“There once was a shepherd boy who was bored as he sat on the hillside watching the village sheep. To amuse himself he took a great breath and sang out, "Wolf! Wolf! The Wolf is chasing the sheep!"
The villagers came running up the hill to help the boy drive the wolf away. But when they arrived at the top of the hill, they found no wolf. The boy laughed at the sight of their angry faces…

...At sunset, everyone wondered why the shepherd boy hadn't returned to the village with their sheep. They went up the hill to find the boy. They found him weeping.
"There really was a wolf here! The flock has scattered! he cried out, "Wolf!" Why didn't you come?"
An old man tried to comfort the boy as they walked back to the village.
"We'll help you look for the lost sheep in the morning," he said, putting his arm around the youth, "Nobody believes a liar...even when he is telling the truth"”



That was the closest thing to evidence left. The drawers had been cleared out, clothes had been removed and all traces that a human had occupied this room had been cleansed save for the mutilated body sprawled out on the carpet. When The Boy Who Cried Wolf had asked the receptionist for the occupant registry they had found it gone from their possession.

There were blood stains splattered across the dirty beige walls and drying into the filthy carpet, a sad way for someone to leave this world were the scene not so grisly in and of itself. The face was beyond recognition, even the body had been host to several cuts and scrapes to make noticing distinguishing features a hefty task, whoever had committed this barbaric act had been sure to get their time’s worth with the victim.

James Carter kneeled down next to the victim, he was Caucasian that much was certain and he was a Tale. Crier knews this from the fact that this motel catered almost exclusively to their kind, the poorer ones anyway. Tales could take ungodly amounts of punishment but Crier suspected that from some of these cuts the killer had abused the victim long after his death, this’d seem like a personal vendetta were it not for the message written in blood on the wall.

“A god am I?....” Crier muttered to himself as he stood up and glared at it before looking back down at the victim.

Some of the cuts didn’t seem to match up with one another Crier had suddenly noticed. He kneeled back down and un-did the victim’s shirt, his pockets were empty but his body may yet yield some kind of clue or M.O

There was one straight cut from the center of his chest down to his stomach, three short claw-like marks on the side of his neck and a strange divot at his heart, further more upon closer inspection the skin left untouched was very pale, the body may not have been warm but the owner had called for assistance not a few hours ago, whilst a time of death couldn’t quite be ascertained Crier was certain it hadn’t happened more than a night ago.

Crier stood up and rubbed his eyes, ’That probably isn’t good.’ he thought to himself, these markings could be traced back to any number of Tales, which is perhaps what the killer wanted, even still it was a lead, a slim one but a place to start none the less, he’d head back to the office and try half-ass a report before quickly taking to the streets again to start getting to the bottom of this.

“So do you know who did it?” The owner asked as Crier exited the room, a short balding man with a stern face and red cheeks, used to be he operated an Inn in The Homelands, most notable for being swindled out of his expensive coat by a thief pretending to be a wolf, now he looked after a sleazy motel in the outskirts to make ends meet.

“No, but I think I may know where to start.” Crier said taking a cigarette out from a packet in his coat and lighting it up.

“Well catch the fucker soon, I can’t sell these shitty rooms if people are afraid someone’ll come in at night and beat ‘em to death!” The innkeeper said with surprising inconsideration for someone who’s property now housed a mutilated dead man.

“You’ll be the first to know” Crier said dryly as they walked down the stairs “Someone’ll be sent down to pick up the body and clean up the blood, the rest of the room’s on you though.”

“Fuck off.” The innkeeper snarled, skulking into the main building muttering to himself as Crier phoned for a taxi.

Perhaps the office trip could wait, the night was still young after all and there were quite a few people Crier wouldn’t mind having a little “chat” with before he retired back to The Homelands building.

And, after all, he hadn’t spoken to his dear friend Little Red Riding Hood in quite some time.,,

Chupacabra

&

Mothman

^{Location: Outside Nevermore Central Park #7}

---

"Don't you give me that frickin' look," Dani, the Chupacabra, shouted with a snort, "I been gettin' plenty of looks today and I don't need no look from you." Shaking her head, Dani leaned heavily back against her taco truck-- that's right HER taco truck. Dani continued the rant, which had been interrupted by her insistence that Mothman not give her that look, by saying, "A lot of people don't get it-- I ain't the one who does stuff, man." She shook her head and gestured to Mothman with her 40oz of cheap beer, "concealed" with a brown paper bag, before telling him, "I bet some shit's happened cause folks been givin' me looks all day-- 'ey man, who spreadin' rumors?" Mothman stared at Dani with concern. He was crouched atop a mailbox, watching Dani guzzle down beer, and had been for around a half hour already. In a placating manner, Mothman gestured toward Dani with both his hands, trying to remind her to calm herself, but she snorted at him then looked away.

"You say that Mothy," replied Dani as if he'd said anything, "But last time I got all these looks was when that shit happened-- You remember? They was all over me like I was like the frickin', like, I dunno, the frickin' Chupacabra or somethin'... Shut up," Dani snapped that last bit. Mothman had began laughing at her latter comment without missing a beat. "Figure of speech, man," Dani scoffed but, she couldn't stifle a slight chuckle. How else was she supposed to describe other Tales' behavior toward her whenever a body turned up?

"Honestly, they always have the wrong person, especially when they had the wrong frickin' person-- which has been a hundred percent of the frickin' time-- Mothy, look man," Dani told Mothman before taking a long gulp of her beer, "I was stressed today-- you see what this is?" She gestured to her liquor then told Mothman, "It's stress relief and okay, I know. I know. You gonna gimmie that look but man-- man I. I needed it." Dani sucked her teeth then began angrily, "Shit! I was about to lose my frickin' mind on that cabrón that claimed he got a frickin' chicken taco when he ordered a beef taco-- I mean-- How can he even tell the difference? It's all ground meat? All frickin--"
Mothman held a finger to his lips and gestured for Dani to lower her voice.
"--I ain't yellin'," Dani yelled in response.
Mothman pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You act like anybody care 'round here look--" Dani slid off of the back bumper of her taco truck, then gestured toward the Nevermore Central Park. "Look look look," she insisted, pointing as she named incidents, "Some hobo's crappin' in a bag, that dog's eatin' a frickin' styrofoam cup, them two hobo's is fightin' over a bench, and what else--" Dani whipped around "--Don' nobody care if I yell out that I frickin' murdered a dude in the last week or if I reach up my frickin' ass and pull out a pot of gold-- Moths, I can yell all I want. They just want some food." With a deep sigh, Dani settled back onto her taco truck bumper, repeating more somberly, "They just want some food, man."

Silence settled between the two. Dani could see Mothman, giving her a pitying expression, out of the corner of her eye, so she turned her head toward the park. Sometimes she really liked the attention he gave her but, it was times like these, that Dani wished he would just flutter off somewhere. Yes, she was drinking. Yes, she wasn't supposed to. Whatever. It didn't matter and she was in control now-- Dani knew that she only needed a little bit. Mothman's pity and his fear for her needed go away at the moment, but then again...

Dani looked over her shoulder toward Mothman. His arms were above his head and he was stretching, a slight yawn coming out of him-- oh, that's right. Dani perked up, "You wan'a breakfast shake?" Tilting his head to the side, Mothman looked off at nothing in particular as he considered her offer. Quietly he nodded, a smile on his face. "Right then," Dani set her beer down on the bumper, as she fished around her apron pockets for keys. Eventually she opened up her food truck. "I'll getcha somethin' in a bit-- it's gettin' close to your gym time ain't it?" Dani asked the question without waiting for an answer-- she knew his schedule well enough. As she stepped within the truck, she called out, "I'll make the one with the extra stuff so you can bench press my frickin' hopes n' dreams, man!" While Chupacabra disappeared within the truck, Mothman remained crouched atop the mailbox. While he waited, he decided to begin his workout with something simple-- a few handstand push-ups to pass the time.

The chime of a brass bell signaled the exit of a young family of four a street corner store. They walked past the glass front windows and out of sight smiling with colorful paper bags clutched in their hands. Contained inside were plump cupcakes delicately decorated with flower like swirls of red and black frosting. The poorly sized paper to-go bags that stored them almost guaranteed their Faberge-like frosted tops would be smooshed by the time the family arrived home to eat them. Red however felt that merely enhanced the flavor.

"Come again!"

Little Red Riding Hood stood behind the glass topped counter of her very own store and waved as her latest customers left. An apron gently stained with a rainbow of dark frostings and batters hung from her neck as a crimson hood rested atop her head, standing out against her morning coffee black hair. Once her customers had disappeared from view she moved quickly and replaced the cupcakes in the display to restore it to full capacity.

As she worked the young girl hummed to herself. The corners of her mouth were turned upwards in a wide smile and every move she took carried with it a bouncing energy of merriment. Anyone who walked by would have simply assumed Red was happy that business was going well.

In reality she was smiling because a vicious murder had been committed.

"It pays to have sources. Usually quite literally!" Red giggled to herself as she straightened out and checked the kitty-cat wall clock she had behind the counter.

"I'll probably be receiving a visit from the Crier any minute now. I wonder if he'll assume I'm the suspect and rough me up before trying to take me in. Ooh, I could really play that up. Me, teary eyed, covered in bruises, behind bars in that shitty little jail we have somewhere. The community would be up in arms once they found out I was innocent. Spinning that hate into getting him under my thumb would be easy, but seeing him eat his gun would be fun too..."

As intriguing as the possibilities were Red knew that the Crier was likely too smart for that. It was unfortunate he was aware of her true nature. Had he remained ignorant Red could see the Crier as a pleasant, particularly useful little marionette to string along with false evidence and leads to put away all the Tales she didn't want in her way. Instead she had to put up with a nosy gumshoe who, thankfully, nearly everyone in the community disliked.

The Big Bad Wolf, the Boy Who Cried Wolf, anything connected to wolves brought back bad memories for the people. Anything he could say against her she could disprove if need be and better yet the people would be more the inclined to side with her even if she couldn't.

Little Red Riding Hood smiled.

"I hope he drops some details on the murder, I might be able to have fun with this..."

---

"Um, speaking of wanting some food could I have a chicken taco? I don't want to interrupt anything though. I can come back later if this isn't a good time..." B.B Wolf said finally approaching the taco truck she had been eyeing from across the street for what was likely several minutes. She'd been eager for something to eat but the sight of a ranting Dani, or Chupa as she called her, and the stench of cheap malt beer made her less then certain if going over the best decision for the day.

Waking up B.B had been informed the day was going to be bad fairly early on. The water to her apartment stopped due to the water heaters bursting, someone had left a bag of heavily used chew toys outside her door, and she'd been informed a murder had been committed only after hanging around outside the shitty motel where it had transpired. After everything that had happened B.B simply wanted some meat in her belly. Because while the thought of an innocent Tale stripped and mutilated on a hotel floor turned her stomach, the smell of blood still made her hungry.

Chupa's truck always felt so hard to find despite parking in pretty predictable places. Yet for B.B there didn't seem to be any real alternatives. Red's pastry shop didn't exactly get up and move around but...even years later the Big Bad Wolf couldn't stand to be anywhere near the girl...

B.B turned her head and gave a small wave at the man squatting atop the nearby mailbox like some kind of buff, Fabio haired pigeon.

Ding! Ding!

Hunched over a wooden work desk with what appeared to be a pistol magazine, but what was actually a PEZ dispenser, was Hansel. The bounty hunter had several pill-shaped candies on his desk that he was feeding into the cartridge. Currently, he was feeding mints into it.

Ding! Ding!

“Gretel! Jemand ist am Schreibtisch! (Someone is at the desk)” Hansel informed loudly.

Hansel raised the light-blue pill before his caramel eyes, inspecting it for chips or protruding fragments. The last thing he wanted was for his dispenser to get jammed.

Ding! Ding!

“Gretel!” Hansel shouted. He paused, listening for a response, and when he didn’t get one, he sighed in exasperation.

