Month 1, 920
Endergaln
Victor Horton’s uptown apartment was one of the largest Ethan had ever seen—wide-plank floors polished to a dull gleam, tall windows framing the city’s distant tramlines like strands of silver wire. A faint wind rattled them, carrying the muffled clatter of hooves across cobblestone and all the hustle and bustle of the streets far below.
Inside, the space felt like a private gallery: clean lines, muted colors, furnishings arranged with mathematical care. Subtle art hung in frames. A crystal decanter sat in the exact center of a low table, its contents untouched.
No flowers. No drapes drawn in mourning. No scent of grief—just bare walls and the faint tannic ghost of old tea.
“He wouldn’t,” Vanessa Horton insisted yet again, her voice barely above a whisper. Victor’s sister stood near the desk, a small woman swallowed by the open space. Her fingers rested lightly on the corner of an old family photo, as if even touching the glass might break the memory the image captured. “He hated heights. Couldn’t even climb a ladder to hang a picture frame. So how could he jump—”
She swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness.
Ethan shifted the papers she’d given him across the desk: the will, the brief constable report typed out by a ribbon that needed to be swapped out a dozen pages ago… and a suspiciously timed withdrawal slip for fifty thousand gold dated a few days prior to his death.
No note. No warning. Just a body broken against the hard stone streets. A fall like that erased pretty much whatever else had been done to it, short of gunshots or deep stabs; Victor’s body had neither.
So maybe it was suicide. Desperate people make strange decisions. Victor didn’t seem desperate. But all Ethan had were hunches—and Vanessa wasn’t paying for those. She wanted answers.
“I’ll see what I can find,” he assured her.
Ten days later, Ethan returned to the townhouse of late Victor Horton’s widow—Beatrice. He had spoken to her only once before and disliked her instantly.
The feeling was most certainly mutual.
Many married couples (with the means to do so) had their own, individual homes within the city, as well as a larger ‘shared’ home that was typically used for hosting events and family gatherings.
The Horton’s definitely had the means.
Beatrice’s townhouse breathed a different kind of wealth from Victor’s: louder, with heavy drapes and deep carpets.
She answered the door herself. Her dark hair was pinned back. She wore a dress too elegant for mourning. Her perfume reached him before her smile did, the latter faded when she saw him.
“Mrs. Horton,” Ethan said, stepping into the parlor with a faint, wolfish smile. She’d opened the door wide—custom in this neighborhood, where people assumed doors were never forced and guests never impolite.
The place smelled faintly of bergamot. The air was warm enough to press against the skin. On the mantle, a clock ticked with a slow, even pulse. She followed after him, equal parts shocked by the audacity and unnerved by the intrusion.
“Mr. Thorne,” she started. “This is highly inappropriate, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to-“ he cut her off.
“I know about the Lunestine in his tea.”
She froze.
“The apothecary remembered you. All four apothecaries remembered you. Clovewater is expensive…” He sniffed once, audibly. “And you use too much of it,” he noted of her distinct and heavily layered perfume.” She ignored the insult.
“And,” he continued, “you bought the same thing at each of them: Lunestine extract.”
“I’ve got trouble sleeping,” she replied flatly.
“First of all, with Lunestine, sleep is only one drink away!” Ethan said, quoting the popular advertisement. “Second, even if that were true, you bought enough sedative to drop a draft horse.” His gaze flicked toward the window. “Third, just to be thorough, I checked - your horses sleep fine.”
She continued to shoot daggers with her eyes but said nothing.
“I know Joseph helped you toss Victor over the railing after you’d dosed him. I know it’s been eating away at Joseph, and he’s been drinking too much ever since…”
“I know that you tried to write a note, but tossed it out because the signature pages Victor usually kept handy were missing; didn’t catch that one until after he was out cold did you? Victor was a creature of habit and those notes were always in that desk drawer. I can only imagine how pissed you were when that turned out not to be the case…”
She stared at him. Arms folded, chin tilted just enough to suggest defiance.
If looks could kill…
“I know exactly what you did, and how you did it. I know everything…” Ethan paused for dramatic effect, turning to face her piercing gaze head on.
“…and I don’t care.”
For the first time since he’d started speaking, the faint lines of confusion crept into her expression.
Ethan pulled his eyes away from hers and allowed them to travel slowly over the expensive fixtures, making it obvious as he took stock of her lavish furnishings what it was that he wanted even before he said it. “Keep his name. Keep his fancy homes and nice furniture. Hell, keep your weak side-piece of a man if you want.” His eyes returned to hers.
“But I want half.”
She balked. “Half?!” A single, dry laugh of disbelief and indignation said everything. “You have nothing but conjecture… and you want HALF??.”
“Half the money,” Ethan clarified. “I don’t need half of the man.”
Her scowl sharpened.
“But if I do get half of him,” Ethan added, “I’m taking the top. I’ve got no use for the bottom.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“About the money? Yes. The man part was me trying to be funny.”
He pressed an envelope into her palm. A city courier’s mechanical stamp marked the corner:
“First mistake,” Ethan said. “The old doorman logs everyone. Want to guess the description of the man he saw leaving just after Mr. Horton hit the streets? I’ll give you a hint. He looks a lot like one Joseph Silverm—”
“Enough,” she said. Her left eye twitched.
