Better Left Buried

“Promises made in shadow are kept in blood.”

— Calystria Dane,

Fifth Prophet of the First Order

***

My vision narrowed. The rain and the world around me faded to black. It was just me and them. Nasal Goon fumbled in his jacket, pulling out a knife. Perfect. He lunged at my chest. I let him connect, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him close. His eyes went wide, and I grinned, a smile that screamed, “you messed up, kid.” I twisted his wrist until I heard a loud crack. He screamed.

The hunger grew. Another thug swung a punch at my gut. I sidestepped, closed the distance, grabbed his collar, and hammered my forearm into his neck, over and over, until he crumpled.

Weakness crept in now. The first attacker stumbled forward again. I rushed him, tackled him to the ground, and slammed his head into the concrete. Each impact a punctuation mark in my furious tirade.

Two more thugs stepped up, one with brass knuckles, the other with a rusty pipe. Where in the abyss did he get that?

The bar doors swung open. Murphy stepped out, shotgun in hand, his red hair slicked back. “You’ve got until the count of three to get the damned rift off my property,” he growled. “Three…” He fired a shot, aiming high. The goons scattered, dragging their fallen comrades with them.

Murphy lowered the shotgun, eyes locking onto mine. “You alright, Jack?” he asked, voice softer now. I nodded, still catching my breath. Murphy shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips.

I blinked away the haze, my senses returning.

“You okay, miss?” I asked, trying to soften my expression.

The woman, drenched and shaking from shock, clung to her red dress. Strands of brunette hair stuck to her face, framing her eyes. Even soaked and shivering, she exuded elegance. I chided myself for thinking of such things at a time like this.

“I’m fine,” she managed between shivers.

“Come on, let’s get you inside and warmed up.”

Murphy led us in. He saw me in the full light of the bar. “Jesus, Jack, you look like something the cat dragged in, ate, and then puked up.”

“Nice to see you too, Murph.”

“I’ve had prettier bowel movements. Much prettier.”

We settled by the fire, and Murphy brought our mystery woman a towel.

Walking into Murphy’s Lost and Found Saloon was like stepping into another world, perched between the strange and the familiar. The flickering fireplace took center stage, casting a warm glow over the cozy space. Plush armchairs circled the hearth, inviting patrons to relax. This place was more than a bar; it was a home filled with the mingling scents of wood smoke and whiskey, cut with just a hint of magic.

Saints, I could go for a coffee.

The saloon occupied what used to be the living and dining rooms of a two-story house. Instead of a grand dining table, there were barstools and small, round tables for intimate chats. The back rooms served as storage, and I called the upstairs home. Murphy, ever the gracious host, seated us by the fire.

The bar itself was a polished mahogany monolith, standing tall and imposing. Each scratch and groove whispered tales of countless toasts, shared laughter, and spilled tears. Soft orange light from the streetlamp filtered through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the well-worn wooden floor. Murphy tended the fire, shadows dancing on the brick wall behind him. Shelves behind the bar overflowed with bottles of every shape and hue, creating a shimmering mosaic. A potion to cure any ailment. A drink for love lost, a drink to deal with terrible bosses, a drink for the hapless, and a drink to celebrate. But not a drop to cure my particular condition.

In the corner, a piano played itself, weaving a soft, haunting melody that mingled with the low hum of conversation. The room was a vibrant tapestry of beings from all walks of life, human and otherworldly. Their voices created a symphony of strange words and dialects, blending into a universal language of camaraderie and chaos.

Murphy glided through the bustling crowd, his red hair catching the flicker of the fireplace’s warm glow. He was the guardian angel—or perhaps a fallen one—of this quirky sanctuary, a protector for the lost and the found. He offered a nod here, a comforting word there. Murphy’s was more than a bar; it was a safe haven where the bizarre and the broken came to find a moment of respite. A place where time and space bent to the power of human connection and the resilience of the human spirit. Amidst the clinking glasses and murmured stories, reality blurred, and for a half-breath, if you squinted, everyone found their true place in the vast expanse of the universe.