The G’ Whiz was her sweets shop and yet he found himself working the front more than her. Setting down the magazine and tart, Hansel scooted back in his wooden chair and stood. With an irritable scowl on his face, he walked over to a white apron he had hanging up on an iron nail and donned it. Grasping the ties, he drew them behind his back and tied them into a slipknot. His footsteps were heavy on the wooden floorboards, creaking his way up from the basement to the shop above. Opening the basement door, Hansel closed it behind him and turned into the next open room to where the register and glass case with various sweet things were. Standing on the other side of the glass case, was…the most gorgeous babe he had ever seen!

The girl stood before the glass case in a white dress with a puffy skirt. The dress had a corset built into it that cradled her bosom like two marshmallow buns. Her stark-white hair hung like a curtain from her head and was cut to frame her face. It didn’t seem like her natural hair color for her brows were a dark brunette, but it didn’t distract from her overall beauty. Heck, even Gretel was a fake-blonde (good thing she can’t read minds…wait). Her eyes were large and blue like a doll baby’s and she had appeared to be frustrated until she noticed Hansel. Her pink, bow-shaped lips curled into a warm smile as though she were excited to see him. Folding her hands in her lap, the darling greeted:

“Good Evening, Sir!”

Did he have a grin on his face? He did didn’t he? Hansel brought a hand over his mouth to hide the lewd happy smile that had been on his face. He then turned his head to shout over his shoulder:

“Gretel, I got it! Don’t worry about it!”

It was time for the Candy Man to work his magic. Hansel stepped up to the counter with a lopsided smile on his face.

“Evening. What can I do for you? Everything I hope,” said Hansel.

The girl seemed to catch on to his flirt rather quickly as her cheeks flushed pink. Her hand rose to her mouth to hide her amused smile.

“I was craving something sweet, and then I saw your shop…”

“You’ve come to the right place. Is this your first time?”

“Yes. I don’t think I’ve been here…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

The girl brought both hands to her face to hide it as it glowed in her embarrassment. Hansel grinned at her reaction and figured that he should reel it back a little.

“Sorry I don’t get too many hot customers. I’ll behave myself,” Hansel promised.

The girl lowered her hands so that her blue eyes peeked over her fingers at…she read the name tag on his apron, “Hansel.” Dropping her hands from her face, the girl tossed her head to throw a few layers of her white mane over her shoulder. She tried to hide her smile behind a firm and mature expression as she said, “Well, Mr. Hansel. I am looking for some chocolate turtles. They’re my absolute favorite.”

Hansel picked up a yellow notepad next to the register and slid the pencil free from its spiral binding. He jotted down “chocolate turtles” and “favorite” and paused to look up.

“Favorite; go on…” he said innocently.

The girl arched a brow at him and turned her back on him. “Maybe I’ll just go look for them myself.”

Setting the pad down, Hansel bent over to cross his arms on the countertop. Resting his weight upon his forearms, he watched the girl as she browsed the store.

“The turtles might be on the shelf you’re facing.”

The girl paused and looked back at him before she then looked forward at a shelf with several rectangular shaped boxes stacked on it. She curiously walked over to it, picking up the first one that read Assorted Chocolates.

Resting his chin in his hand, Hansel directed, “A little lower.”

She put the chocolates back and checked the second shelf.

“Lower.”

Hansel’s brows slowly rose when he noticed the more the girl bent over the higher her dress seemed to rise. Lifting his chin from his hand, the bounty hunter watched her closely.

“Just a little more. Lower…looo~wer. Lower.”

The girl realized what Hansel was trying to do when she felt some air catch under her dress. Hansel was gripping the glass case as his metaphorical tail started happily wagging. He saw some frilly panties and the start of her cheeks until she suddenly killed it by crouching. Hansel groaned, grasping his heart and turning away from the counter as though he had chest pain. How could she do that to him!?

So close… Hansel whispered to himself.

After finding the box of chocolate turtles, the girl stood and walked back over to the counter, staring at the store clerk’s back while he was leaned over, clutching the back wall in what appeared to be pain.

The girl’s brows rose curiously. “Are you all right, Mr. Hansel?”

Hansel dragged a hand down his face and turned back to face the girl with another innocent grin. “Just a cramp. I’m good. Is that all?”

She glanced down at the assortment of cakes in the glass case, and then slightly leaned down to get a closer look. Hansel peered down at the cakes with her…more like down her cleavage. Her breasts looked ready to spill from her top, spill out like jello pudding. Oh God…this girl and some pudding was sounding very delicious at the moment. His conscience was already yelling at him to behave himself. Suddenly the glass case came rushing toward his face. His forehead smashed against the glass, cracking it and startling the girl. Latched onto the back of Hansel’s head was the hand of a really large black man who looked absolutely pissed off. He wore a black tank top with black jeans and Timberlands. Black was just his theme it seemed. His lips were twisted into a vicious scowl as he growled, “You son ova’ bitch. You think I didn’t see you peepin’ at Peep!”

Hansel slowly turned his head to the side so that the side of his face was smashed against the case. Blood was streaming from a cut on his face from the glass having cut it.

“Peep? As in Little Bo Peep?” Hansel questioned.

“Yeah, and I’m her Sheep she keeps puttin’ an ad in the paper about, Sucka’. Except she don’t really lose me. She just got short-term memory loss. She won’t remember yo ass tomorrow. I’ll make sure ov’ that.”

Short-term memory loss? That was…spectacular news! Bo grasped Sheep’s forearm and looked up at him.

“Sheep! Let him go. I don’t want you going to jail again.”

Sheep wrinkled his nose down at Hansel and pushed off his head as he withdrew his massive hand. Hansel bore his teeth, wincing as he slowly slid off the counter and sank to the floor. Bo gasped and quickly rounded the counter to crouch at Hansel’s side and inspect the cut on his forehead.

“I am so sorry! I forgot that he came with me,” Bo apologized.

You forgot that Big Bastard? Hansel thought. Reaching a hand up to the counter, his fingers walked over to the yellow notepad and snatched it up. He over-dramatized the pain he was in, peeking up to make sure the Black Sheep wasn’t watching him.

“No; I’m sorry. He’s right. I wasn’t being a gentleman,” said Hansel pathetically, while he quickly scribbled down his number and “Call me” on the notepad. Bo peered down at the message and quietly tore it from the pad as Hansel talked over the sound of the page ripping. “Just take the turtles for free. On me. I won’t call the cops on Blackie.”

Sheep snatched up the chocolates and snarled, “Let’s go Peep!”

Bo folded the message and tucked it into her cleavage. “Again I’m sorry, Mr. Hansel, and thank you.”

She stood and quickly followed Black Sheep out of the sweets shop as he scolded, “Next time you want somethin’ sweet, go to the other place (The Goody Basket)!”

Hansel remained seated against the glass case, grinning and laughing victoriously. The Candy Man scores again. The Black Sheep was right. She wasn’t going to remember him tomorrow or the next day or the next day or the next. Reaching a hand into his pocket, he removed a sucker and twisted the wrapper free before inserting it into his mouth. Crossing his arms behind his head, Hansel just smiled as he thought about all the naughty adventures he was going to have.

Manuel Nunez looked at the scrap of paper in his hand, a frown spreading across his tanned features. "Be at 113 Wormwood Street by 2 am. Business is called Boogie's Beans and the owner is Rebecca Sinclair. Go alone." Domingo Nunez, Manuel's older brother, was a man of few words, which was one of the reasons why nobody suspected he was the brains behind "Nunez's Nasty." Nunez's Nasty was, of course, the finest heroin available in New York City. The thought made Manuel chuckle and he shoved the note back into his coat pocket as he tried to get his bearings. The Nunez brothers were well-known throughout New York, and they'd built their formidable reputation through a combination of ruthlessness and caution. So why was Domingo sending Manuel, the "face" of Nunez's Nasty, to speak with some puta in a borough they'd never visited before? Hell, what had convinced Domingo to talk to this Sinclair woman in the first place?

It was times like these that made Manuel glad he'd finally bought a halfway decent gun. The weight of the glock, which he'd affectionately named Cujo, in his left coat pocket was comforting beyond words. Maybe he'd get a chance to use it tonight.

Shrugging and scanning the area, the Colombian spotted a street sign up ahead and jogged towards it, his black overcoat flapping around his knees. Since he wasn't familiar with this area, Manuel had been forced to rely on street signs like a fucking tourist, though that wasn't the worst part. Ever since he'd taken that first right onto Drury Lane there'd been this annoying, high-pitched ringing in his ears. It made it hard for Manuel to concentrate, and he could feel a headache already welling up behind his temples. He'd tried everything he could think of to stop the pain but nothing seemed to work. Wincing as he stopped in front of the street sign, the Latino let out a relieved sigh when he saw 'Wormwood Street' printed on it in white font. The sooner he found this Boogie's Beans place and talked to Rebecca Sinclair the sooner he could get back to the apartment he shared with his brother. And the sooner he could get back to the heroin stash under his bed.

Manuel walked around the corner, narrowly avoiding a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk, and continued on his way. What kind of name was Boogie's Beans anyway? It sounded like the title of some stupid kid's book about...well, beans. Personally, Manuel felt like this whole thing was a setup, which was why he'd brought Cujo, but he knew better than to argue with Domingo. When Manuel's older brother got upset things, and occasionally people, tended to wind up in pieces all over the floor. Supposedly, Domingo had spoken to Rebecca Sinclair a few weeks ago and he wanted to do business with her. Numerous drug dealers, crime lords, and kingpins had approached the Nunez brothers over the years in hopes of forming an alliance, but Domingo turned them all away. What had changed? To make a weird situation even weirder, Domingo actually wanted Manuel's opinion on whether or not they could trust Rebecca. Normally, Domingo couldn't care less about Manuel let alone his opinions.

Fiddling with the collar of his overcoat, Manuel hurried through the quiet streets as a few tendrils of milky white fog slithered into the area. He would've preferred to come here during the day with some backup, but Rebecca Sinclair was a very particular woman according to Domingo. If the Nunez brothers didn't like her conditions for these meetings then they could "go fuck themselves bloody with a pair of rusty spoons." Rebecca's words, not Domingo's.

Abruptly, Manuel stopped walking, his breath slipping out in pained gasps from between clenched teeth, and doubled over in agony. The ringing in his head seemed to be reaching a crescendo and icy sweat dripped down his face. Blinking rapidly, the Colombian stumbled forward a few steps and almost collided with a bulky figure wearing a beige trench coat.

"Watch where you're going, culo!" Manuel snarled as he shoved the stranger aside. The figure didn't seem to hear the insult and kept walking.

Horns, Manuel thought as he struggled to regain his composure. Goat horns. There were goat horns coming out of that asshole's forehead. No, no, that's loco bullshit. I just had one too many beers before I came over here. Or I need to lay off the heroin. Or both. Taking a deep breath and smoothing back his black hair, Manuel straightened up, and, despite the continuous ringing in his ears, forced himself to keep moving. After five pain-filled minutes, he finally saw it. A large red brick building with a dark green tile roof next to a fancy apartment complex. Just like Domingo said. The Colombian cautiously approached the red brick building, his bloodshot eyes darting up to read the large white sign hanging over the glass double doors. The words 'Boogie's Beans' were printed on the sign in gaudy, old-fashioned silver font.

"It's about fucking time," Manuel muttered as he lifted his hand to knock on the doors. He paused, however, when he saw it was pitch black inside. Had Rebecca forgotten they were meeting tonight? With the way the evening was going, Manuel wouldn't have been surprised.

“Pleased to meet you! Hope you guess my name!”

