#we get to meet weston in the next chapter but for now we're just setting up the plot

[sio-writes]

Witch's Gambit - Chapter 1

Hello everyone! I'd like to introduce you to my NaNoWriMo project, Witch's Gambit! It tells the story of Lucy Breban, a witch living in the magical city of Grayslate. After her good friend Elliot is murdered in cold blood, Lucy must employ the help of her reclusive, skeletal neighbor Weston when the answers the police provide aren't enough. As they get closer to the truth (as well as each other), the two begin to unravel an underground secret that could rock the very foundations of the place they call home.

I'm super excited to bring this to you guys! I actually have a buffer of about 10 chapters as opposed to...well none, lol, so hopefully that gives me enough time to make some proper edits and polish it even more for you all.

Tags for this chapter are: Heavy violence, and minor character death.

Elliot Forsythe died sometime between seven-thirty and midnight last night, decapitated and drained of his vampiric blood. He's tall and lanky, he had cropped black hair, and skin pale as marble. He was the first friend I made upon moving to Grayslate, my neighbor for close to five years. The winter cloak I'd been meaning to return to him still sits in my hallway closet. 

Reading his memories feels like a violation, but I try to tell myself that he'd want me to do this, he'd want me to confirm it. I'd been asked, begged really, by Alma to be here. My messaging stone had gone warm with all her calls, and when I'd finally answered she'd been frantic and out of sorts. The news hadn't had time to truly set in before I was being questioned by two white men in their late forties, then sat in front of my friend's body, tracing sigils on the floor around him in chalk.

I'm thrust into memories that aren't mine, taking his place as if I were there. His childhood in the countryside with two doting if slightly overprotective parents. The fling with a naga I recognize as owning the bakery down the street makes my heart flutter as his did. Adopting his golden retriever that he named Paul brings such a rush of joy I temporarily forget I'm reading the memories of a dead man. I can smell the apple crumble his mother would bake every year for his birthday, even bringing it out on a visit when he moved to the city. The breeze in my hair is refreshing as he rides his bike to the store. 

I've been on that bike, held my legs stiff on the back wheel as he pedaled, cutting a corner too quick and nearly throwing us into traffic. We went to dingy concerts together, celebrated holidays, drank tea on Sundays when all the attractive folk were exiting the yoga studio. 

And now I'm kneeling on the floor, touching his corpse, watching memories that aren't mine. 

Soul imprints start at the beginning, so I have to sift through half-remembered interactions with faces that shift like they're underwater. I see what he sees, and his emotions are my own. I'm seeing the world through his eyes, his recollection, his senses. Everything is laid bare like cards on a table. There's sections that're gone, repressed or more likely just forgotten because they were unimportant. But I don't mind pushing past years of his life. I want to be here as little as possible. To tell the detectives what they need to know and go back home to cry at the third crystal clear memory of him hugging Paul the dog.

"How long is this going to take?" I hear one of the detectives ask. His voice is the deep baritone of the taller gentleman I spoke with upon walking in, the one I'd never seen before today. 

"Give her a second," the other one says, Martinez. He's marginally more patient because he's been running homicide longer, but not by much. Every time I'm asked to come and consult in the morgue he offers me a coffee afterwards, giving me a look that says he wants to be there about as much as I do.

"Body's getting cold," the other one, not-Martinez, says under his breath. "She's gonna waste all the evidence."

"You know she can hear you, right?"

It's barely been five minutes and for the third time I have to resist rolling my eyes or break the imprint and start over.

I hit a patch in the imprint, something Elliot wouldn't want me to see. He didn't consciously block it out, but for being his last memories everything is faded like he wanted to forget.

I'm sprinting up the stairs leading to the office. That barricade at the door won't hold them long, and I need to get--

BAM!

The door flies open behind me but I'm too afraid to turn around. I need to get to the study, it's only a few steps more.

"Oh Elliot," a female voice mocks behind me. "Where ya goin, Ellie?"

Quickly, I need to act quickly. Barricading the door could work, so I start at that, slamming the door to the study shut, my eyes landing on the biggest, nearest object and dragging it over.

"He uh, he was in this room," I say, trying to breathe only through my mouth so I don't inhale Elliot's stench. The burning basil and essential oils only do so much. 

"Yes, we know that," the new detective says, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"He's breathing pretty heavy." I frown, concentrating. Everything becomes blurry, he's blinking a lot, and the whole world shakes. 

