Silent Partner


Urban horror fantasy crime - Editor

by Henry Gaudet

As dream jobs go, private eye doesn't rate in the top ten, or the top hundred for that matter. It's not the sort of job you aspire to. It's the job you're left with when life closes all the other doors. Ask any ten dicks how they got their start, and you'll get ten tales of ten falls from grace.

My story's no different. Not so long ago, I was doing alright. I was an ordained Sheppard, a Knight of the Golden Shield, charged by Mother Church and the Divine Trinity to defend the public from dark magic and heathen witchcraft. Not an easy job, not a fun job, but it wasn’t all bad. That little gold badge comes with a lot of fringe benefits. Even so, for all the window dressing, it's still the same old story.

Loyal readers of the Herald may remember that dust-up about three years back involving the Cult of the Slumbering Eye and a few bored socialites looking for the next big thrill. Turns out the next big thrill involved a sacrificial troll calf and at least three dead pagan gods. One botched séance later, and we’re up to our collective neck in tourists from beyond the grave.

The poor little rich kids were, of course, the first to go, but they made a splash before they checked out. Lowside Park was all but swallowed whole, and gates popped as far away as Battersbridge and Grifton. Kept us busy for a week solid, and I’m convinced we never plugged all the holes. Two months later, we were still finding a corpse or two every day.

My partner Frank and I pulled the short straw and Father Cussler tapped us to look for strays. Not a lot of detective work, just a straight bug hunt. Personally, I’d rather be chasing down the puppet masters, the ones in this world and the next. Instead, we had to settle for breaking their toys.

At least Frank was happy. “No pulse, no problem,” he’d say. “Let the cops deal with warrants and due process. I’ll stick with the deaders. No one sues when you shoot.”

We were on the way back to the station after an especially nasty bit of work on the South Side. Sure, we looked rough, but just you try looking daisy fresh on the two-hours-past-the-finish-line side of a twelve hour shift. Even so, we can take only so much credit for the stench. In our line of work, spatter is an occupational hazard.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)