Was that music? It sounded like there was a woman singing and a band playing inside the cafe'. Manuel frowned and started to knock on the glass doors, but they swung open before he could touch them. For a second, he thought he saw two glowing yellow eyes staring at him from the darkness, but he blinked and they vanished. Reaching into his coat pocket and firmly gripping Cujo, Manuel stepped into the cool, dark interior of the building. It looked like there was light coming from the main room so the Colombian pushed through another set of glass double doors and entered the dining area proper. The large room was blanketed in shadow, though a few slivers of moonlight were visible despite the maroon curtains covering the windows. The faint light Manuel had seen earlier was coming from a sturdy-looking wooden stage on the opposite side of the building. A slender, blonde-haired woman wearing a white dress shirt, black slacks, and black high heels stood onstage, her attention focused on something in front of her. Her horn-rimmed glasses reflected the light coming from a lamp that had been placed atop the piano she was playing. She was reading sheet music and seemed caught in a position halfway between sitting and standing. Leaning towards a microphone set next to the lamp, the woman sang, her low soprano voice carrying the hint of a British accent, "Ah, what's puzzling you is the nature of my game, oh yeah!"

Was that "Sympathy for the Devil?"

The musicians providing the song's instrumentals sounded like they were playing from behind the black curtain draped across the back of the stage. How were they keeping time with the singer, who Manuel assumed was Rebecca Sinclair, if they couldn't see her? In truth, the Colombian almost felt bad for the poor assholes. Although she was a little scrawny for his tastes, Rebecca was much prettier than Manuel had expected. Why hadn't Domingo mentioned that after his first meeting with her? He loved blondes. And then Rebecca turned her pale green eyes towards him, and Manuel realized why his brother hadn't said anything. There was something about those eyes, something ancient and hungry, that made Manuel's face turn the color of spoiled milk. The blonde nodded towards a nearby table, clearly inviting her guest to sit down until she'd finished.

“Just as every cop is a criminal and all the sinners’ saints. As heads is tails just call me Lucifer, but I’m in need of some restraint!”

Manuel sat down at the circular table, which was made of an expensive-looking white wood, and tried to focus on something that wasn't Rebecca Sinclair. To his left were a few wooden doors, which he made a mental note of despite the ringing in his ears, and it looked like there was a bar over to his right. Maybe whoever had opened the doors for him was hiding behind the bar? It seemed ridiculous that someone would go through all that effort just to make him nervous. Shaking his head and leaning back in his chair, Manuel tried to get a good look at the ceiling but it was shrouded in darkness. Everything in this place was reduced to a shadowy, hazy mass due to the absence of major light sources. Reluctantly, the Colombian returned his attention to the stage where Rebecca was finishing her song.

“What’s my name? Tell me, baby, what’s my name? Tell me, sweetie, what’s my name?”

Her voice wasn't great, though Manuel had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn't appreciate audience feedback. There was something odd about the sound coming from behind the curtain as well. It wasn't quite right. It almost sounded like an old recording, but that was impossible. A recording couldn't keep pace with Rebecca so precisely. Shoving these thoughts out of his mind, Manuel clapped politely as the song ended. Rebecca smiled down at him from the stage, a small, dangerous little smile that made the Colombian's stomach turn. What was wrong with him tonight? Turning away from Manuel for a moment, Rebecca said, "Take five, boys. We have a guest."

"Take five, boys. We have a guest," Rebecca said to the concealed shades that had been mimicking the various instruments and backup vocals she'd needed. The Tale also took a moment to mentally communicate a simple order to all her servants stationed throughout the darkened jazz cafe' and coffee shop. <Keep an eye on this fool> she commanded. <You have my permission to take him down if he does anything threatening, but don't kill him. I want to feed a little first, and I'd hate to waste a perfectly good business opportunity.> Although the shades didn't offer any verbal response, Rebecca felt the equivalent of a dozen mental confirmations flicker through her mind as she stepped off the stage and approached Manuel's table. She'd been impressed by Domingo Nunez's quiet confidence and ability to endure the punishing magic of the wards protecting Taletown from mortals. The trembling, sweating wreck of a man sitting before her was as different from his brother as night was from day. That didn't bode well.

Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear, an irritating human gesture she'd picked up over the years, Becca sat down across from Manuel and turned on the small lamp in the center of the table. She couldn't help but flinch as the soft electric light came on, but she covered it by extending her hand towards the wide-eyed Latino. "Hello, Manuel," Rebecca said, her piercing gaze roving the Colombian's swarthy face, "I'm Rebecca Sinclair. Obviously. How are you feeling tonight?"

In truth, the blonde was wondering if Manuel could handle a conversation. The sweat trickling down his face, the way he kept swishing his finger around in his ears, and his constant shivering indicated the defensive wards were taking a toll on Rebecca's guest. And as one of the few Tales that employed mortals she could easily spot the signs of someone on the verge of a magically-induced breakdown. It was actually part of her hiring process. Before she started discussing job requirements or pay rates, Rebecca would spend half an hour talking to potential mortal new hires about anything that struck her fancy. If the candidate in question couldn't handle the ringing in their ears or the other side-effects of the wards then she wouldn't hire them. It was as simple as that. From the looks of things, Manuel wouldn't last much longer so she'd need to keep this brief.

Clearing his throat, Manuel shook her hand and said, "I'm fine, just fine. Are we going to get down to business tonight or what? I have shit to do, y'know."

Rebecca nodded slowly and leaned back in her chair. Watching this prick collapse beneath the weight of the wards' magic might be fun. Sneering, she said, "As you wish. I'm assuming Domingo already told you what I'm willing to offer, but I'll repeat myself for your benefit. Everyone knows the Nunez brothers make the best heroin in New York City. I also know you make your product in the basement of your apartment complex. That's just sloppy. The moment you stop paying your landlord his bribe money the police will be all over you two. Now, I'm willing to let you move your equipment into the basement beneath Boogie's Beans. There's only one way in and three exits that lead out into the sewers. Also, and Domingo was particularly excited about this, you could use this place as a distribution center if need be." Ignoring the skeptical expression on Manuel's face, Becca said, "Since I'm going to be putting myself and my place of business on the line, I believe a 60/40 split is only fair. Your brother already agreed to these terms, but he wanted you to meet me before we finalized anything."

Holding up his hands, which were visibly trembling, Manuel said, "Jesus, bruja, you must be loco. 60/40? How does Domingo expect us to make any money from a deal like that? It's insane."

"Is it?" Becca asked, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. That wasn't the answer she'd been expecting. "I think it's quite generous. You two could easily throw me under the bus if the authorities found the drugs and paraphernalia. I'm accepting most of the risk, Manuel, so it only makes sense for me to claim more of the money. And what, pray tell, is a bruja?"

"It means 'witch,' Miss Sinclair," Manuel said, a smirk twisting his angular features as he folded his arms. "That little trick with the door? I'm not sure how or why you did it, but it was cute. Very spooky. Anyway, did you or Domingo even think about how hard it will be to get our equipment over here in the first place? The moment we try to move all that crap we'll have every cop in the city up our asses. No, no, this isn't going to happen. I'll talk to Domingo about it tonight. I'm sorry for wasting your time, bruja."

Wordlessly, Becca closed her eyes and reached out again with her mind. Manuel snorted and started to get up. He turned around and froze immediately as a ring of glowing yellow eyes suddenly materialized around him. The stench of rotting meat filled the Colombian's nostrils and he looked back at Rebecca, his eyes wide with confusion and horror. "No, I'm sorry, Manuel," Rebecca said, "but you won't be leaving until you tell me what I want to hear."

Before the terrified mortal could say anything, one of the shades tackled him, pinning him to the ground while the others began rifling through his pockets. Manuel let out a strangled whimper as his gun was taken from his coat pocket by one of his unseen attackers. The rest of the shades roughly grabbed the human's head and forced him to look up as Rebecca Sinclair sauntered over and crouched down so her face was level with his.

"What the fuck is this?! I knew this was a goddamn setup. My brother is going to gut you like a trout, bruja!" Manuel hissed, but Becca could hear the panic in his voice. The blonde's pale green eyes locked onto Manuel's brown ones and she waited. It wasn't long before she heard it. In the back of the Tale's head, her fear sense whispered softly, <I can't go back to jail. Fuck me, I can't go back to jail! I have to get out of here before this bitch calls the cops!>

"Manuel," Becca said, her voice warm and pleasant, "here's how this is going to work. Either you give me your word that you'll return to your brother and give him a glowing report of what happened here tonight or I'll call the police right now. A Hispanic man with a gun and a frightened woman in a restaurant after hours? They'd throw you in a cell so fast your little head would spin. And, chances are, they'd see your record and probably bring your brother in for questioning as well. Imagine what that could lead to. Both of the Nunez brothers behind bars, perhaps? Not a pretty picture, is it?"

Manuel shook his head frantically, his eyes brimming with tears, and Becca glanced down. A thin, flickering beam of crimson light was slowly forming between her and the mortal. Just a little more. "What would your brother do, I wonder, if he found out your stupidity got him arrested?" Rebecca asked, her knowledge of Domingo's reputation and decades of feeding on the fears of others guiding her towards a fresh source of terror. "I've heard stories about what happens to people that cross Domingo Nunez. Apparently, your brother starts by cutting off fingers then moves onto toes. But you'd know more about that than me. What's his weapon of choice, hm? Bolt cutters? A cleaver? Or just a good, old-fashioned knife?" As the last word left her lips, the beam began to darken as the incomparable taste of Manuel's fear flowed into Rebecca like an exquisite wine. It was overwhelming and foul. It was indescribable and addictive. And yet...

Grimacing as she realized the Ward of Fear would activate if she kept this up, Becca focused again and the link between her and Manuel faded, leaving the Colombian white-faced and breathless. Standing and dispersing her shades with a thought, the blonde folded her arms and watched Manuel clamber back to his feet. "Now, run along, Manuel" she said once the Latino was vertical. "I look forward to doing business with you and your brother."

"Si, si, Miss Sinclair," Manuel said as he began shuffling towards the exit like a man five times his age. The double doors swung open as he approached and slammed shut behind him.

Grinning, Terror turned to the shades congregating around her and said, "Well, I think that went swimmingly. Now, we need to--hold on, why are all twelve of you here? One of you should be watching Crier. Queezel? Come to me, Queezel."

One of the shades, an especially gruesome specimen with a gaping chest wound and one ear, shuffled forward and said, his voice like dead leaves rustling in the wind, "What is your will, mistress?"

"I told you Crier needs to be kept under constant surveillance. I don't want him catching us unawares. In fact, he should already be here for our weekly information exchange. Find him. Now," the Boogieman snapped, and Queezel bowed low before scuttling towards the doors with surprising speed for a creature made of shadows and decaying flesh. With that done, Terror ordered one of her remaining minions to dispose of Manuel's gun while the others returned to their posts around Boogie's Beans. She had other matters to attend to before the Boy Who Cried Wolf arrived.

---

What a lovely night. The kind of night with a light wind and soft warm air, where things must be going right for someone, somewhere. Maybe, Eissen thought, that someone is me.

After over two weeks shut up inside her apart, a new record, Eissen Frampt decided that tonight might be a good night for a walk. Fresh groceries were probably a good idea too. She hadn't really been intending to go out, to be perfectly honest—it was just an accident, and a silly one at that. The other night, after leaving dinner on the stove a bit too long, Eissen opened the window to let out the smoke. As the room cleared, fresh and worry-free air let itself inside, and Eissen thought then of leaves and trees and stars and late night corner stores, and before she knew it, she was dressed up and walking out the door, about sixty dollars in her pocket.

The groceries didn't take long. Some canned goods to hold her over, but she strayed this time on the side of cheap perishables, which would maybe force her outside again a bit earlier. A bit of candy, too, from the Asian market just outside the local neighborhood. After a long walk through the park, Eissen found her way right across the street from one of the local bakeries, and she thought then, Why not? Why don't I spoil myself tonight?

Inside, she faintly recognized the place as Red Riding Hood's base of operations. Sweet and thick aromas filled the air, and Eissen couldn't decide if they made her feel more or less awake. At the counter, a red-colored slip of a girl, with a smile that seemed to be saying something (though Eissen couldn't for the life of her tell you what).

"Hey, Little Red," said Eissen. After searching for a second, trying to pin down the most appropriate interpretation of the usual formalities—Lord, when was the last time I spoke to someone?—Eissen asked, "How's the biz?"

