Nobody is afraid of the dark. People tell themselves that. People tell themselves that while putting up thousands of street lights, installing floodlights, glow strips, reflectors, night lights. But nobody is afraid of the dark. Right?

Things move in the dark, under the neon in strip clubs, in graveyards walled off with wrought iron. Vampires lounge in seedy salons, werewolves squabble in woods and biker bars, faries make deals in lonely coffee shops and noisome casinos. Wizard cast their spells above book shops and in the basements of old houses, demons stalk the earth. For the most part people ignore it, content to imagine that a troll attack is a hit and run, and a burned corpse is a gang hit gone wrong. Some mortals know, they get involved or take up arms, banding together to survive the long hours until dawn.

Beneath the surface of the city the supernatural world moves, wars are fought, treaties are made, mysteries perpetuated, power exercised. Factions and plots form and reform, sometimes lasting a night, sometimes working out over centuries. The creatures of the night intersect with the mortal world only obliquely, such points of contact are rare, dangerous and often bloody, but the masquerade is maintained. Comfortable in the world of deep fake and photoshop, no one wants to wake up to monster hunters with predator drones.

This is a story of the hidden world beneath the fabric of the city. The dark undercurrents which eddy and swirl out of sight. For years the city has boiled in an unstable status quo, but change is coming. Violent change. So take up your weapons, your sigils, your knowledge, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, because it is going to be a long night...

October 29, 7 pm

Night fell on Corvus Bay like a wave of midnight gossamer. The long autumn was beginning to give way to the first hints of winter's coming bite. The crows stirred uneasily, taking to the skies from steeples and belfries, cawing raucously from beneath bridges, flapping forth from abandoned railway yards. Those wise to such things look to the skies, making obscure guestures, or leaving small shiny beads or pieces of polished metal. Even the squares, the magically unaware feel uneasy though few can say why. The sensitive, artists, poets, painters, complain of strange and dark dreams, the details of which cannot be remembered but elements of can be glimpsed in a burst of uncanny and disturbing works of art.

Rumors are abroad in the magical community too. Harold Robinson is dead. The word is on every set of lips, whispered in shady bars and moldering crypts, circulating on websites and message boards obscure and esoteric. Of the Four Harold was the oldest, a keeper of the peace who has kept blood from the streets for nearly half a century. How he died is as varied as the tongues who tell the story. Some say it was a snipers bullet, others a stroke, others still blame vampires, werewolves, stranger things. There is even a story that Old King Crow himself appeared to take Harold off. No one can say for sure, but everyone knows it means trouble... but for who?

@rush99999

January is awoken by a pounding at his door. Rapid and frantic, like panic fire in the distance. Distant sirens wail and dogs howl in the distance. The knocking comes again, ragged and desperate. Outside someone is whispering, the voice kept low but urgent.

"January, Open the door, for Jupiter's sake," a voice hisses in Latin.

@tokkiya

It wasn't the first time Anders had heard the rumor. It was all over his territory, but when Old Man Jonas showed up he knew it was for real. The Old Man was a mess, cut, bruised and battered. It was a miracle he was alive at all, deep gouging cuts across his arms spoke of narrowly avoided knife thrusts. He had told the police it was a robbery attempt, because that is what you told the police. He had summoned Anders to his hospital bed with a text. A fact that spoke of urgency more than injuries. Shit got real when old man used a cell phone. Looking at him now, laying in a hospital bed, IVs placed, suchers weeping blood, he seemed not like a neighborhood legend, but a frail and very mortal man.

@Humble1

It never did to deal with the Fae. They could be depended upon to keep their word of course, but perversely this only seemed to make them more dangerous. So when a card for Moon's Gift, marked with a familiar name, was slipped under Aliyah's door, it didn't presage anything good.