Murphy brought us blankets to warm up, though I didn’t feel cold. An unspoken truth lingered among the patrons—I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Murphy was Devil Kissed. He’d spent his life surrounded by magic, welcoming everyone into his bar. Maybe he had a bit of fae in his ancestry, or perhaps he made an old deal with a demon. Who could judge? There was so much good in the worst of us and bad in the best of us that it was an abyssal shame for any of us to talk about the rest of us.

Full demons couldn’t linger in our world without going mad, but their influence left a mark. Those who dabbled with demonic artifacts or made pacts with demons started to change, earning the name Devil Kissed. The more they were influenced, the more they bore the mark of the Otherworld.

Then there were the Hexborn—those with non-human ancestry in their bloodlines. It was a forbidden topic, something that could ruin lives if mentioned in unfriendly company. But here, in Murphy’s establishment, the Devil Kissed and Hexborn found a fragile truce, their secrets safe.

Devil Kissed showed signs—faintly glowing eyes, an unnatural grace, a voice with a hint of the abyss. The Hexborn had non-human ancestry—Pixie Touched, Fae Touched, Wolf Touched—each with distinctive traits.

In my heyday, even I started showing signs. Until I put Frank away, hints of demon influence clung to me.

Some folks were real hypocrites. They called themselves Pure, like they were better than the rest of us. But they ran their lights on Infernum, cooked their meals with Shadefire, and drove cars fueled by Nightstone oil. Their homes were powered by the same dark currents that kept our world ticking, yet they still had the gall to call us Tainted.

Rift soot coated everything in monochrome, draining the world of color. You only saw real color inside homes, on magical items, or when you wiped the soot away.

These self-righteous clowns would persecute you, fire you on the spot if you were found to be Hexborn. Like they were somehow above it all. But guess what? Even they couldn’t escape the rift. Rift stuck to the backs of angels and demons alike, so the saying went. We were all Devil Kissed to some degree.

Magic wasn’t just a part of our lives now, it was our lifeblood. Ever since those rifts started tearing open, we couldn’t live without it. But that was a thought for another time.

Now, I sat and stared at the woman before me.

The rain outside died down. The fire crackled, our hands slowly thawing in the warmth. Silence hung between us like an old friend we didn’t need to entertain. And I was perfectly fine with that.

The piano stopped playing as a bard sauntered up to the makeshift stage in the corner, her lute resting easy against her hip. With a few practiced strums, the bar hummed to life with soft, melodic chords. For a breath, I let the world’s weight slip off my shoulders.

She was a woman with warm brown skin and eyes that gleamed like jade. Faint lines creased her face, the only tell of her years. Angelica. Her voice? It was a lullaby for the restless, smoothing out the jagged edges of my thoughts. She crooned about lands we dreamt of and adventures we craved, spinning tales of fierce damsels who saved themselves and rugged men discovering their souls. Her songs were like a cozy quilt on a bitter winter’s night.

The room hushed, spellbound by her melody. I savored the quiet, a rare gift for my stormy mind.

As her first song faded, I broke the spell. Leaning forward, elbows digging into my knees, I finally spoke.

“So, how about we start with a name and what brings you to my dingy little corner of the world?” I asked, keeping it light, though my curiosity was anything but casual.

She looked at me, and for a moment, her eyes pulled me in like a riptide. Pain seared through my chest, snapping me back to reality.

“Aylin. Aylin McGuffey. I’m looking for someone,” she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Who exactly are you hoping to find around here?” I scanned the room, noting the usual suspects—locals, lowlifes, and the kind of riffraff that blended in perfectly with the worn-out decor.

“A man named Jack Callaghan. Do you know him?” Her voice wavered, and she stared down at her hands as if they held the answers.

I frowned. “Yeah, I know him. What’s your business with that particular piece of work?”