Chupacabra

&

Mothman

^{Location: Outside Nevermore Central Park #7}
Interaction @Crosswire

---

Mothman squinted down at BB from his perch. While the look was more analytical than threatening, it seemed. After a brief moment, he waved back, then turned his attention back toward the Taco truck. Why Chupacabra's reaction was so delayed was anyone's guess, but she yelled from within the truck, "Is that the freakin' Wolf Puppy out there?! What's she want, eh? I'm closed!"
Sharply letting out a breath, Mothman threw his hands up in response to Chupa's proclamation.
"And did little puppy say," Chupacabra continued, "They wanted a freakin' chicken taco? Closed-- I'm freakin' closed."

Mothman let out another sigh, then leapt rather effortlessly to land atop the taco truck. Chupa's heavy footsteps approached the door before she stuck her head out. Frowning, Chupacabra glared down at BB, then snorted with disapproval. While Dani was never one to outwardly display any sort of hatred toward BB, she didn't exactly seem to like the girl either. It wasn't the rumors or even the reputation BB carried, but something altogether more mysterious in itself. Sometimes the Chupacabra would show a sort of pity toward BB, even going so far as to stop others from harassing BB while she was around. These times were just as numerous as the times that Chupa seemed irritated by BB's mere presence. Why she was so hot and cold toward BB, even Mothman probably couldn't explain. Either way, BB probably knew by now that Dani only welcomed BB to the truck if she--

"Got money?" Dani huffed, "Frakin' half-dolla a taco-- you know the drill, pup." Without waiting for response, Chupacabra turned, then headed back into the depths of her truck, shouting, "And if you ain't got a half-dolla, I suggest you freakin' get a job, wolf puppy, else you gonna be eatin' styrofoam cups too, eh?"

Meanwhile Mothman, who was silently pinching the bridge of his nose through the whole "conversation", lept down from the top of the truck to land next to BB. He made several gestures, clearly in an attempt to put BB at ease with Dani's apparent hostility. Then, holding up a finger, he reached into his pocket with a thoughtful expression on his face. Soon, he produced a handful of change-- around two dollars worth-- then held it out toward BB. Smiling warmly, Mothman thrust the handful of coins gently toward BB, insisting that she take it.

"Mothy! You want that blue syrup in this? Make it look nice for you."
At the sound of Chupacabra's voice, Mothman turned his attention toward the truck again. Wither or not BB took the change, Mothman would soon hide the donation from Chupa's sight. BB could probably recall incidents in the past where Dani had scolded Mothman for showing "kindness to dumb puppies", but he did it anyway.

Red stood behind the counter smiling as she stared at the door of her shop expectantly. She had been dead certain that the next person in her shop would be the crier. The mere thought of him stumbling through the door floundering desperately for some kind of clue or lead her could use to solve the murder. Countless possibilities excited the back of Little Riding Hood's brain. Could she successfully lie? Send him on a wild goose chase? Get him mad and ruin his reputation? The young girl practically bounced in place and nearly leapt off the floor when the door finally opened.

"I knew it was-!"

Surprise exploded across Red's face as a tall, pale skinned women walked through the door holding what looked like an assortment of groceries. Landing back on her feet Red quickly collected herself and went back to smiling, grasping her hands together as she leaned over the counter.

"Things are going very well today. In fact I just sold a big plate full of my frosted cupcakes to a family just a few minutes ago. It's really sweet of you to ask ma'am!"

The red hooded girl nodded her head gratefully as she buried her confusion. Why was the Pale Queen of all people in her baked goods shop? It was easy to forget the women likely had to eat too. Though with the way she stayed in her home, rarely if ever leaving, made it seem like she could subsist purely off cobwebs and dust at times. Red had heard rumors of the kind of magic the Queen possessed, though if it was true was another matter entirely. Just the idea this old women had so much power...and that it could be hers brought a new excitement to Red's mind.

"Is there anything I can get you? I most of what I'm selling here right on display, but if you want something special I can bake it up fresh at no extra charge."

---

"C-closed? But I swore you were..."

B.B's words died in her throat as she looked up and founder herself under the disapproving gaze of the Chupacabra. An intense pair of brown eyes cut into her and it wasn't long before the 'Wolf' began to squirm where she stood, fidgeting nervously outside the window of the taco truck. As soon as Chupa slipped out of sight and broke eye contact B.B felt some semblance of relief wash over her. Sniffing the air she was hit with the overpowering smell of alcohol. Though it was just a single can of beer, to B.B's sensitive nose it was like keg had been broken open on the sidewalk.

Chupa's words and the alcoholic fumes made B.B's stomach churn and she was soon digging through her pockets. Rooting through her pants, shirt, and even places that seemed unlikely to hold anything the young women produced a handful of lint and a dime so rusted it looked like a measly penny.

"Money money money. Um, um, um..."

An air of panic entered B.B's voice as she realized she'd asked for food without any money to pay for it. Already she felt like turning tail and booking it to avoid the embarrassment of the whole situation. Before she could take so much as a step however the impressively buff truck-squatted was beside her. Having him drop down and get close to her caused B.B's hairs to stand on end, briefly expecting something bad.

Yet the silent gesturing the man did seemed strangely calming and he seemed to imply that Chupa didn't mean anything. Relaxing her bright blue eyes widened as she saw the handful of shiny coins held out to her. Looking to Mothman and then back to the change she quickly took it, plopping it down on the folding counter outside the window of the Taco truck.

"Thank you." She mouthed wordlessly and quickly counted the change she'd been given.

"I-I'd like four chicken tacos please." B.B asked as politely as she could, holding her breath as she waited.

Even when Chupa was in a bad mood, she was still one of the nicer people B.B got to interact with. The most she'd do is get short and irradiated with her. Being called a 'puppy' beat out being called in the laundry list of things the rest of the neighborhood enjoyed calling her...

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Swan opened her crusty eyes, only to shut them again when the soft morning light coming in from her bedroom’s open window felt like they had fried her retinas. She groaned in annoyance at the stinging ache that started to pulse in her skull, then frowned at the foul taste of old leftover booze on her dry tongue.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

She rubbed at her eyes and looked over to the cheap digital clock that sat atop her bedside table. The display read 06:57 upon its scarlet surface, and Swan cursed, not only at being woken up so early but also because of the fact that she only slept two hours. It seems that once again sleep for her proved to be an ever elusive and vindictive bitch.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Fuck, yes! Yes, I’m up! I’m up!” Swan shouted towards her front door. Her bed springs squeaked as she climbed out of it, her foot bumping into an empty whiskey bottle that had been lying on the floor next to it. She stood and almost promptly fell back onto the bed, her head swimming from the previous night’s attempt to fall asleep through creative use of alcoholic beverages. The Tale then walk-stumbled out of her room, almost tripping over several more liquor bottles lying haphazardly on the floor.

She managed to make it through her living room and to the front door without incident. After undoing the locks, Swan flung open the door and directed what was most likely a bloodshot glare at the man standing outside.

“What?” she all but snarled at him.

“Uh,” Raul was one of the gang’s many human members, and he like the others knew of Tales and what they were capable of. Needless to say, he looked a bit nervous at the murderous look Swan was giving him. “The boss wants to see you.”

The angry gaze vanished from her face, though the annoyed frown was still there. “Fine,” she told him. “I’ll be right up.” She then slammed the door unceremoniously in his face.

Not wanting to keep her employer waiting, Swan went into her suite’s bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. The chilled liquid did much to wake her up somewhat more, whereupon she quickly realized that all she had been wearing to bed was her underwear.

“Dammit,” she muttered, “I gave that little punk Raul a free show.” Swan made a mental note to put him on latrine duty later, then stomped over to her bedroom to get dressed.

Twelve minutes later, the Tale was dressed in a clean black suit, headed up the elevator to meet her employer in the penthouse suite. While waiting, Swan took a moment to straighten her tie and look at her reflection in the elevator’s shiny metal walls. She noted that she looked pale(well, paler than usual) and that there were heavy bags under her eyes. Oh well, nothing she could do about those.

When the elevator door opened she was met by two large gorillas in suits. Not literal gorillas though, more the big, dumb and ugly kind of mook, the members of the Breadwinners who were kept around just for their muscle. The two thugs nodded to her respectfully as she strode past.

The Gingerbread Man was, like usual, in his office. The office itself was furnished much like the rest of the penthouse was, in traditional wood with antique furniture and expensive paintings. Overall it looked more like a 19th Century abode instead of the extravagant and gaudy modern stylings of today. (i.e. no pink refrigerators, no white carpeting, and definitely not a hot tub in the middle of the living room.) The only item that seemed to clash with the rest of the furnishings was a two-foot tall jade statue of a fox which was seated on a shelf right behind the desk.

“Swan,” The Gingerbread Man said, looking up from reading some papers atop his desk as she entered. “Finally. I need you to-” he stopped talking, and the eyebrows on his human form’s face tilted slightly upwards. “Jesus Titfucking Christ! What the hell happened to you?”

Swan frowned. She didn’t look that bad, did she?

“Long night,” she said simply.

“Whatever,” her employer turned back to the notes on his desk. “We got a problem to deal with.”

“Oh?” Swan took a seat in one of the chairs set in front of the crime boss’s desk.

“Yeah, last night some stupid fuckhead got himself killed over in the Hundred Acres,” her boss answered. “Normally I wouldn’t give two shits, but according to some of my boys this dead fuckhead was mutilated to hell. This was some real sick serial killer shit, but what pisses me off most is that whoever the fuck did this had the balls to write, and I fuckin’ quote, ‘A God Am I.’”

“I see.” Swan stated. She really didn’t, though. Why should they care about some dead idiot found in the middle of that slum?

“Yeah. Well, as you know that shithole motel is in my territory. When some horror movie shit starts up in my place of business, I take that personally. What’s more is the fuckhead who did this seems to think he’s hot shit. I need you and the boys to find out who the fuck is stupid enough to pull this shit in my neighborhood. Bring him to me, alive! I wanna take care of this ‘God’ personally.”

“Consider it done.”

James hated cabs.

They were convenient sure but New York cabbies were generally mistrusting and rude,James couldn't smoke in one and typically by the time he got back into Taletown everyone heard the "big news". Tales, by their nature, are a curious and often superstitious lot, most of them like to keep an ear to the ground to find out what's happening in the city. Ironically these days it seemed when the Crier was quiet and didn't ring any bells then he had everybody's attention. Even still, that wasn't the real reason James hated cabs.

He just didn't like seeing the city pass by.

The tall gray buildings and out of place colourful storefronts mixed with poverty stricken neighborhoods and shady characters really drove home the fact that James was one man and couldn't seem to make any difference. He'd been dealing with Gingie and his gang for almost a year now, they were doing illegal acts as is but humans among their ranks was almost akin to terrorism to hear the council tell it, yet they seemed quite content to look down from The Homelands and let it fester. So many people in Taletown wanted power, but none of them seemed to realize that when the inevitable spark came to light the fuse, everyone burns, the only person left gets to rule over a pile of ashes.

James began focusing on the store names as the car drew closer to Red's. He knew she hadn't done it, Red was smart but she narcissistic, she loved playing mind games. She'd leave something there to jab her thumb (metaphorically though she'd probably love to do it literally) into the eye of The Crier, she was well regarded and well respected in the community "What're you gonna do about it?" he could hear her saying.

But the victim was beyond recognition, at least to someone not attuned to looking at the finer details. The victim carried damage that fit the M.O's of several Tales at once, share the glory? That wasn't in Red's playbook. But Red, like everyone else, kept her ear to the ground. All Crier needed was to put her head clean through it until she gave him a lead to go off of. The killer was undoubtedly insane but they knew what they were doing.

'Someone knows..." James thought to himself as he continued mentally reading the store names.

'Hardware Town, Cavanaugh's Bar, Boogie-.." James frowned.

"you mind stopping here pal?" He asked, to which the driver wordlessly pulled over and held out his hand for payment. James flung a twenty onto his palm and left, walking directly across the road to the coffee shop.