“It’s hard to get away with murder, Mrs. Horton. And you didn’t.”
The room went still. The clock on the mantle ticked like a hammer.
Ethan broke the silence first, his tone flat, transactional. “Two nights from now. Midnight. The old Bottleworks plant. Payment in platinum or diamond, makes no difference. I’ll trade it for all the other mistakes you two made. Pay up—and your amateur foray into mariticide stays between us.”
He let the threat hang and walked out, boots soundless against the thick carpet.
The old Bottleworks Plant was half-shuttered and dripping with condensation. The air tasted of rust and steam; the hiss of pipes echoed faintly off the iron walls. A light rain pattered against the roof, each drop joining the slow metallic rhythm.
The murderous pair of lovers arrived together—her in gloves and a dark coat trimmed with heavy fur, him with a satchel clutched close to his side. Their footsteps left damp prints on the smooth slab.
Ethan stood near the center, partly veiled by a stream of vapor curling from a cracked pipe.
“Looks like you two are better about handling blackmail than you are with murder,” he said. “Drop the coin. Back away.”
Joseph Silverman leaned forward. “And what if we say no?” His voice cracked with forced bravado.
“Then I take this to the constables.” Ethan tapped the rectangular box in his hand. “More than enough evidence to find you two guilty.”
The steam shifted as he took a step forward, letting the pause stretch.
“Or,” Ethan added, “third option: you could just accompany me there now. Confess to the crime. Hard to blackmail people who have already admitted to their crimes—not a lot to leverage against them…” he said, waving the evidence box.
Joseph’s shoulders slumped. He had been badly shaken ever since the murder; the only one of the pair with an obvious conscience.
“It wasn’t supposed to go this far…” Joseph started.
“Don’t,” Beatrice snapped, “say another word!”
“He knows!” the lover muttered, more to himself than anyone. “He knows and I don’t want to—”
He was cut off. The widow’s hand darted into her jacket. She drew a pistol and leveled it at Joseph’s chest.
“Beatrice!” the lover started, instinctively raising his hands and dropping the case to the ground and backing away slightly. He stared at the pistol in disbelief.
“I told you to SHUT. UP,” she commanded. “He’s going to give us whatever he has and tell us anything he knows. Otherwise…” she cocked the hammer of the pistol and aimed it towards Ethan.
“Whoa, lady. You couldn’t get away with one murder. You think you’re gonna do better with two?” Ethan taunted.
Her voice trembled with incredulity. “You stupid, meddling little shit. You think someone like you was ever going to get the better of someone like me?!”
Ethan raised his hands slightly but didn’t move.
“You have no idea what I went through to get that money. Victor was a dull, ugly, stupid, boring…”
Ethan cut her off. “It’s poor taste to kill a man and insult him. But I’ve seen your home—taste was never your strong suit.” Ethan paused, then added, “But with all that against him, why marry Victor at all?”
“Because I didn’t know he was also CHEAP!” she spat in response.
The steam hissed louder for a moment, as if the room itself were reacting. Silence fell again.
Ethan tilted his head. “Lady, there’s no shame in whoring yourself out. But murdering your clients afterward…? That’s just unprofessional.”
Her eyes widened with hate; her face twisted with rage. She pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked and was swallowed by the hiss of the pipes. Ethan dropped hard. The ‘evidence’ box hit the slab and split open. The splintered top skittered across the floor. The box was empty. Beatrice’s breath caught—too late she realized she’d shot at a bluff.
Joseph looked at the broken box, eyes wide with shock. “He was lying!” Joseph exclaimed, stating the obvious.
Beatrice was just about to spit further venom towards her dimwitted lover when the doors of the enormous room burst open. Constables spilled in, carrying pistols of their own, waving batons, blowing whistles and loudly barking commands.
The widow spun, pistol still raised but without a target. Joseph threw his hands in the air and cowered to his knees.
“He—he was trying to blackmail us!” Beatrice fumbled for a lie as the men closed in around her, shouting commands. “He—he attacked us—!”
“Save it,” one constable said, ripping the discharged pistol from her hands. “We heard the whole damn thing.”
Another knelt beside Ethan. “Gods, Thorne! Are you hit?!”
Ethan groaned, sitting up slowly with a hand to his ribs.
“It’s nothing,” he grunted. “Mithral jacket.”
The thin, durable layer stopped the bullet but the impact radiated across his entire chest.
The constable helped him to his feet. Ethan limped toward the wall, leaning against the cool iron until his breath evened.
“One tough bastard…” someone muttered behind him.
Later, fog blanketed the alleys, muting the city’s edges. The air smelled of rain and metal. Ethan limped slowly towards his office, alone, one hand in his pocket, the other pressed lightly to the swelling on his chest. The pocketed hand held an updated report from the constables that he was looking forward to handing off to his client.
He visited Vanessa Horton the next day. Her home was similar to Victor’s, only larger. The perks of being the eldest, it would seem.
He told her the story. He explained what happened and handed her the report from the constables. Joseph had already corroborated everything.
She tried to press a heavier purse into his hand. “Please. You earned it,” she insisted.
Ethan held it for a moment, then pushed it back.
“No need.” He said. “We already agreed on payment.”
She opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off.
“But… I could use a favor…”
“Of course!” she said. “Name it.”
He explained, and she agreed without hesitation.
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