@POOHEAD189

Caber knew something was wrong as he approached his favorite bar. The door was open but the usual buzz of conversation from the patrons was absent. The place smelled of steel and blood, it reeked of cold iron. Several range rovers, old and battered were carelessly parked across loading zones. A keen eye picked out rifle racks in the back, empty as the sockets of so many skulls.

---

The air was filled with the heavy scent of debauchery, deceit, and grief. It was just another night in the city of Corvus Bay. One might peer into the front windows of a home and find a family huddled together at a dining room table with a meal of scraps. Meanwhile, the abandoned home across the street could be sheltering a group of squatters muttering to themselves. That guy that just passed you on the other side of the street? He had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets to hide the fresh blood on them.

Just another night in Corvus Bay.

The only place within the Kingsley district untouched by the city’s filth was the park—well, mostly untouched, which is quite a feat. The playground equipment was free of stray syringes and predators, all thanks to Old Man Jones. He had the uncanny ability to bring people together for the better good. The old man was the glue in the community. He was tough with a tough exterior to boot. Deep down his outward crotchety nature was a guise to protect a deep and caring soul. Even the park benches were just that. That is, they were undisturbed most of the time by the homeless population looking for a place to sleep. As an added bonus even the majority of the park’s streetlights were working.

A small rain shower had just passed through the area leaving the walking paths just wet enough to weakly reflect the incandescent light of the streetlamps. Quietly, a man entered the park. He wore dark clothing and walked in a way that wouldn’t attract attention. His footfalls were soft and assertive as he walked the path to a nearby bench. Small beads of water that had splashed up from shallow puddles slowly dribbled down his shoes. The bench was damp from the rain, but not wet enough to soak through clothing if it were wiped down.

“The last quiet respite in Kingsley district,” the man said. A couple out for a late night stroll passed him several yards away, their eyes carefully watching him. Even in this park people had to be alert like anywhere else in Corvus Bay.

In a nearby tree a crow cawed as if to serenade its one-man audience, then flew away. It was no more than a second later that the distant wailing of sirens bounced off the district’s buildings and into the park. The sound of sirens was commonplace, but a Corvus Bay resident always had a sixth sense when it involved sirens that were within their area of living.

The man straightened his back and leaned forward from the bench. Odd, he thought. He couldn’t recall sensing or hearing any trouble on his way to the park. “And here I got it into my head that tonight would be uneventful.” Sighing, he stood up and headed toward the sound.

---

“Please! Everyone, you have to stand back!” an officer shouted in a futile attempt to keep onlookers at bay.

Concerned, a middle-aged man roughly in his forties worked his way up to the barrier. “That’s Jones! You don’t understand who he is to us! What happened?”

“Sir, please, you’re right, I don’t, but there’s nothing else we can do. We’ll be taking him to Corvus Bay General Hospital. If you’d like to see him please come to the hospital.”

The man from the park arrived in time to hear the conversation. “Jones?” he asked to himself. He looked around and noted the panic written all over the bystanders’ faces. He heard right. Something happened to the old man. Without a vehicle of his own and distrustful of the city’s cabbies and subway at this time of night, he had no other choice but to go by foot.

---

Finally at the hospital, he checked his cell phone after realizing he hadn’t looked at it all night. (5) missed text messages, it read. First missed text:

(1) Hey baby, heard u were lonely. I…

Spam.

(2) pls am locked up in jail and need…

Scammer.

(3) Anders. It’s Jones. I got into a scu…

Jones never texted… ever. The old man was old fashioned and always called whenever he needed to get a hold of Anders, the man now standing at the Emergency entrance of the hospital. More concerned than he was just a second ago, Anders opened the text from Jones, selecting it more than once when it wouldn’t open faster than in half a second after trying to open it the first time. The glow of the phone’s small screen illuminated his face as he read the message:

Anders. It’s Jones. I got into a scuffle. at the hospital and will be transported to rm 516

It was well past visiting hours, but it simply wouldn’t be Corvus Bay if he walked in and someone actually enforced a rule. Eyes set on getting through, Anders walked with purpose to the nearest elevator that could take him to the fifth floor.