Terror. She was as bad as Red, save for the fact that Terror had major delusions of grandeur as opposed to Red who just committed evil acts for the sake of it. James was pragmatic though, occasionally he'd pay for information from the condescending blonde but he suspected she figured she had more of a hold over him than she actually did. They weren't friends and Crier was a little bit more suspicious of her involvement of this, he wasn't looking to prosecute yet, especially not this early. But if Red kept her ear to the ground, Terror practically was the ground.

The Crier pulled out a cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket and lit one up as he entered, ignoring the "No Smoking" sign placed on the front window.

"Miss Sinclair." James said with the same enthusiasm he usually reserves for car crashes.

"I'd like for you and I to have a little talk."

Queezel pushed open the second set of double doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk, his glowing yellow eyes darting back and forth. Although the gathering mist made it difficult to see, the shade noticed two or three figures ambling down Wormwood Street. He also spotted the receding figure of Manuel Nunez fleeing towards New York City proper as if all the hounds of Hell were after him. Queezel smirked, his thin, rotting lips pulling back to reveal jagged fangs. Shades rarely felt strong emotion, but they enjoyed the taste of fear just as much as their mistress. At any rate, the relatively empty streets would make it easier for Queezel to find Crier. The shade started loping westward, moving with all the grace of a silverback gorilla, and considered his options. The Boy Who Cried Wolf would probably reach Boogie's Beans within the next five minutes. Still, Terror's word was law, and she tended to be a little impatient when it came to Crier. At least it was a quiet night, and, while it would've been easier to shadow-walk around Taletown, Queezel planned to enjoy it.

Normally, Queezel would try to find Br'er Rabbit or Tweedledee and Tweedledum to see if they knew where Crier was. Since he figured the intrepid detective would arrive at Boogie's Beans shortly, the shade decided to visit a place he'd become unusually fond of over the last few years. The G'Whiz Sweets Shop.

Curious, Queezel thought as he turned north and began scampering along Candy Lane. Why am I drawn to Hansel and Gretel's shop? It's not as if I can enjoy any of their sweets. Curious, indeed. Some of the older shades, like Queezel and Baelor, occasionally experienced vivid flashes of who they'd been before Terror turned them into undead horrors. Maybe that had something to do with his inexplicable attraction to the G'Whiz Sweets Shop? There had to be some reason behind it, because Hansel and Gretel didn't exactly welcome Tales with mystical talents into their business. There were potent anti-magic wards worked into the store's brickwork, which made it impossible for spells to be cast within the premises. No shade could shadow-walk into the G'Whiz Sweets Shop. Of course, Queezel could still shadow-walk to a location near the building as long as he found a large enough shadow. Inconvenience aside, the elder shade couldn't blame the twins for their caution. No central government had been established in Taletown, which meant break-ins and other violent crimes were rarely addressed. People were forced to turn to Tales like Crier or the Gingerbread Man for help if they couldn't afford arcane protection. Most couldn't even afford to put a roof over their head. As he continued up Candy Lane, Queezel saw several clumps of these poor souls, mostly Tales and a few mortals, huddled together for security and warmth. Some of them looked familiar.

Queezel was about to take a closer look at a horned figure snoring contentedly in the gutter when he heard the sound of screeching tires coming from behind him. Whipping around and hissing, the elder shade saw a rusty, cream-colored Chevy Impala barreling towards him. The headlights were on full blast, and Queezel felt his skin starting to tingle, a telltale sign that the lights were too bright. If he didn't do something within the next few seconds he'd burst into flames. Letting out a hoarse snarl, the shade glanced around and saw a lamppost about five feet away. The long, slender shadow stretching out behind it was the most beautiful thing Queezel had ever seen. Without hesitation, the elder shade lunged at the shadow and vanished into it like a swimmer jumping into a pool. As he fell into the darkness, the shade heard people screaming and the concussive boom of the car smashing into the side of a building.

Queezel picked himself up and looked around. Endless, liquid darkness enveloped him like an immense blanket. This was the Fugue, the Shadow Between Worlds, or, as Terror called it, the Waiting Room. Whenever the Boogieman or one of her servants shadow-walked, this is where they went before arriving at their destination. This place also served as a refuge of sorts since only a few individuals could access it. Taking comfort in this, Queezel started walking forward, his bare feet sending silvery ripples across the Fugue's glass-like floor. If he'd still been among the living, the near brush with death might've alarmed Queezel, but he honestly wasn't surprised. The men and women of Taletown were teetering on the edge of disaster. Without a leader to give people a sense of purpose and unity, it wouldn't take much to send the entire borough careening into chaos. Sure, the so-called "Council" was doing its best to hold things together, but it wasn't enough. They were expending a great deal of effort but ultimately accomplishing nothing.

Queezel looked up into the impenetrable blackness and said, "I seek passage to the G'Whiz Sweets Shop. Find me a shadow from which I may drop." The rhyme echoed eerily in the Shadow Between Worlds for a few moments before several oddly-shaped portals opened in front of the shade, each one representing a shadow near Hansel and Gretel's shop. A larger shadow, cast by an old newspaper vending machine, caught Queezel's eye and he hurled himself forward. The shadow shuddered for a second then spat Queezel out like a chunk of rotten meat. The elder shade landed on all fours, feeling the familiar touch of mist against his rotting flesh. It wasn't quite as foggy here, and there wasn't an out-of-control car in sight. Excellent. Queezel darted across the street to the sweets shop, noticed how empty it was, and shoved the door open.

Ding! Ding!

Queezel blinked when he saw Hansel standing behind the glass bakery case. There was blood streaming down the Tale's face, and the case itself had a network of spidery cracks running across it. Odd, but not important. Stepping forward, and flinching at the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, Queezel said, "Good evening to you, Master Hansel." Not even Terror knew why her shades were so polite, but she didn't care as long as they obeyed her commands. "Would you be willing to turn down the lights? It's far too bright in here. My mistress was wondering if you or your sister had seen Crier this evening. He's expected at Boogie's Beans and my mistress grows impatient. I know you can find almost anyone when you put your mind to it, and--"

Queezel paused when he heard something hit the floor with a moist splat. The elder shade looked down and saw his pointed, decaying ear lying on the polished tiles. The needlework holding it in place must've come undone. Frowning and picking up his ear, Queezel jammed it back into the side of his bulbous head and waited for Hansel's reply.

"Are you certain, Br'er Rabbit?"

"That I am, Miss Sinclair. In the Hundred Acres, no less."

Rebecca paused for a moment and glanced at the manila folders scattered across her immaculate cherry wood desk. Of course something like this would happen on a night when Crier was supposed to visit and her attention was elsewhere. Grimacing, Becca leaned back in her plush desk chair and pressed the phone against her cheek as she said, "Very well. Thank you for contacting me. Swing by Boogie's Beans whenever you have a moment so we can discuss your payment."

"My pleasure, Miss Sinclair," Br'er Rabbit said in his almost cartoonish Southern drawl.

Rebecca Sinclair hung up the phone and stood up slowly, her pale green eyes roving the lightless expanse of her office. Despite the darkness, she could see everything, from the antique armoire in the corner to the stacks of filing cabinets lining the walls, with perfect clarity. The ancient Tale smoothed down the front of her long-sleeved white shirt and started to walk around to the other side of the desk when a low, guttural voice whispered in the back of her head.

<Crier has arrived, mistress. Shall I open the doors?> Baelor, one of her elder shades, asked.

Rebecca let out a quiet sigh and telepathically commanded Baelor to let the detective in. She walked out of her office and entered the dining area of Boogie's Beans, ordering the rest of her shades to keep a close eye on Crier as she sauntered towards the main entrance. Terror could already smell the stink of her visitor's cigarette by the time she reached the table where she'd spoken with Manuel Nunez less than thirty minutes ago. Sitting down and crossing her legs, the Boogieman couldn't help but smile as Crier approached the table. Contrary to popular belief, she liked James quite a bit. They were similar in more ways than the detective would probably ever admit.

"Miss Sinclair," Crier said as he stepped into the dim lamplight. "I'd like for you and I to have a little talk."

Gesturing towards the unoccupied chair at her table, Boogie said, "We do need to talk, Crier. You're late." Tilting her head to one side and crossing her arms over her chest, she said, "If my contacts are to be believed, you're in the middle of a murder investigation. I know such things are important, but that's no excuse for tardiness." As the detective moved closer, however, Becca's eyes narrowed and she said, "You look like shit, by the way. Can I get you something? Coffee? Food, perhaps?"

((Ignore this.))

Chupacabra

&

Mothman

^{Location: Outside Nevermore Central Park #7} Interaction: @Crosswire

---

Chupacabra came up to the window and stared at B.B's coins as if they were lying to her. Squinting at them, she placed a heavy hand atop the lot, then slid them into the window. "Chicken. Freakin'. Tacos," she growled, eyeing the money. While Dani wanted to question where B.B. managed to get this kind of money from, she decided against it. Maybe the kid had finally learned how to beg properly? With a slight shrug, Dani disappeared within the warm confines of her truck and began to prepare the tacos. She considered food preparation a labor of love, because half of the time she really didn't want to feed these ungrateful sons-of-bitches. Whenever Dani made food, she did it more for herself, than anything else, which made her rather prideful about the ordeal. All of her ingredients had to be fresh, prepared with good intentions, and actual love. So as she made the tortillas, warmed up the chicken, then put together four chicken tacos, Dani needed to cast out all of the irritation that had built up from the day's work, or else the tacos wouldn't come out properly. To do this, she began singing. While she wasn't exactly an American Idol grand winner or whatever, Dani didn't sound particularly terrible either.

Well, Mothman didn't think so, at least. He hummed along to the tune from his perch atop the mailbox. He had to be perfectly honest with himself-- he was glad someone had come along to distract Chupacabra from her apparently building rage. In combination with the liquor she was drinking, he knew that Good Things™ were not on the way. A heavy thunk upon the taco truck window-counter alerted him--

"Mothshake ready!" Dani called out.

Mothman leapt from mailbox to the street before the truck, quickly swept the beverage up, then began chugging it in a display of... skill? While most probably would have gotten brain-freeze from chugging what was essentially a slushie, Mothman never did-- he may look human but a lot of his anatomy was off.

"Four chicken tacos for wolf puppy," Chupa called out, bringing a paper basket to the taco truck window. Dani placed the tacos, chicken still sizzling, upon the window, then stared at B.B. and swore that if she didn't hear a thank you, she was going to throw the remaining ice from the Mothshake preparation RIGHT at that stupid wolf's head. So there she stood, hand on the blender's handle, waiting very impatiently for B.B. to say something. Or not. She had to admit she was a little torn on which scenario she preferred. Sure, she noticed that Mothman crouched slightly to look into her face, but she tried not to pay him any attention.

---

Dough being pounded beneath the force of heavy thuds, shined steel splitting tender avian muscle, hot pops and fatty crackles of meat cooking clean through, and the vibrant hums and lyrics of strange yet joyous music consumes B.B’s sword sharp senses. It was all the women could do to keep from rocking on her feet and swaying back and forth to the duo’s combined song.

Chupa’s singing, the Washboard Ab-ed Mailbox Sitter’s humming, they went so well together that it felt magical. The idea of something as mundane as off beat music seeming ‘magical’ to a wolf in the shape of a young girl seemed silly, but that’s how she felt. The world around her began to dim, the wolf’s senses focused solely on to what she could her.

However the thud and almost immediate slurping of the Mothman snapped her back to her senses. B.B turned her head and caught a glimpse of the last ounces of the drain cleaner blue drink disappearing into the fire hose thick neck of the Mothman.

“What was that? Ice cream? A slushie? Or something else? Whatever it was he must really, really like it.”

B.B’s wandering train of thought was completely derailed with Chupa’s re-apperance and the smell of hot food. The grey haired girl’s head turned back to the window of the truck. Her eyes immediately locked onto the food and then back into the intense, threatening eyes of Chupa.

“T-t-thank you for the f-food.” B.B breathed shakily, nodding her head and forcing an awkward smile as she reached out for the warm tacos. “T-they smell delicious. You’re a r-really good cook Chupa.”