"I think he's crying," I say as the vision whips wildly back and forth--Elliot is looking for something. My heart flutters in my chest. "He's-- he's really scared." 

Elliot's emotions and thoughts slam into me like a train. If he had been more careful, kept his head down, they wouldn't have found him. He wouldn't be running from one of Donahue's pawns in his own damn home. He couldn't escape, there was no point in trying to run. Maybe if he let out Paul it could distract them enough that--no, what the fuck was wrong with him? Paul did nothing wrong, it was him. All of this was his fault. 

I nearly fall backwards as something grabs me by the collar and hauls me backwards. Elliot screams, desperately grasping for the hands on his back, before the vision rolls, blurring as he skids across the floor. 

"No, please," he breathes out, bringing his arms up as the assailant brings a fist up and knocks it across his face. I can make out the barest of features. This is what the detectives want.

"A half-orc woman. Green skin, dark brown hair."

She punches him again, the sickening crunch of his nose rattling my skull.

"Shouldn't'a left us, Ellie!" Another jab to the face. The image is still blurred, by tears and blood, but he manages to spit a tooth in her face. Good on you, Elliot.

I can only watch as Elliot tries to crawl away and is dragged back by the ankle and tossed into his desk like a dishrag. The vision goes black on impact, immediately followed by the crack of splintering wood. I wince in sympathy. That toss definitely broke some ribs. 

Elliot opens his eyes, blurry and blinking against the pain. It's like a slideshow of images, in each photo that half-orc woman moves closer. She kneels in front of Elliot, a hand reaching out to yank him by the hair and drag him across the floor. I hear her voice,  muffled like he has earmuffs on, and I hear her cackle. Elliot begs for his life, barely intelligible strings of words born of fear and desperation.

"No please, I'll double," "Make your dreams true," "Please, please, please don't hurt my dog."

Does he remember any magic from school? A basic defense spell, a ward against evil, anything? He raises his hand to cast a defensive spell, and his hand is slammed down against the ground for his effort. 

"You thought you could hide?" The boot on his hand grinds it into the ground. "You thought you could escape?"

I feel Elliot's panic rising, acid in the back of my throat. I want to scream, but the boot on my throat cuts off my air. 

"No--" He chokes out, begging over and over. 

They quickly draw a sigil with their index finger, a sigil I've never seen before. My stomach drops and I feel like I'm falling, the sheer depth of what's about to happen hitting me all at once. I'm going to die. She's going to kill me. I open my mouth to scream, but the woman sends the glyph with the flick of a finger and everything goes black. 

I come back to the world with a harsh inhale, grasping at my throat for the--no, that isn't me.

My head is spinning with memories I never experienced, sensations I've never felt. Coming out of soul imprints are always rough, but I've never had whiplash like this. It's hard to separate the vision from reality as the brain tries to consolidate the two. 

I squeeze my eyes shut against the headache forming under my temples, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. 

"Where's Paul?" 

The detectives look at each other, then to me. Martinez speaks up, "The dog has been taken to the pound."

The pound?! He'll never survive in--

No, wait. That's Elliot, still in my head. 

Okay, deep breath. In, then out. One more. Okay. The moment of silence stretches as I center myself again. I can feel both detectives staring at me, judging me. 

When I open my eyes, I'm blinded by the light streaming in through the far window. The early morning sun cuts the room into even thirds, and floods me in a sea of gold.  As my eyes adjust gradually to the light, I can make out the desk, nearly split in half. 

I relay Elliot's final moments to them, the more I talk the grimmer their faces become. Martinez takes notes as I speak, his heavy brow folding further and further inward as I go. 

Of the few cases I've consulted on, none have been a murder case. Memories are fickle things, easily manipulated or just flat out erased. It's why this ritual isn't taken seriously anymore, why it's not admissible in court. The brain is suggestible, temperamental. This assailant could wind up having the face of a dead relative, or transform into Paul the dog, it depends on the victim. But the face I see is the same one I saw in the back of the police car on the way here. The last moments of a soul can vary in presentation, depending on the manner of death, the memory of the passed, and a whole bunch of other things I don't have control over. 

As Martinez flips his notebook shut, the two of them share a look and then walk out of the room to talk, leaving me alone.

I stand, averting my gaze from the corpse of my friend, trying to look anywhere else. Elliot knew her, knew this woman, but he never mentioned any half-orc. Was she a vengeful ex, or maybe an old friend? The imprint didn't tell me much, but Elliot wasn't confused by her presence, he knew her from somewhere--but where?

