[???? Trombone - AronChupa ¢ Little Sis Nora.]
• THE COLD SEA, FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER.
Rosamunde flipped closed the newspapers in her hands. Another grim death for her to investigate. A Count, this time. She would be on the shores of the polis in a short while. And so, Rosamunde fingered the chaplet hanging down her neck as she thought to how to best proceed with his case.
It was high society she would be dealing it; being invited by the fey Queen herself. Her thumb caressed the black praying beads. One would think a person who saw death as much as she did would be atheist. Or worse, antichrist. But she wasn't.
From a small godly town called Antioch on the many isles fringing the Cold Sea, Rosamunde had been brought up to love the Martyr with as much devotion as the angels to He.
The vileness of the mortal world could not dim in her eyes the grace of the Holy One, or her faith in his monks. Such devotion was almost sexual. She had seen many horrible murder sites, scenes of crime that would make the Highfather shit his cassock. But she was steadfast. To Rosamunde, being a halfbreed vampire with an SS-RANK [Righteous Detective] system was her calling.
There was no avoiding it. She loved her job.
Standing with the wind slithering through her straight black bob, Rosamunde scowled at the staring men on the ship's helm with her who salivated at her delicious body. A blessing from her islandic descent. She payed them no mind as she inhaled the sea breeze and gripped at the metal bars. Rosamunde had always loved the sea.
Her thoughts turned again to what she knew about the case she'd taken on:
One: The corpse had been found this morning. Since the body was that of a motherfucking socialite rich out his ass, she'd have to deal with egos, longheld scandals, and lying bitches. But at least it wasn't a whodunwhat.
Two: Some man was to join her at the Count's villa to work the case. The details of this partner of hers remained a mystery. Somehow, when she tried to get more information from her superiors about him, they all feigned disinterest and changed the topic.
But Rosamunde was not [SS-RANK] for nothing. She knew something was up, if not with the murder alone then with her mystery partner.
She blinked when she spotted the beaches in the distance. It was packed at the portside with docking ships. Her vessel joined the route to the shore and one last time, Rosamunde took a long, long breath of the precious sea breeze and the tropical smell of home.
[???? Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby – Cigarettes After Sex.]
It was now half an hour since she docked and ridden in a carriage for the Penderghast villa, map in hand. She had just entered the residence, led in by a maid. She noticed the silent rooms and forlorn hallways. Always, as in the case of murder mysteries.
Dt. Rosamunde Spears watched the housemaid bow again before taking her leave. She turned just in time to welcome the Queen's greeting with a kiss on both cheeks. It wasn't her first meeting with Her Majesty. They'd been schoolmates for a time at the [C. A.
W].
Though Rosamunde had never met the ruffian, giant man who stood brooding over a covered body, she instinctively knew in her guts that this was her mysterious partner who everyone was too chicken to speak about.
He was strangely, hypnotically beautiful.
His features were roguish, dark and wild. He reminded her of the huge gray wolf in the legends. The instant surge of feminine awareness that flooded her on sighting him shocked her. Really, it terrified her. It eroded the professionalism she had always strived for and maintained in her job.
"Come Rosamunde, meet the Earl of Emberfall, Lord Israfel BlüdThïrste. He is a very close friend."
Rosamunde noticed the use of 'very' in Giselle's introduction. She tried to avoid the giant man's wicked yellow eyes until they were toe to toe. And she could avoid no more. She pulled on her tough lady pants and mustered a very stern outlook as she raised her gaze to meet his.
But her discipline was shattered in his frightful iris.
All morality and religion fled her thoughts.
"Once again, Detective Spears, please forgive my daughter's manners. She's usually tame. But I don't think Bruna yet sees the whole picture. As clearly stated in CLUE II, this...murderer grabbed my husband in the final moments of his life. To grab a man on both sides requires two arms. Like this—"
She demonstrated before continuing, "I think that narrows down our investigation from just any beast or Nonmagical. I THINK it narrows it down a whole lot. Nonetheless, we still have a pretty wide arc to go down in such a thriving mystic Empire with diverse magical factions.
We know now that the killer must have AT LEAST three arms to hold him and execute the death blow at the same time. The list could range from a mutated Komodo centipede, to a four-armed Mauler, to the islandic celestial sprite Benn'u. You know, the one with the many arms? It's fucking tiring."
Rosamunde dropped back the sheet while Cordelia was still speaking. She smiled then. A long sure smile that wet her plump lips.
"But there is a fourth clue," said Rosamunde.
Rising to her full height, she began to trace her way around the body in a circle. She explained in lay terms for them all.
"You see the sort of greenish glitter all around the corpse?" She paused for everyone to peer in and nod. "That's the remains of a [Divine] aura. A mutated insect didn't do this. NO! Neither a Hellion, nor a goddess with multiple arms. This was the work of a Rank S trickster.
Someone so powerful at the art of deception he could mimick the ability of other epic creatures.
An emerald arcane print signifies the touch of one blessed by the deity, Loki. We are dealing with a killer bearing the mark and flame of the god of mischief. But not just any killer, a murderer ascended into the [Supernatural] rank. I'm afraid, the good Count wasn't his first kill—or his thousandth. I'm sure by now you all know who I refer to.
There is only one [Divine] entity with copycat skills potent enough to successfully dupe the abilities of others this way. I'm talking about the notorious fiend and Archdemon..."
"MEPHISTOPHELES!"
Everyone chanted as one.
Rafel hissed through his grinded teeth and turned away.
"Mother. Fucker."
Rosamunde stopped pacing. Her silver cane hit the floor. She narrowed her gray eyes on him.
"You know our killer?"
"Meph is a distant relative," said Rafel.
"Meph? Relative?"
Rosamunde's interest in him spiked. There were so many questions on her lips. Giselle replied the immediate one. "Lord BlüdThïrste is a Hell Prince. The Apollyon. Rafel is short for Israfel, the prophesied Burning One."
By the time the fey Queen stopped talking, Rosamunde's jaw hung down to the shined floors.
"What! So you're a literal demon then?"
This time, it was Rafel who narrowed his eyes. "I am the only surviving spawn of The Fallen. But yes... I am demon."
He meant it personally—he, a demon and not the entire faction—and it was hella scary to Rosamunde. Unconsciously, she fingered the black rosary beads close to her chest. The holy necklace drew Rafel's attention to the delicious cleavage she tried to hide. He spoke to Giselle directly when he said,
"I have locked down Emberfall for the night, Your Majesty. But if Mephistopheles is here, ON EARTH, you might have to lock down the entire kingdom."