It was by no means faint praise but B.B's shaking voice and eager hands made the sincerity difficult to properly hear. As soon as her hand wrapped around one of the tacos B.B thrust it towards her mouth. Like a machine her jaws moved, pulverizing the warm shell and rending the hot cooked meat. B.B used the palm of her head to force the taco forward as her mouth did all the work. In seconds the taco was gone, only for one of it's brothers to be shoved towards the wolf awaiting jaws.

One, two, three, four.

The tacos were gone with the only trace they had ever existed being the grease stained paper they had been served on and the flecks of meat clinging to the sides of B.B's cheeks.

---

---

Eissen blinked slowly at Red's words. Excitable thing, wasn't she?

"That'd be lovely, thanks. But really, free of charge? I'd prefer to pay, really, it's no trouble."

"Well I mean you'll still have to pay for the food, but it won't cost you anything extra if you want to request something specific." Red explained, gesturing to the little kitchen only barely visible from the front of the shop through the doorway behind the service counter.

"Hm." Struck by a sudden surge of daring, Eissen said, "I'll take you up on that. Make something exciting, Red. Whatever seems fun." Quietly, Eissen applauded her personal bravery within the rather uncertain terrain of the bakery.

The interior of Red's shop was rather small. Entering through the front door one would find themselves in a small eating area which had a total of three tables and a handful of chairs. A large glass display counter showing off the many colorful confectioneries Red made acted as a kind of divider. Behind the counter was enough floor space to move around behind the counter itself and a single open door. Through the opening part of an oven and some counter space could be scene. It was difficult to see just what exactly was back there but the smell was potent of sugar, flower, and a variety of sweet flavors from the snap of cinnamon, to the twinge of vanilla. Upon hearing her offer taken up Red's smile grew wider yet and she stood on her toes briefly, holding her hands to her face.

"Oh thank you so much! It's rare I get to make a surprise for a customer. You stay right here and I'll get it started!"

Turning around Red pranced into the kitchen, her crimson hood waving behind her like a little flag as she disappeared from sight. Soon the bakery was filled with the brief sounds of scuffling. Metal bowls clattering against counter tops, eggs cracking open, milk pouring, dough being beaten into submission. The noise ended with the click of an electric stove and the shutting of a metal door. As Red pranced her way back out of the kitchen and up to the counter the bakery began to fill with a strong, fruity smell. Though what fruit the smell exactly was seemed unusually difficult to pin down.

"I won't tell you what I have in the oven, you'll just have to wait and see when it's done. In the mean time we can talk if you'd like, Ma'am." Red added, holding her hands behind her back.

"Come one and open up. I don't need to hear your secrets now but I need to know what you can do. There has to be a way to make what you have mine..."

Eissen had watched the flurry of Red's work with interest. The girl was an energetic blur of focused red intent. Eissen felt a little bit of envy. She'd always considered her tinkering and jewelry-making an enjoyable hobby, but couldn't imagine working on her gold trinkets the way Red worked on her baking.

"Well, I was just enjoying the night. Nothing special. I hadn't really been planning on going out at all, but it just seemed so nice. A good kind of night, y'know?"

"Yeah! A lot of people are afraid to go out at night, but to be honest I prefer the night to the day." Red said with an enthusiastic nod. "During the day the sun is out, the birds are singing, but there's so much noise and too many people running around to enjoy anything. At night though it's different. It's quiet, the streets are empty, and there are some places you can stand and barely hear anything at all. Overcast skies and rain a kind of the same way. The sun goes away, things get a little darker, and people clear off the streets. The night and the rain are one of the few times the world is transformed."

Eissen smiled, her mind swimming backwards and forwards. It was pretty lovely, wasn't it? Red's words brought her back to cool and starry fairy-nights in her old kingdom, before she allowed it to fall apart to the ravages of demons and fae. And it brought her here, now, to this happy and careless evening, where the air was fresh and unbothered. Yes. That was exactly right, just like Red said. Fresh air, quiet, room for thoughts.

Glancing back at the cartoon-ish duck clock hanging up on the wall Red made note of how long her treat had been in the oven before looking back to Eissen. "Just be careful when going out at night. Lots of mean old people like to prowl around, like that wolf. But I'm sure you could handle them, right?"

"Haven't had much need to handle anyone since we all got here. It's been quite nice, actually. It's a different kind of life, these weird, messy things the humans live out on this side of the veil. But maybe it's what our lot needed." Eissen frowned, then. "I think I've run into her, actually. The Wolf. She seemed polite enough. Why, has something happened?"

"Well..." Red pretended to hesitate, glancing sideways and then down at her shoes before looking back into the older women's eyes. "I hate gossip and I always try to figure out if something is true before I say it, but I heard the Big Bad Wolf recently killed someone. A whole apartment stained red with blood and covered in disgusting canine fur. Crier's probably out trying to find them right now."

"Crier?" Eissen said slowly. She knew, vaguely, who the Boy Who Cried Wolf was, but she needed a moment to marshal her thoughts, on death, on murder, on old memories too.

"Yeah the Crier! He's working as a detective now. Catches all the bad Tales doing bad things here in Taletown." Red said with a perfectly feigned tone of respect towards the cowardly little shouter. "I don't know who was murdered but I know it was a tale and I know it was in the terrible apartment on the north side of town."

"Hmm." Eissen fell into thought, half-forgetting Red was present, until, realizing enough silence had passed for the current situation to be considered 'awkward,' said, "Sounds like a real mess. Can't imagine the council is happy. Is that who the Crier works for, then? The big bosses?"

"No, I'm pretty sure the Crier works for himself or private clients. He's just doing his best to keep things safe however he can. The council really doesn't have much power or authority really. Sure they can get upset, complain, and try to pass decrees but they don't really have anyone to enforce what they discuss."

Little Red Riding hood felt like spitting up inside her own precious cloak having to describe the Crier as anything but a sniveling, incompetent tattle-tale but she nodded her head maturely and flashed a prim and proper smile. "Honestly things would be so much better if we had some kind of leader. Like a mayor or something like that. I'd try to run, but I'm still seen as just a little kid. I doubt anyone would want me in charge..."

"No, probably not. People get very picky when you start giving them commands." Eissen thought then on the Crier. She had never met him personally (nor, for that matter, most of the other Tales who'd emigrated alongside her). "That's good though," she told Red. "Doing your best. Keeping people safe. Not the most common actions in the world."

"Yeah! I wish I could be more like the Crier to be honest. Keeping people safe, stopping all the bad Tales like the Wolf , and making things better! But...I'm not very strong and I don't really have any special powers. If I was stronger I could probably do a lot more but..." Red frowned and solemnly looked away, even going so far is to get her eyes wet in the hopes of luring the hag into maybe opening herself up just a little. A taste of that power, the potential for having it, Red had to try...

"Power's overrated. Take it from me. And it's not like heroes are well known for their happy endings. Find something that makes you happy and try not to break anything, that's all hard enough on it's own."

Eissen didn't know how to peg Red, not exactly. She wasn't a young Tale, that was for sure, but she still acted with a kind of naivety that Eissen figured another, less sympathetic figure would've taken advantage of long before now. The human world was many things, some of them good, some of them great, but forgiving to naivety was not one of its qualities.

"I'll have to keep an eye out for your Wolf. Maybe ask her what she thinks of all this."

"Well I always figured heroes never got happy endings because nothing ever ends. You don't get a happy end, just a happy life if you work hard." Red looked back to Eissen, rubbing her eyes as she hid her disappointment from the women's response. It seemed strange for a (supposedly) powerful individual to regard power itself so apathetically. Had her power come at some kind of cost or was she just trying to chase off any potential competition? Red couldn't be sure. A genuine frown flashed across the crimson hooded girl's face and she eagerly shook her head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. The Big Bad Wolf is dangerous. She used to swallow up older ladies like yourself all the time back in the Homeland. Everything and anything that comes out of her mouth is some form of lie, or something to benefit her. I won't stop you from going to see her if you really want to but just be careful and don't let yourself be fooled."

There was sudden sharp DING from the back room and Red clapped her hands.

"Your goodies are done!" Red turned and quickly pranced away.

Older ladies? A twinge of the old vanity, and Eissen watched Red prance away with a frown pulling at her otherwise noncommittal lips. "I still have it," she said, watching herself carefully in the reflection she cast on the darkened store-front windows.

Stepping out of the back room Red carried a small Styrofoam container up to the glass counter. Setting it in front of Eissen with a small degree of showmen shipshe opened it up to reveal four fat, plump apple tarts. The looked almost like miniature apple pies with flaky, golden crust like exteriors and apple cinnamon fillings revealed through the X-shaped breathing cuts slashed into the top of the pastries. As big around as a proper apple and piping hot the tarts looked and smelled potent.

"So, what do you think?" Red asked with bated breath.

"It looks wonderful, thank you," said Eissen. The smell of apple and cinnamon was the kind of thing that could've stopped a murderer in their tracks. Eissen stretched her pale fingers over the styrofoam box and pulled it shut, trapping in the coils of steam and the heady smell of pastries. "How much is it?"

"For you, just three dollars!" Red exclaimed.

"Oh, thanks Red." Eissen smiled, then hesitated for a moment. Lopsided deals—the thought brought a trill of alarm and suspicion to her. Perhaps she had spent too much time with fairy-folk, sticklers for infinitely complicated and carefully balanced bargains. With as large a smile has her stiff, cool face could manage, Eissen finally slid two dollars and a neat little stack of quarters across to Red. Stowing the pastries in her bag, she turned for the door.

"Thanks for the chat," she said over her shoulder.

"No thank you, really." Red said waving as Eissen began to walk away. "And if you ever want to come back, or just talk, please don't hesitate. I'm always looking to make new friends. Don't talk to any wolves on your way home!"

"I guess it'll take more time to get you to open up. And even if you don't I will have your power. I'll have everyone's power and everyone will be exactly as I want them to be..."

As the Pale Queen turned her back Little Red Riding Hood's the girl's smile became far too real. It peaked at the corners of her lips and took on a twisted, chilling elation. When Red looked at the Queen she didn't see a women, she didn't even see a person. All she saw was a means to an end. Her end. Her way. And she'd get it just like she always had...

@Lexicon

The sucker in his mouth rolled from one corner to the other as Hansel regarded the ghoul—or whatever the fuck it was—that moseyed into his and Gretel’s shop. His eyelids were narrowed in suspicion as the creature asked—didn’t ask for candy or sweets—for Crier. Hansel crossed his strong arms before his chest, pinched the end of his sucker and removed it a few inches from his mouth as he said rudely, “How about you get your ass out of my shop?”

Hansel didn’t like spooks, ghouls, and creeps. Heck! He hunted them and the creature was looking like it wanted to lose more than its ear. Since when did he become the detective’s keeper? Were they partners all of a sudden? If they were he wasn’t getting paid his portion.

“I’m going to go get my rifle,” Hansel nonchalantly told the creature as he turned toward the steps leading down to his basement. “…and if you’re not gone by the time I get back, I’m going to blast you. You can tell your mistress not to send her muppets to my store again.”

'Someone knows...'

James looked around the coffee shop and while he didn't care for its owner he allowed himself to silently admit it was fairly tasteful, though somehow that made it even more sinister. His complementary (as far as Crier would go anyhow) thoughts were interrupted by 'Rebecca' saying something and gesturing towards a nearby table.

"You look like shit, by the way. Can I get you something? Coffee? Food, perhaps?"

James didn't respond, he wasn't much for small talk as is but whilst he was certain Terror already knew how the Boy Who Cried Wolf felt about her he preferred to make that abundantly clear regardless. Still, he ran a hand through his hair, he hadn't slept for a while but surely he wasn't that bad. Crier made a mental note to check if his eyes were bloodshot as he and Rebecca walked over to a small coffee table with two adjacent chairs, rather than take a seat though James simply rested his hands atop one of the chairs and leaned on it, cigarette resting between his fingers.