“Uh, sir?” a young woman’s voice piped up. Then, after observing the transgressing man, decided that it wasn’t worth it.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open and a janitor exited with his equipment.

"Going up," a recorded woman’s voice informed in a tone with subtle sensuality.

With the last bump of the janitor’s equipment’s wheels wobbling over the space between the elevator and the floor, Anders stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button labeled ‘5.’ He stepped back and leaned against the back railing. The doors glided closed.

@tokkiya
Room 516 was at the end of a long hallway. It was probably meant to command a picturesque view over the river, but the muddy polluted ribbon of water failed to deliver, even under moonlight it glittered with an unhealthy looking aspect that couldn't quite be defined. A wound care cart stood outside the door, waiting to be taken to central sterile, biohazard been bulging with bloody gauze. A young African American nurse arched an eyebrow as Anders approached, her heavy floral perfume an obvious violation of the fragrance free signs which hung on the walls.

"Sir visiting hours are..." she began but was interrupted by a harrumph from inside the room.

"Its ok Wendy, maybe a good time for a break sweetie," a gruff voice called from inside the room. The nurse hesitated for a moment and then stood, scooping up her phone and a crossword puzzle she had been working on.

"If you need anything Mr Jones, you just press that red button," she called and then slipped of down the hall, casting a skeptical eye over Anders.

Inside the room Jones lay on a bed. He was shirtless, impressively muscled in a sinewy kind of way, old scar tissue from ancient and wounds, all the more stark for the fact his belly and arms had been shaved prior to treatment. His right arm was wrapped in bandages as was the lower part of his abdomen. A long cut run up his left cheek, held together by a series of butterfly stiches.

"Anders," Jones grunted, giving no sign of being in pain other than a slightly distasteful twist of his jaw.

"I went down to the old theatre on the edge of Beacon and west, I heard there were strange sounds down there. Thought it might be the Foreman." The Old Theatre had been abandoned decades ago when gentrification had failed in Kingsley, it had been a magnet for grafitti and a place for kids to drink for a long while, its faded grandeur a magnet.

"Got jumped by a couple of vamps, but not before I saw they had snatched a couple kids," Jones grunted with characteristic brevity. How an old man had managed to escape vampires was left unstated.

"This doesn't have to be the end of you. It shouldn't have to be the end of you."

"January."

"You could live through this. You could live forever."

"January."

"I can grant you this, old friend! All you need to do is let me, and-!"

"Gaius."

"..."

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages."

"...It needn't be so."

"Alas, it must for me. The time has come for my seventh act to end. The time has come for me to make my final exit."

"Is there nothing I can say to convince you otherwise?"

"Not that I know of."

"..."

"I have lived a long and fulfilling life, January. But now, I am tired. I wish to rest as all mortal men do. I wish to see again the faces of those I love, who passed on before me."

"And what of those who you would leave behind? What of the city you dedicated yourself to for five decades?"

"I have faith that they will find a way without me. I have counseled the rest of the Four as well as I could and I believe my successor to be worthy of the mantle."

"And if your faith in them is misplaced?"

"If such is the case. I know I can count on you to put things right."

"Me?"

"Of course. You may believe yourself slothful and weak despite your years because of it, but I have seen what you are capable of when you are spurred to action. So as my last request to you, I ask that you do everything in your power to ensure the peace I've worked to maintain in this city does not die with me. Can you do this for me?"

"...I'll do my best, Harold."

---

Awoken from from his dream by the sound of someone knocking at his door, January opened his eyes. The sight of his apartment living room greeted him. Usually he kept it nice and tidy. But in his current state, he had neglected to do so for several days. That, combined with the occasional bout of grief stricken destruction, had left his apartment in quite the state. Upturned tables and broken chairs. Bookshelves toppled over and curtains pulled from their railings. Long and deep slash marks along the walls where January had struck at them with his gladius. Few things were left untouched. One such item was an old framed picture hanging on the wall opposite the torn up sofa January had fallen asleep on. The picture was of January many years ago. He was standing with four other people, all of them grinning at the camera that had snapped the photo. One of those four other people was none other than Harold Robinson during his younger days.