She hesitated, fingers knotting together. “I... I can’t say.”

I leaned back, arms crossed, giving her the once-over. “Can’t or won’t? Look, if you want my help, honesty’s not optional.”

Her eyes lifted, fear mingling with a desperate plea. “I... I need his help.”

I sighed, realizing this was going to be a long night. The flicker of the fireplace danced across her face, casting soft shadows that highlighted her raw, unrefined beauty. There was an authenticity to her that was hard to ignore.

“Alright, Aylin. Spill it. What’s so dire that you’d seek out the infamous Jack Callaghan? Haven’t you heard? He’s washed-up, out of business. Hasn’t had a steady job in years.”

Murphy returned with a few more towels and two steaming mugs. “What’s this?” I asked, eyeing the drink with suspicion.

“Second fastest way to warm someone up that I know of,” he replied. The aroma hit me gently: sweet, hot, and undeniably alcoholic. I was pretty sure it was Earl Grey spiked with buttered rum.

“Second?” Aylin blushed at his knowing wink.

“Go easy on it. This stuff will knock you on your ass faster than your mother can spit,” Murphy warned.

I took a cautious sip. It barely registered on my tongue. “Watering down the drinks again, Murph?”

He shot me a quizzical look, then grabbed another bottle from the shelf and poured me a shot. “Alright, big shot. Have a go at this one.”

I downed the shot. Still nothing. I shrugged.

“Saints help you, Jack.” Murphy had never been one to back down from a challenge. The fire in his eyes told me he’d made it his personal mission to find something strong enough to hit.

“Jack? You’re Detective Jack Callaghan?” Aylin’s eyes widened in recognition.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time.”

“You look nothing like your photo.” She pulled an old newspaper clipping from her purse. Famed Hunter Faces Tragedy... There was an old photo of me and Frank.

The sting of the memory knotted my nerves, leaving me on edge. “Mind telling me what in the abyss is going on here?” I snapped. “How do you know who I am? And who were those men?”

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t easy finding you.”

“Talk faster, kid.” I braced myself on the seat, ready to bolt at the next wrong word.

“Listen, Mr. Callaghan, I’ve come a long way. If you could just hear me out. It’s my uncle,” she paused, searching for the words.

“Spit it out.”

“He’s been murdered. And those men who attacked me, they’re after me too.” Her eyes, deep and blue like an ocean storm, threatened to pull me under.

“I didn’t know where else to go. You’re my last hope, Jack.” Her hands trembled—fear or cold, didn’t matter. Both were dangerous.

“Go to the police.”

Aylin’s voice dropped to a whisper. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “The police say it was suicide. But I know that can’t be true.” She clutched a delicate silver key, hands shaking. “My uncle Robert was found in his study. But suicide is ridiculous. He couldn’t stand the sight of a paper cut, let alone...”

As Aylin kept talking, I reached under the table and fished out one of the hardlines Murphy stashed around the bar for anyone that wanted to jack in. I’ve always preferred hardwired data—the kind you could feel thrumming through the cable, real and grounded. The Grid feed? Wireless? It’s too slick, too invasive. I don’t trust it crawling around in my head unless I’ve got no other choice. Most days, I keep my tech dark, off-grid and untouchable.

The connection clicked into place with a faint hum, and I leaned back, the hardline coiling across my lap like a metallic serpent.

The feed sputtered to life, its patchy signal clawing through layers of static and interference. Lines of public news and updates jittered across my interface, fits and starts of coherence breaking through the chaos. It was like trying to read headlines through a fogged-up window, but it worked. Just barely.

I ran a quick search, the flickering text streaming across my vision.

The System always seemed one spark away from frying itself—a haphazard web of overloaded nodes and crumbling infrastructure. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough to keep me ahead of the game. For now, at least. I let the slow drip of data wash over me, scanning for anything that might matter.

Robert McGuffey. The name rang a bell.