"As I'm sure you don't need me to inform you, somebody's dead. Luckily for you I'm not one to point the finger at whoever I think is the most dangerous and say they did it, I doubt you had anything to do with it, as of right now. But I want you to tell me everything you know about the Hundred Acre Complex, if you know of specific occupants then that's preferable, the Innkeeper didn't seem to know who he was..."

James trailed off, why would the owner of a small complex not know a thing about the residents? It was a shithole yes but he'd see the majority of them in his daily life, even with the ledger destroyed there must have been something he could have given to go off of. James suddenly shook his head, now wasn't the time to start considering everything about the case, he looked back at Rebecca, his colourless gray eyes meeting her vibrant green ones.

"After this, you and I are done. No more deals, no more exchanges. For this case however I will get whoever did this. So, against my better judgement. You help me, I'll help you. If you think the council aren't already pointing fingers, you're wrong, they want to wrap this thing up in a neat little bow nice and quick, so they're pressuring me to take in either you or a member of Gingie's gang of merry men, like I said, the profile here doesn't fit you. So long as you funnel me information pertaining to this case, no matter how seemingly mundane, I'll keep from listing you as a suspect. But after this is over, nothing more."

James reached into his pocket and placed a small slip of paper on the table, tapping it for emphasis.

"Call me on that number, if I don't answer then leave a tip to The Homeland's desk. Now, The Hundered Acre Apartments..."

James waited to hear Rebecca's information, he was already prepped to deal with a sarcastic quip but so long as she told him what he needed to know he'd be satisfied. He didn't doubt that Rebecca knew more than he did but on a rundown apartment building? He wasn't holding his breath but he may learn something useful with any luck. Hopefully his new "partner" would come up with something more helpful later.

A GOD AM I…

Swan frowned upon reading the bloody message on the wall. The Boss was right; whoever this killer was, he definitely had delusions of grandeur.

The pale haired woman turned her eyes away from the bloody letters on the wall and moved them towards the mutilated corpse that was lying upon the blood-stained carpet. It was a gruesome sight, one that had one of the newer Breadwinners that was escorting her almost lose his lunch upon seeing it. But for Swan, a corpse was just a corpse, nothing but bone and gristle and leftover meat; in other words, nothing to get so excited over. Besides, she had seen worse.

After a few moments of examining the bloody chunks that were once the man’s face, she turned her bored expression over to the front desk clerk who had been bodily dragged from his office and up to the crime scene by her escorts. Although the two men in suits were mortal and thus usually no match for a Tale, even one as scrawny and impotent looking as the clerk, the fact that both were armed with a shotgun and automatic rifle kept the man behaving properly.

“Whose room was this?” Swan asked. The skinny man was the employee who worked the front desk during the past few weeks.

“L-look, I told you guys before! I don’t fuckin’ know okay?” The tale grumbled out, his demeanor trying very hard not to look shaken. Unfortunately his attempts were useless as he was sweating bullets while under Swan’s cold gaze, not to mention the two gun barrels of the goons behind him. “The l-ledger’s gone.”

“So you’ve said,” Swan drawled, her blue eyes never blinking as she continued her hard glare. “And you honestly want us to believe that you’re so stupid and such a fuckup that you would forget who it was that you rented this room out to?”

“I-”

“You’re not running the Ritz here, friend,” Swan continued, cutting the manager off. “You get what? Two or three new rentals a week in this shithole? And you have, what? Twenty to thirty tenants? You’re actually telling me that you can’t remember who you rented this room out to? Because from the state of this body,” she kicked at the corpse’s leg just so the clerk knew the exact corpse she was referring to, “he can’t have been dead for more than two days.”

Swan stepped over the body and approached the trembling clerk, her eyes narrowing into angry slits. “I suggest you get that pea brain of yours working again, and answer my damn question. Who. Did. You. Rent. This. Room. TO.”

The clerk gulped. “M-ma’am, look, I swear I don’t-”

Swan’s fist lashed out in a quick, hard jab that smashed into the clerk’s belly, her hard knuckles digging into the soft flesh directly under his left ribcage. The clerk coughed out loudly in pain and fell to his knees, trousers becoming stained by the drying blood. Swan may not have been the strongest Tale, but she definitely knew where to hit a man to make it hurt.

“The next time you lie to me, I’ll have my friend with the shotgun blow off your right kneecap.” Swan crouched over the coughing, weeping man, then cruelly grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head up as she began to scream right into his face. “WHO DID YOU GIVE THIS ROOM TO?!”

“I-I don’t know his name, I swear!” The clerk coughed out, his eyes red and wide with fear. “He was some guy in a hoodie, it was dark I couldn’t see his face! Th-the freak didn’t even say nothin, he just passed me a note asking for a room. He also gave me two hundred bucks to get rid of the registry.”

Swan frowned. “Where’s this note?”

“I… I threw it out, along with the log book. Please! I swear, if I knew he was messing with Mr. Ginger I would never have helped him! I just needed the money, please!”

Swan let go of the clerk’s hair and the Tale fell flat on his face onto the messy carpet. She then stood up and walked to the two men she had come here with.

“Fredricks,” she said looking over to the goon with the shotgun. “Take this sorry sack of excrement,” she indicated the weeping clerk behind her, “back to the hotel. Let the boys over there work him over. They might get him to say a bit more.” The man nodded, then tugged the scrawny Tale up to his feet and began dragging him out of the room.

“Kowalski,” Swan said to the goon with the assault rifle. “I doubt this dump gets its garbage picked up regularly. I saw some dumpsters out back. Go in there and look for the note that asshole threw out.”

Kowalski gave her a disbelieving look. “Seriously?”

It only took one cold look from Swan to get him rushing out towards the dumpsters.

The pale blond woman sighed before leaving the room herself. She straightened out her white coat as she stepped out of the building, headed to the dingy streets outside.

She needed more information.

Chupacabra

&

Mothman

^{Location: Outside Nevermore Central Park #7}

---

Slowly, her grip upon the blender handle relaxed-- there, the puppy remembered to say thank you. Good. So Dani wouldn't have to leap out of the truck and break her freakin' knee caps. Still though, Dani watched B.B. eat her tacos with an expression of silent disapproval. While she never expected poor folks like B.B. to eat slowly, the kid could have at least savored the food instead of becoming a vacuum. Dani supposed that B.B. really sucked, in that place. Hah. Sucked. A smirk spread across Dani's face briefly as the joke made her inwardly chuckle. As she watched taco number four disappear, Dani figure that there was nothing quite as satisfying as a good pun and--

"Mothy if you don't stop starin' at me like that I'm going to tape your eyes shut while you sleep!"
Mothman frowned deeper at Dani than he had been already.

"Seriously? You are going to start your workout late if you keep making faces at me," Chupa scolded him. Leaning forward onto the taco truck window, she watched B.B. swallow the remainder of the last taco, then told her, "If you want more tacos you going to have to w-work... uh..." There was nothing stopping Chupa's sudden distraction-- Mothman had began stretching. Would you look at all those muscles? Who wasn't distracted by that? A light redness found it's way into Chupa's cheeks. A brief pause passed as Chupa watched him then warned, "H-hey Mothy! Don't you go runnin' past that spook's little club, creepin' n' starin' in the freakin' windows, like some kinda kidnapper--"

Mothman somehow made a more disapproving face at Chupacabra then.

"I'm serious Mothy-- don't you know they watchin' you just like you watchin' them-- n' also stop pressin' ya freakin' muscle-tits against the freakin' Goody Basket glass-- stare in there like a creeper at a distance at least, mijo. But you don't need to be doin' that weird shit either--"

Mothman stood to full height after stretching his legs, held his hand up toward Chupacabra, indicating that she should talk to it, then began running down the sidewalk. His path lead him away from the direction of the Goody Basket and Dani knew that he IMMEDIATELY was ignoring her advice. "Son of a--" Chupacabra scrambled to get out of her truck and into the street, yelling after Mothman, "--Te voy a matar!" Growling, Chupacabra shook her head. This fool was going to pass around the block, run RIGHT in front of Boogie's Beans, then up the street to the Goody Basket, before making his way to the gym-- AS USUAL.

And in a moment of profound lashing out at anything, Chupacabra yelled, "Why don't you go get some freakin' runnin' exercise with that big-Moth instead of standin' around catchin' flies in ya mouth, perrita!" Kicking a bit of accumulated street gravel, broken glass, and bits of paper toward B.B. with an oddly worried edge to her fury. The implication that B.B. could catch up to Mothman was there but, this feat would probably only be likely by the time he stopped to stare into Boogie's Beans-- he was a notoriously fast runner that integrated more than a reasonable amount of parkour building climbing into his runs.

^{Interaction:@Crosswire}

Queezel blinked once, twice, three times as Hansel turned away from him. What had he done to deserve such hostility? The elder shade was well aware of Hansel's former occupation, but such rudeness was inexcusable. Baring his glistening teeth, Queezel stood up to his full height, which was about four and a half feet, and said, "You may do as you wish, Master Hansel. I will inform my mistress of your request and your unwillingness to aid me in my search." The diminutive undead inclined his one-eared head respectfully and scuttled towards the door, though he didn't open it. Without looking back at Hansel, Queezel said, his words barely audible over the hum of the store's air-conditioner, "Terror will not be pleased."

Ding! Ding!

Faster than Hansel could blink, the shade disappeared into the night like an errant wisp of grayish green fog. Would this brief, seemingly harmless encounter have consequences? Probably. The Boogieman was alot of things, but forgiving wasn't one of them.
Rebecca's pleasant grin was gone by the time Crier finished speaking. Did this fool realize that, if he continued making eye contact with her, she could potentially learn what terrified him most in this world? Could he even comprehend the nature of the entity he was talking to? This was one of the downsides of Terror's new status as a somewhat legitimate businesswoman. Some people thought they could barge into Boogie's Beans and say or do whatever they wanted. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your perspective, the Boogieman had no qualms about putting these assholes in their place. And she wasn't gentle about it.

Adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses, the ancient Tale leaned forward in her seat and said, "Do you know why I like you, James? You are a predator. You're a hunter, just like me. I feed off the fear of others and you do the same after a fashion. The helpless fools of this town come running to you for help, and, like a wolf in sheep's clothing, you protect them until it's time for them to pay. Then you feed, glutting yourself on whatever they're willing to offer. Trust me, I understand. You need money, food, and whatnot to make a decent life for yourself. What I find so intriguing is that you seem genuinely interested in making Taletown a better place. You aren't like that glorified pastry and his Breadwinners or the members of our esteemed Council, who spend more time whining and bickering than anything else. You actually want to ensure the New World is everything this community needs it to be. A place where everyone, no matter who they are or what they've done, can start over. I respect that. I even admire it."

Standing up and slowly walking forward until she was right in front of Crier, Becca's face settled into a mask of disdain and irritation as she said, "That respect and admiration is the only thing keeping me from having eleven angry shades drag you out of my place of business. How dare you come in here and try to strong-arm me, boy. I've spent the last twenty years recreating myself from the ground up into someone the people of Taletown can trust without reservation." She paused for a moment and glanced away before returning her attention to Crier's face. "Alright, someone the people of Taletown can trust with a few reservations. You and I both know the Council barely thinks about me anymore. I pay my dues and keep my head down. They have no reason to send you after me. There's only one Tale in that gaggle of jackasses that doesn't trust me."

Poking Crier in the chest with one finger, Boogie said, "What I can't understand is why you, the great detective, don't see that Merlin is using you to get to me. That old bastard put the Ward of Fear on my back, but he still thinks I'm some kind of evil beast scrabbling at the bars of my cage. Well, fuck him and fuck you. I would think you of all people would understand what it means to struggle day in and day out to overcome the sins of your past. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we aren't alike at all."

A bit dramatic, Terror thought to herself as she moved away from the detective and looked out over the vast, empty dining area of Boogie's Beans, but I am disappointed in Crier. Perhaps I expected too much from him? We shall see. This place, this ridiculous, marvelous jazz cafe' and coffee shop, is my stronghold, my base of operations. As much as I enjoy James' company, I cannot allow him to speak to me this way here. Or anywhere, really. Not if I want to lead Taletown into the golden age it so rightfully deserves. Still, waste not want not. Let's see if the boy is truly nothing more than Merlin's dupe.