January walked over to the picture and gently placed his hand upon the glass. January knew all four of the people he was standing with in that picture. Each of them had been his friend through many dangers. And now, with the death of Harold, each of them had passed on, as all mortals did. At times like these, January wondered if there was some small measure of merit to Quincy's current envy of Mortality. A second round of knocking, followed by the sound of conversational latin imploring him to open the door finally captured January's full attention. He walked out into the hallway and up to the front door. After taking a moment to undo the various locks with the exception of one chain lock, January opened the door. "If those sirens and dogs are after you, go bother someone else." January said to his visitor, speaking in latin as well. "I am not in the mood for that sort of nonsense tonight."

@rush99999
Quincy stood in the doorway in an expensive suit which was utterly ruined by several bullet holes. That amount of air conditioning would have been lethal to a human, even to most vampires, but in Quincy's case, dark unnatural blood welled up sullenly, like treacle being forced from a bottle. One of the vampire's expensive shoes was gone and his vest was splattered with more red, more human blood, clearly not his own. Ironically Quincy's tie, complete with gold tie pin was unmarked and perfectly fastened.

"We are out of time, they musn't have it," Quincy declared, and thrust a small ornately fashioned key with a tag of polished wood into January's hand. Three digits were picked out in golden inlay and there was the slight and familiar hum of power to the thing. Without waiting for a response Quincy shoved January inside and slammed the door shut. A moment later there was a burst of gunfire, not the child like crack of a gangbangers hand gun, but the deep full throated roar of assault weapons. There was a bat like shriek beyond the door and the beating of great wings. The gunfire intensified. Through a grimy window January could make out men, human men carrying modern assault weapons. His vampiric eyes picked out the glint of chainmail shirts beneath their hoodies and jeans as they hosed fire into the sky after some retreating foe. One of the men, a shaven headed brute who might have served as a USMC recruiting poster if not for the burns which disfigured his neck and lower jaw, pointed at January's door and shouted something which wasn't an invitation to dinner.

The fact that the card was slid under the door was in itself alarming. Aliyah had carefully chosen the door and frame to prevent any vapors from getting in, or out. The whole area was sprinkled with goofer dust - a sort of all-purpose Hoodoo hex powder - which prevented anyone with mischief in mind from getting close to the house.

Drying her hands on a kitchen towel, Aliyah studied the card as it lie on the floor. The front - the part she could see - showed a darkened room with an image of the full moon projected on the ceiling. The Moon's Gift. But they weren't the sort to advertise, were they? If you were the sort to go there, you already knew about it.

She flipped the card over with her toe. Huh. Not too many people would be writing her in sparkly purple ink. Or signing off with a sketch of metal horns. Giselle then.

So Giselle had a new band together? Third this year. They were playing at The Moon's Gift. Normally Aliyah would have made up some conflict and apologized, but if Giselle was sending a physical card then it must be more than just "Hey, check this out!" And if it weren't for Giselle Aliyah would have ended up in a janitor's closet with that faun.

Time to hit the wardrobe and see if she had anything suitable for clubbing.

---

A few hours - and some hasty laundry - later, and Aliyah was in front of the Moon's Gift. It was tucked away in the trendy district, crunched between a fusion restaurant and an art gallery. The bouncer at the door was a troll. A literal troll, although he just looked like a big, ugly man. Amazing what you could do with a charcoal suit and a good tailor.

"Hey Keith! How are things? You still with Chrishell?"

The troll's face split in a granite smile. Sometimes it was nice to be a local fixture.