A glint of light catches my eye, right under the desk. Like a bit of exposed metal or a screw. The curious part of my soul wants to pick it up, to have something of Elliot's that I can cherish. The coat is going in the donation pile-- knowing I never returned it will be a boon on my soul.

It's almost completely jammed inside the wood, my nails just long enough to pry it out without breaking any. Upon inspection, the piece isn't a piece at all--it's a button, about the size of a dollar coin. On the face is a sigil, but one that looks corrupted. It's similar to the symbols on Elliot's body, chaotic, with no flow to it. I've never seen it before. There's a splash of blood on one face, dark red and dried. Could it be important? It's small enough to miss on an initial sweep of the premise, and logic dictates that I should give it to the police. 

I go to the door, hoping to provide some useful information, when the voices of the two men make me stop.

"Did we really need her here? We have our murderer."

"I don't like it either, but the boss asked for her specifically. When that magic shit actually works it helps a lot, apparently."

"Well it didn't help today. She looked around and told us what we already knew."

"At least we don't have to pay her," the new one says, and Martinez scoffs a laugh. 

I scoff under my breath. They think I'm useless? Well, I'm going to find out what this button means--without their help. It slips easily to the bottom of my pocket when the two walk back in and I'm pretending to examine the cracked desk.

"Please don't touch anything," not-Martinez drones. "This is an active crime scene."

I put on my cheeriest face, the one I use when grouchy customers try to call me a hack when my luck charm didn't win them the lottery. "Of course not, detectives. Did you need anything else?"

Martinez offers me a sympathetic expression. "Do you have anything else to tell us?"

For a split moment, I fear my thievery has been discovered. My hand falls to my dress pocket where the button is stored, but neither of the detectives are looking at me accusingly. They're just bored. They're not after me, they want me gone.

"I wish I had more to tell," I confess, gesturing down to Elliot, but still resolutely not looking at him. "He knew the murderer--"

"Alleged," the new one  mutters.

"And I don't recognize any of these sigils." I sweep my arm over the circle on his body and the floor. Bright orange, arranged in a circle, the center right where Elliot's head should be.

"Well, thanks for the help," he mutters sarcastically.

"This is a pretty open and shut case," Martinez says, looking down at Elliot. "We have the perp in custody. Think you could magic up a better confession?"

The two of them share a chuckle, and I try not to seem too indignant as I force a smile. I know Martinez isn't being cruel on purpose, he's just a callous guy. I'm glad I don't work with him.

I step out of the room and I feel like I can breathe. There's another room to the right of me, filled with officers. That's Elliot's bedroom. I can walk in there as easy as breathing, I know there's a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony that overlooks the yoga studio across the street. The wheel on the door squeaks when it opens. 

Elliot's shop is next to mine, but his home is a few blocks away, about a ten minute walk in the opposite direction. I wonder if the shop is closed, or if his brother Brenan is running it today.

"Lucy!" Alma's voice rings out from the bottom of the stairs. She pushes through her subordinates, flitting over to me on her translucent pink wings. At first she seems excited to see me, but her face falls as she gets closer. "You look like hell."

I rub my arm. I just want to go. "Been a long day."

She reads something in my face, her brows pinching in concern. "Did you know him?"

I can't lie my way out of a paper bag, so I nod.

Alma grimaces. "Shit, I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if--"

"It's fine," I say in a rush. "Honestly if I had heard it from somewhere else I would've broken."

She rubs her hands up and down my arms. "If you're sure…"

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "Yeah, yeah."

"Were Martinez and Becker nice?"

I shrug and offer her a smile. "They were just doing their jobs."

She looks past me, and glares. She's a full head shorter than me, nearly my opposite in appearance. Short blonde hair, pale white skin, petite frame and an angular face. We've been friends since grade school, and she always has my back. "I'll talk to them later."

I cringe. "You really don't have to." I'd hate for her to yell at them over me, they were just doing their jobs.

She turns those hard brown eyes to me. "I asked you here for a reason. If they don't respect that, they need an attitude adjustment."

I pull her into my chest in a hug. "Thanks, Alma."

Her tiny hands pat my back reassuringly. "Go home and get some rest. You need a ride?"

"I'll walk." I pull back and Alma eyes me skeptically. "I need the fresh air, promise."

She squeezes my arm. "Call if you need anything, and I'll stop by on Friday."

After another hug, I start down the stairs and out the front door. I don't get very far before I'm stopped by Carlos, another relatively new officer who doesn't look up from his laptop to hand me a business card.