There it was. That’s why it sounded familiar. Headlines lit up my feed: “Robert McGuffey Found Dead.” I skimmed the article. Throat slit, no sign of forced entry, no suspects. No crime scene photos, just a holo of him—smug grin, designer suit, the whole “rich old man” package.

Suicide, they said. Simple as that. But locked doors? In my line of work, those were just polite suggestions for the supernatural.

“Collectors,” I muttered. “Always digging up things better left buried.”

Her eyes widened with hope, or maybe it was just the bar’s dim light playing tricks. “You believe me?”

“I believe the dead don’t always stay quiet. And collectors? They have a knack for pissing off the wrong kind of spirits.” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Tell me everything you know about those men.”

Her voice steadied. “They wanted something my uncle found. Something... old and powerful. He wouldn’t give it to them. He was a collector of rare artifacts. And he had gotten his hands on an old jewelry box and key.” She handed me the key, an intricate filigree glinting in the dim light. “Gave me this the day before he died. Told me to hold on to it, to keep it secret. Was acting strange, paranoid even.”

I took the key, feeling its weight. “Collectors,” I said again, shaking my head. “Always think they can handle the dark stuff.”

Aylin’s voice trembled. “Do you think... it had something to do with his death?”

I met her gaze, seeing the desperation and fear. “If he was messing with something that powerful, it’s a good bet. But you’ll need more than just a hunch.”

Collectors. They blew their fortunes on trinkets, thinking they were buying power. Most of the time, they were just getting fleeced. Some “demonologist” would sell them a busted toaster dressed up with runes and a good story, and they’d fork over a small fortune, convinced they had the key to ancient power. The dirty demonologists got a kickback, and the collectors got conned. It was a joke—usually.

But sometimes, they stumbled onto something real. And when that happened, it wasn’t just their money at stake. They welcomed darkness into their homes, thinking they could control it. They were wrong. Darkness didn’t get controlled; it consumed. It turned their lives into nightmares and brought ruin to their loved ones. They wanted power, and instead, they got horror.

Guys like McGuffey—greedy, desperate for something they didn’t understand—they got what was coming to them.

Aylin’s voice cracked. “I just want his name cleared. The police won’t listen. The papers are smearing him left and right. It’s sickening. They see an open-and-shut case. But I know it’s not. I need a private investigator. Someone who understands...” She looked at me, pleading. “And when it comes to demons, your name’s the only one in the book.”

I shook my head. “I took my name out of that book, Aylin, for good reason.”

“I’ll pay five hundred thousand creds upfront just to check it out. Another five hundred thousand if you take the case, and a bonus five hundred thousand if you solve it.” She slid a cred-disc across to me. Black market—direct cash, untraceable, uncoded. This wasn’t the kind of currency you picked up at a corner kiosk.

“Please,” she said, her voice steady, but there was a crack just beneath the surface. “Just promise to look into it. That’s all I ask.”

I picked up the disc, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. A half-million large wasn’t exactly pocket change, but what really made me pause was the question running circles in my head— where does a dame like her get uncoded credits like this?

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Damn. There was something in her eyes—a blend of desperation and determination—that was hard to ignore. Plus, the money didn’t hurt. I might be undead, but I still had to pay rent. The advance alone would get me about six months—if I was frugal.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll ask around. But no promises. I’ll cast the line, but if nothing bites, we are done.”

A flicker of hope lit up her face. “Thank you.” She left the key, the money, and a handwritten note with her number on it.

As she walked out, I picked up the key, studying it. Collectors. They always thought they could dance with the devil and come out unscathed. But in the end, it was the devil who led.

Task Log Updated

Assignment Accepted –

1. Ask around about the death of Robert McGuffey.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

1. Optional: Take up the case.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

1. Optional: Discover what really happened to Mr. McGuffey.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

The key glowed faintly silver, pushing the rift soot away like two magnets repelling each other. I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Dames and demons. Why is it always dames and demons?”