He tried to scream for help, but they shoved his own sock in his mouth. The gun had disappeared, but one of the Suits had a glittering wand-like apparatus that Corman did not want near any of his orifices. It glowed purple. This was getting too weird. The man waved it over his body like a body scanner on an old Star Trek show, making his skin tingle.

He screamed into the sock, the noise muffled. No one seemed to notice from the street or shop, though. Kicking, he fought back.

The wand glowed brighter as it ran over his torso, lower and lower, until Corman was flipped face down again and his pants were yanked over his buttocks. That spot on his left cheek tingled. And burned.

"Well, lookie-lookie." The suits laughed.

Corman twisted. In the middle of his cheek, flashing silver under the strange light of the wand, was a fresh, swirly tattoo with four petal shapes joined by a circle at the inner points.

"Wha dah?" he asked through the sock.

"A knot. Witch's mark," said one suit.

"Indeed," the other agreed. "You were marked as a minion, my friend, which means you just got yourself two new best friends. In fact, we plan on staying with you for a while."

*** Thank you for reading!!! ***