Aliyah shot the breeze with Keith for a minute until a line started to form, then paid the cover charge and slid down the stairs. The club itself was dimly lit - duh - with most of the light coming from the image of the moon projecting on the ceiling. It waxed and waned thought the night, giving a feeling of time slipping by.

Aliyah was early enough that the moon was still a waxing sliver in one corner of the room. She'd just grabbed a table - really, a frisbee with legs - and ordered the mandatory rum-and-coke when Giselle made her appearance ...

@Humble1

The Fae were mad for human music. They could reproduce a symphony with digital precision but somehow it always seemed to lack some vital, vibrant and living component. As a result the ability to create music of any kind was especially prized among humans they interacted with. Of course this was not necessarily good news for musicians who played for them. Think of a famous musician who died young and dollars to pay the fae were somehow involved.

The Moon's Gift was packed tonight. The fae were out in force tonight. A pair of women, impossibly beautiful but with the icy cast of Winter sat in a corner, their drinks smoking with frost. A knight, armored in a breastplate of autumn leaves of red and gold, leaned against the bar chatting with a woman made of twisted green vines. Other less identifiable creatures, changelings, sprites and clued in mortals packed the seats, chatting quietly.

A hush fell over the crowd as the lights went down. Old school pyrotechnics began to detonate with sparkling flashes and smoke billowed from concealed generators only to be light a moment later by lasers that flashed and pulsed. A stylized axe flashed in glittering lights and then the smoke suddenly cleared as the shredding chords of Gossamer Axe began to blast out. A spotlight stabbing down on Giselle Rainwalker.

"Is this seat taken Cheri?" a cultured voice with a creole accent asked. The question was pro forma as the speaker, a handsome black man in a tuxedo and top hat was already sitting down.

"Because I am rather taken with your seat," he said with a lewd chuckle. There was a strange smell about him, like orchids underlaid with something faintly astringent. Small cylinders of cotton wool were pressed into his nose and a cigar was pressed between his lips. A glass of pungent rum punch was held negligent in one hand.

"What do you see when you look at her?" he enquired, gesturing to Giselle with his cigar.

When he noticed exactly what sort of state Quincy had come to him in, January sighed at the sight. "Oh by the gods Quincy." January said. "The fuck did you do this ti-?"

"We are out of time, they mustn't have it!" Quincy exclaimed before thrusting a small and ornately fashioned key with a tag of polished wood into January's hand.

January was left somewhat bewildered for a moment. But bewilderment quickly turned to annoyance as he heard gunfire and bat shrieks outside his door. "Gods damn it, Quincy." January muttered as he saw the approaching thugs both through the window of his apartment door and the hidden camera feed he'd pulled up on his smartphone. "Alright. Let's do this."

In a blur of vampiric speed, January flew through his apartment. The stained, stinking mourning wear he'd been dressed in for days now was replaced by a fresh set of clothing. His gladius was taken from the wall it had been embedded in and sharpened to an unnatural keenness before being sheathed for battle. Previously idle fingers sped across the smartphone screen, identifying each thug at his door and providing an extensive list of everyone and everything they held dear. When January returned to his front door, barely three seconds had passed.

Undoing the chain lock, January opened the door and stepped out into the hallway to stare down his would-be assailants. Despite his haggard appearance prior to his rapid preparations, January cut an impressive figure in that moment. He regarded the thugs with a gaze obscured by a pair of black sunshades. His right hand resting on the pommel of his gladius, his left hand holding his smartphone. Despite being outgunned and outmanned, the very sight of January was enough to give the thugs pause. January had a reputation across the city for being the sort of person was not to be fucked with, and threatening the interests of a well established vampire was considered entering their web for good reason.