"If you think of anything, give us a call," he drones, and I slip the card, which presumably has his number on it, in my pocket. It's going straight in the garbage.

After another lengthy questioning session, some papers to sign stating my silence on the subject, and more condescending glances I really don't need, I'm finally allowed to step out of Elliot's home and into the street.

A crowd has gathered, just past the barricade setup by the department. Police lights and their bright yellow border spells are like magnets to the general populace. There's a group of reporters with their cameras and flash bulbs, surrounding several officers already trying to get as much information as possible out of them. 

I slink by unnoticed, and for that I'm glad. I push through the sparse crowd on the sidewalk and into the freedom of the street. It's a clear day, blue skies, the wind in my hair would be nice on the bike--

No, I don't have a bike.

The street is full of cars, the sidewalk full of pedestrians. Human, fae, fiend, and everything in between crowd around me, commuting to work, or going home, or even just out for a stroll. All of them blithely unaware that just around the corner, on the second floor of the suite, lies a dead man. And the world just keeps turning. It doesn't feel fair.

Categorizing what I need to do in my head is a decent enough distraction. Mrs. Kinoko ordered a long-lasting protective charm for her daughter that's moving at the end of the month, and I can work on that in my lunch. The Dredsy twins need their weekly cleansing water which I have waiting for them in the back room. A gentleman named Leon asked for a bundle of lavender charms for his home to ward of thieves.

I round the corner and nearly stop walking. There's a line outside my shop that reaches the next shop over. I walk past the black marble and darkened windows of Mr. Engstrom's clock repair, also taking the chance to catch a glimpse inside. Nothing, as usual. 

I walk to the front door and dissolve the seal keeping the door locked. “Good afternoon everyone, thank you for waiting!���

“You in trouble, hun?” Ms. Garrett asks with a smile. “The cops finally caught ya?”

“You know it,” I reply with a wink, and a few people chuckle.

There's a lot to do, a lot of orders to fill, and I'm jittery. This morning threw me off, toppled my plans. I have charms to make and talismans to saturate. The wards around the shop to notify me of theft are starting to dim so I need to reset those, and the sprigs of lavender growing in my windowsill are starting to sag, so I probably need to water them with extra love. There's just so much to do my head is spinning as everyone outside rushes into my shop.

"Do you have any more of this cream?"

"How about my Polly--you know her, right?--any charms to make her schooling go well?"

"Did you see all the police down the street?"

"Oh yes, I've seen them! Nasty business, that."

Conversation and the buzz of a busy afternoon flows over me like water, I'm so overstimulated that nothing has any meaning anymore. The talk of Elliot feels like a thorn in my side, something I need to square away for later. That's an issue for after the shop has closed, after everyone has gone home and I go upstairs to mourn in silence.

"Here Mrs. Briggs, give three doses to your husband and his arthritis should start to feel better."

"No--! Please don't touch that! It's decoration only!"

"Yes, I'm so sorry about that, let me offer you a refund."

I don't get a chance to think about much of anything. It's all turned into noise, a pleasant fuzz that surrounds my head like a raincloud. By the time the day is over, I'm collapsing into a hot bath and nearly falling asleep in it.

Only when I fold my dress over a chair does that button fall out of my pocket. I pick it up off the floor, examining it in the low light of the room. Taking it to the sink, I scrub the dried blood off, watching it swirl down the sink in a red-brown haze.

The button glows, a soft silver light projecting onto my hand. The corrupted glyph on both faces is apparent, and when I angle it away from my face, I see the glyph almost takes on the image of a face. It's got an angry expression, with horns jutting out from the head and cheeks.

The button catches the light again, reflecting the yellow glow of the room, and reflects onto my hand. Suddenly, the button glows red-hot, the sigil burning into my palm like a brand. I drop the button with a yelp, the smell of burnt skin invading my nose. Rushing to turn on the sink I run my hand under cold water to assuage the pain, and it helps a little, but when I pat my hand dry, in the center of my palm sits that corrupted sigil.

From my bathroom, I grab a salve, rubbing it over the burn mark and leaving the button on the counter. Sigils don't…do that. At least, no sigil I've come across has ever burnt me. Eyeing it from the bathroom like the button will grow legs and charge at me, I step into my room and shut the door. Today has been chaos, absolute chaos, and I don't have time for demonic buttons. I can worry about it tomorrow.

Hand throbbing, I fall into a fitful sleep, hoping tomorrow brings less heartbreak.

Chapter 2 >>