He’s an old-fashioned detective in a world still rocked by the recent emergence of magic—and he always closes the case.
Simon Night Enters the Scene
Greetings, faithful readers! I’m working on a new short story I think you’ll love, and wanted to send you a preview.
Really, why would a Fey person ever need to rob a bank?
It doesn’t add up. John Barron Grey, né McCarrig, is not the kind of guy to casually blow up his life. He’s no Feyling; this guy’s heir to the damn Throne, and he’s been on the run successfully for a couple hundred years. Someone that smart wouldn’t do something like this.
Well, he went and did it anyway, and got himself arrested, babbling the whole time about knowing his rights and wanting his investigator and mugging for every camera he could find until he became an internet sensation.
Even if they wanted to bury him, they couldn’t. He sported a lovely purple bruise on one cheek which brought out the startling silver-blue of his peepers, and his long, pointed ears drooped pitifully past his shoulders, and his pouty pink lips and doe-eyed looks were enough to con any unsuspecting public on his side.
I saw all about it in a vertical video my rival sent me about two in the morning, along with the warming, This guy is gonna ask for one of us.
Of course, he was right. Grey did.
Because getting tangled up with the gods-damned Throne is exactly what I want to on a Saturday morning.
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Of course he picked me. This guy. This hella guy.
“Thank you for seeing me, detective,” he says, gorgeous eyes wide, absolutely all-in with his poor-me schtick, and flips his silvery hair over his shoulder.
The effect is dimmed somewhat by the heavy iron bracelets they got him in. “Real stylish,” I say, pointing at the cuffs. “They make you wear those all night?”
“Oh, they did, detective,” he says, holding them up like exhibit one. “It’s been terrible, cut off from my magic like this.”
I sigh. Human law enforcement still believes in nonsense like cold iron, and forgets which part of the Fey body does the conjuring. His hands ain’t the risk here. “Sure.”
“Unconscionable,” he says, eyes lidded, and with flawless sleight of hand, deposits the still-closed cuffs on my desk.
Mm. Don’t like that. “This needs coffee. Want a cup?”
He bats his eyelashes again like he didn’t just flaunt the law at me. “Please.”
It’s not really a weird choice for him to pick investigation instead of ordinary legal defense. Since magic got revealed to the human world in a freak accident of draconic ascension and civil war, it’s been one long adjustment for everybody, and this is one of the compromises: if you’re charged with a crime involving magical shit, you can do a lawyer or an investigator, because human lawyers tend to be a little too siloed to provide a good defense, whereas us good old gumshoes can track mud anywhere.
I got a lot of questions why a renegade Fey prince is sitting in my grungy office. This don’t really add up. “So, Mister McCarrig,” I start.
“Just Grey,” he says.
I eye him. “You sure? I don’t give a dick about politics in here, but even I know that’s an insult.” Only Fey cut off from the Throne and Scepter, banished to potential death, are given that title.
His smile is one I reluctantly like: a little too bitter to be pretty, but strong, real, sure. “I made it a mark of pride.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” I hand him his coffee.
He takes it, and then he sings. Just a hum, really. Barely a la. Instantly, his black coffee lightens, and whipped cream rises from from its depths like some reverse glacier.
Fey. I swear. “You could’ve asked for cream.”
“You could’ve called for help,” he says with a glance at the useless cuffs.
What, it was a fucking test? “You ain’t been that scary yet,” I say.
He laughs like silver bells. “Flatterer.” He throws back the coffee, gulping it fast, then licks the whipped cream off his upper lip as part of the show.
I slow-clap. “So. Grey. I can’t help being curious why you came to me instead of Scott. He’s more your class.”
There’s only two licensed Kin gumshoes in this town: me and Nate Scott. Scott’s the classy one, plain and simple.
“Oh,” Grey says with a light, quick tone he hasn’t used before. “That’s easy. Youbarter. Famously, yeah? Nathanial Scott doesn’t.”
I think that’s the first honest thing this guy’s said.
My rival dearest doesn’t barter. It’s cold hard (digital) cash for him, or nothing. “True. Though it’s not Nathanial. It’s Natural. Nate’s short for Natural.”
Grey blinks. “How unusual! Poor thing was probably bullied.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he had a real rough childhood,” I drawl about my decidedly silver-spoon rival. “So why don’t you tell me what the hell brings you in here?”
And back to the big eyes, pitiful and pleading. “I might be here under slightly disingenuine circumstances.”
I keep my breath nice and steady, though I know my pupils go big, and I know he sees that. Freakin’ Fey. Always some scheme happening. “All right. And you’re gonna explain the whole thing now to me now, right?”
He actually sniffles, pleading and helpless and pretty. “You see, detective… I don’t need to be exonerated.”
Oh, boy. “Yeah? You like prison?”
“Not exactly, but it’s better than the alternative. I need to stay there for a while.”
And an Ever-Dying prison at that. “Why?”
He looks utterly ashamed of himself. “Because the Throne wishes to make me marry and produce an heir, since I’m, you know, off being distinctly un-heir-like. I won’t do it. So I need to stay out of reach until it’s too late, and I need help for that.”
I lean back in my creaky chair and study the guy.
Grey watches me back without so much as a guilty twitch. His ears stay relaxed, up and slightly out, forming a happy little V of Fey body-language saying, Hey, come closer, I’ve got no bat to swing.
No; no, it’s too easy. Fey logic broke Occam’s razor years ago and used the shards to make half-truths shiny. “I don’t know that I buy that, Grey.”
Big eyes, absolutely guileless. “It’s all true,” he says.
“I’m sure it is, but it doesn’t quite fill in all the gaps, does it?”
His smile fades.
More to come soon!
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Unlike recipe blogs, I keep the personal stuff for after. 🙂
My name is Ruthanne, and I do two things: I write weird stuff to entertain you, and I help other creatives make weird stuff, too.
I’ve published five books and fifty-plus short stories. I’ve led a convention panel on world-building, and taught courses on plot and character development. I’ve been the keynote speaker for the Write Practice Retreat.
I’ve also been dealing with severe chronic illness that left me hospitalized, and that pretty much slowed everything down.
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We may be in an apocalypse of A.I. and unscrupulous corporations, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still be human. We create for one another, and yes—even the tiniest, silliest creation matters.
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