Clasping her hands behind the small of her back and glancing over her shoulder at Crier, the Boogieman said, "Isn't it interesting, James? Merlin is a powerful mage, but he was nothing more than a respected advisor back in the Homelands. An advisor, not a leader. And yet, he currently enjoys all the benefits of leadership without putting himself in a vulnerable position. That's not what Taletown needs right now. Taletown needs someone that isn't afraid to step forward and do what needs to be done. Taletown needs people like you and me, people that have endured hardships and setbacks beyond counting. With a person like that at the helm, and the Council serving in an advisory capacity, things can and will change for the better. Can you even imagine what that would be like?"

Rebecca turned around and a small, dangerous little smile slithered across her heart-shaped face as she locked eyes with Crier again. "How many people do you think have tampered with your crime scene since you left the Hundred Acres, hm? I'm guessing, between all the informants, thugs, nosy neighbors, and self-proclaimed sheriffs, at least fifteen. That's unacceptable. You, and you alone, should be given free rein to do whatever it takes to bring the bastards responsible for this murder to justice. But instead you're content to run around on the Council's leash and bark at Tales like me that want nothing more than to make a living."

We'll see if those seeds bear fruit, Boogie thought to herself as she returned to her seat and smoothed down the front of her dress shirt. I've said my piece, but I might as well tell him what I know about the Hundred Acres. Let it never be said that Terror refuses to help the law. Besides, Crier looks like he could use a lead or two.

Terror's expression softened a little and she said, "But that's a discussion for another time. As far as your request for information goes, I have a few tidbits for you to consider. First, I will admit that I don't have many eyes and ears around the Hundred Acres apartments. So much criminal activity goes on in that place it's difficult to figure out what's worth paying attention to and what isn't. Another consequence of the Council's inability to keep this borough from imploding. At any rate, if what my contact told me was correct, you're looking for a Tale with incredible physical strength and claws. And a god complex, apparently. Of course, it's also possible that an artifact from the Homelands caused all this. I know Merlin likes to think that, as the unofficial leader of Taletown's spellcasters, he knows about every mystical objects in town, but I have my doubts. Nobody is that knowledgeable."

Tapping one slender finger against her lower lip, Boogie thought for a moment and said, "The first Tale that springs to mind is B.B. Wolf, but you and I both know she's a coward. On the other hand, a coward backed into a corner is capable of anything. I would suggest taking a look at Br'er Rabbit as well..." The blonde-haired Tale trailed off for a moment as if she was seriously contemplating this particular Tale, but it was a ruse. A beautifully executed ruse, but a ruse nonetheless. The last thing Boogie wanted was for one of her most well-paid and useful informants to be caught up in a murder investigation. "But he's an idiot, a simpleton that wouldn't know how to use a magical item if it fell into his lap with an instruction manual attached. He's also not strong enough to inflict the kind of wounds you saw on the victim. However, I believe his old rival, Br'er Bear, recently found a job and is now renting a room in the Hundred Acres. He's also a raging alcoholic and has a nasty temper to boot. Definitely worth talking to, I think."

Frowning and crossing her arms across her chest, the Boogieman said, "The only other people I can think of are the Rumpadump and Stool families. Two Munchkin families from the world of Oz that helped each other during the Great Exodus. In fact, I heard a rumor that Jamjar Rumpadump married Latinka Stool a few weeks back. Adorable, isn't it? Perhaps one or both of the families got their hands on something they shouldn't have back on their homeworld? Oz has more witches and warlocks than any other world in the Homelands. Oh and you'll probably want to talk to Chupa as well. I know people say she's as innocent as the day is long, but who knows if she's telling the truth about that little barroom brawl she was involved in. And I'm sure you'll wind up talking to some of the Breadwinners, though this doesn't seem like the work of our doughy friend or his goons."

As Rebecca finished talking, she started to reach for the business card Crier had left on the table and--

Flash.

Terror was reaching for Dread, the Umbral Blade and the Shadow-That-Cuts, but her clawed hand was still a good foot away from the ivory table it rested on. Bruises and countless gashes that oozed thick black blood were scattered across her hulking form. Snarling in agony, she started to rise from her basalt throne but immediately fell back when she realized her legs couldn't support her weight. Wiping tar-like blood from a gash above her left eye, the Tale opened her mouth to call for one of her shades. Queezel and Baelor should be somewhere nearby. They always were.

"Come out, sister," a voice burbled from somewhere nearby. It sounded like the words were being spoken by a dying woman with a mouthful of mud. "Come out and face me. Mother told me what happened and she is most displeased. She actually wanted to come down from Mount Azgalor to finish you herself, but I told her not to worry. I'd be happy to do the honors."

Terror, her body battered and mangled almost beyond recognition, froze at the sound of her eldest sister's voice. A few breathless moments passed. Then a faint, barely perceptible tapping sound echoed throughout the massive chamber. How close was she? How close was Mystery? Was that the Question, Mystery's ivory staff, trying to find an entrance into this part of the Nighthold? Shuddering at the thought, the injured Tale once again reached for the Umbral Blade but stopped as a violent coughing fit took hold of her. Black blood spattered the flagstones of Terror's throne room. Settling back into her seat and moaning quietly, the Tale realized she wasn't strong enough. She wasn't strong enough to reach her goddamn weapon. If Mystery found a way into the throne room now it was over. She would die.

Flash.

Rebecca Sinclair froze. If Crier looked at her in this moment it would become very apparent that the creature sitting before him wasn't human in any way, shape or form. She wasn't breathing, and her eyes looked strangely glassy. Like doll eyes staring out of a face made of lifeless, plastic flesh. The vision had felt so real. So intense. And it wasn't the first time something like this had happened to her. Clearing her throat and forcing a smile onto her face, Boogie grabbed the business card and sat back up in her chair. She reminded herself to breathe, to look as human as possible, just like she did every single day. All that mattered was getting through the rest of her business for the evening. Then she could go down to the basement and relax in whatever way she saw fit.

Terror tucked the business card into her pants' pocket and said, "What else? Oh yes, about calling you whenever I get new information, I have a better idea. First, you will pay me for the...what was it? Two minutes of information I just gave you. The usual price, fifty dollars a minute. However, I'd be willing to accept half payment if you do two favors for me. Simple ones, I promise." Standing up and walking over to stand in front of the detective again, she said, "First, I want you to think, really think, about how much more effective you'd be if you had a prominent authority figure openly supporting you. You'd have total control over crime scenes and dealing with situations that threaten the security of Taletown. No more running in circles, no more inane restrictions. You would be a beacon of hope, of justice in this community. Because there is no justice in Taletown right now. Not really. The Council, the Gingerbread Man, they're all the same. They only care about themselves, but not you and not me. I've led armies into battle for thousands of years, and that's precisely what this is. A battle to determine the future of all the Tales that left their homeworlds in hopes of finding something better."

Stepping a little closer to James, Becca said, "Also, I want you to think about letting me join you on some of your investigations. As your partner, not your informant." Holding up her hands to forestall any response, she said, "I wouldn't be able to help you every night of the week, obviously. I have a business to run. But I'm a fairly well-respected member of the community, right? And you, well, some people still spit at you when you pass them on the street. If word got out that Boogie and Crier were working together to bring this killer to justice while the Council flails around it would do wonders for your reputation. Just give it some thought before making up your mind."

Grinning, Terror crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Now, unless there's anything else you'd like to discuss, I believe you can see yourself out." While she waited to hear what Crier had to say, she focused for a moment and reached out with her mind. <Baelor, Grim, and Swift. Answer me.>

Three voices quietly murmured in the back of her head, <Yes, mistress.>

<As soon as James leaves, I want one of you, I don't care which one, to follow him. We never lose sight of him again, understood? The rest of you will go to the filing cabinet closest to my desk and open the bottom drawer. You'll see a stack of posters inside with the phrase 'Where is the Justice in Taletown?' printed on them. I want you to cover this borough in as many posters as possible before sunrise. I want to see how people react. Once I get some kind of response, I'll be able to move forward. It's time we took a little initiative in this war of conquest.>

<Your will be done, mistress> the shades replied and Becca's smile widened ever so slightly. Once Crier left, she'd call Queezel back from his unnecessary errand and move on to her final task of the night. Telling the Nunez brothers the timetable was changing. If James wasn't going to be paying her for information anymore then she needed a new source of revenue as soon as possible. The money brought in by Nunez's Nasty would solve that problem and then some. True, getting the necessary equipment and chemicals to Boogie's Beans would be challenging but it wasn't impossible. Tonight, nothing felt impossible.

At that moment, one of her other shades whispered into Terror's mind, saying, <Mothman is coming towards the cafe', mistress. I believe he's on his nightly jog. Should we do something?>

The Boogieman's face didn't so much as twitch as she responded. <Just make sure that stupid fucker doesn't do anything besides look. The moment he touches something, I want any shades that aren't otherwise occupied to keep him busy until I can deal with him. I have no time for insects right now.>

There was something stirring inside Crier, he's expected a hostile response and quite possibly some disillusionment - which to him he received anyhow - But Terror's comments about them being alike.... The Boy Who Cried Wolf felt his stomach tighten in response as she spoke, particularly about righting past wrongs. He then felt a great sense of relief after her breakdown she admitted that perhaps they weren't alike at all.

"I don't really pay attention to likenesses Miss Sinclair; I guess, as a lawman, I'm a little bit more naive in that I believe there's good people..."

James glanced over at the window for a brief moment, catching his disheveled reflection.

"And there's bad people.... And the bad ones will get what's coming to them, sooner or later, makes no difference. You're right, I do want to make Taletown a better place, but I don't "feed" on people's money, you don't know who I am. I didn't come here to strong-arm you either, the council wants a result, like I said. They want a culprit that doesn't necessitate much evidence or paperwork, you, The Gingerbread Man, B.B, makes no difference. I was actually giving you more of a warning than anything else."

James placed his cigarette back into his mouth, taking out his wallet and continuing to talk as he did so.

"Can't imagine why exactly you'd want to come along with me, I just get insulted for a living. Nor would my reputation spike up by association with you, if you really wanna join me then you'd have to do as I say and keep outta the way, can't imagine if those terms are all that appealing to you but that's what they are, I don't try to tell you how to do your job."

James flicked out the last few coins and placed them on the desk.

"That's fifty. What else was it? Consider your proposal? I'll keep it in mind. Appreciate the names Miss Sinclair, I'll look into 'em when I get the chance."

James disregarded the majority of potential suspects as Rebecca listed them off. B.B was always a possibility but barring a complete mental breakdown James couldn't quite see it, the Munchkin family didn't exactly seem all that hopeful either. His interest was slightly raised at the mention of Br'er Rabbit, why would Terror name him only to take it back again? Claws weren't the only thing that could do that kind of damage.... James did note the possibility of the Chupacabra and Br'er Bear, maybe they didn't do it but perhaps he could learn something from them, particularly if Bear stayed at the Hundered Acres.

"Always a pleasure, Miss Sinclair" James commented dryly, placing his hands back into his pockets as he made way for the door.

There was something to the way Terror spoke, she seemed quite keen to get him on her side. Whilst James was very adamant on viewing the world in black and white he'd begrudgingly admit that Terror probably wasn't one to create a wasteland only she could rule, but she was ambitious and wasn't quite convinced she cared about Taletown, only the power that came with ruling it. It'd be easy to promise to any lawman complete power to get them on your side and claim it's in the name of justice and self-assurance in that one's morality, Crier could just be in the right place at the right time. Before he'd even placed his hand on the door handle, he'd decided to himself that Terror was not someone he was going to support.

Politics in general didn't matter to him, not right now anyway. There'd be nothing to rule if panic set in and pushed Taletown over the edge into anarchy. Whoever did this, had to be stopped, not for publicity or wealth or even justice. Evil had to be punished.

"Someone knows..."