"Good evening to you, Jack Mitchell, Alexander Pierson, Aidan Corbett, Colin Andrews, Jason Corbyn, and of course let's not forget the leader of this little outfit, Samson 'the Salamander' Phillips. How are the burns doing today? I hope you remembered to pick up your burn cream prescription this morning. I hear you forget to do so sometimes. It worries your sister to no end, you know... But I digress." January put away his smartphone and folded his left arm behind his back. "All of you know me. I know all of you." January said. "But what you might not know is that I recently lost a dear friend of mine and I am in no mood for any of this. So here's the deal. You leave now and never come back, and in return, I will forget that you and your loved ones exist. That sounds fair to me. Wouldn't you agree?"

Aliyah's eyebrows went up when the man first appeared, then kept climbing as she took in the top hat and the nose plugs. In Corvus Bay there was no predicting who - or what - you would meet. Best to be respectful of everyone. They could be a king in disguise. Or at least a Baron.

"What do you see when you look at her?" he enquired, gesturing to Giselle with his cigar.

At his question she turned her eyes to Giselle. All five feet two inches of her, and that was with the boots and the crown of hair. Bearer of the legendary harp Durabald, carved by the fairy, older than human civilization, now reshaped into a Strat and chewing through the opening chords of "Stand Up and Shout" by Dio. A woman who cried at cat memes and would someday level one of the oldest of the Fae courts.

"She's unique. She's reformed this band a least a dozen times in the two years I've known her, but this time it might stick. They seem tight."

Giselle always insisted on an all-woman band. Something to do with the flow of the magic. The vocalist was going for the Joan Jett black leather look, and pulling it off nicely. Giselle always had a problem finding a lead singer, since they would be the one at the sharp end if the magic went wrong. Alas, Giselle simply didn't have the pipes to do it herself.

"I'd never call myself a fan of golden age heavy metal, but I like their energy. They love what they're doing..."

She turned her eyes back to her new companion.

"... and of course you'd have to be three kinds of dead not the feel the magic thrumming underneath it all. I trust them, but if they play "Smoke on the Water" I may move closer to the door."

@Humble1

"I do enjoy a revel of all kinds," the man responded, taking a sip of the rum punch that did not seem to lower the level of the glass, the Hatian French accent transmuting the word to rev-val.

"Though like you, it is the passion that makes it interesting for me," he agreed. He nodded his head and for a moment there was the sense rather than the sound of drumming sounding out across distant cane fields and in forgotten swamps. Giselle was moving into a vicious solo, literal sparks flying from the metallic polish of her nails as she threw back her shoulders and hammered through the complex and ear shattering shred.

"Look closer though..." the man said, taking a theatrical drag on his cigar and blowing out a smoke ring. The ring continued to expand beyond what its merely physical properties should allow, reaching the size of a dinner plate. The ring framed Giselle for Aliyah vision, casting her in an aura of electric blue and the dazzling purple afterglow of lightning strikes. Around the aura something black and viscous, reeking of magic pulsed and throbbed attempting to close itself around the guitarist. It gouged at the aura, attempting to strike home, but rebounding of something like a scorpion striking at glass. Something kept it at bay, a something that some how put the pounding of distant drums into Aliyah's mind.

@rush99999

The rifles swung to bear with mechanical precision, their barrels yawning pits, still shimmering with the heat of recent sustained fire. The thugs hesitated for a moment at the sound of their names, one of them racking an underslung grenade launcher with an ominous clack. It was clear they viewed a lone figure with a sword as more of a threat than vanilla mortals would have done and it was just as clear they were measuring their chances.

"Contact west," one of the thugs, Corbett, called to Sampson. At almost the same instant the sound of police sirens grew louder, blue and red light casting up of the buildings of an adjoining street. There was a roar of gunfire and a screech of pain in the night.

"Move out," Sampson ordered tersely and they slid sideways, keeping weapons on January until the vanished into a side alley a few moments before a patrol car skidded around the corner, sirens blaring.

---

The heavy floral perfume wafted thickly as the nurse walked past Anders. It had a certain heaviness to it and despite how overpowering it was, it had a subtle pleasantness in its prominent note: lily of the valley. The pleasantness of it faded quickly, however, and Anders did his best to stifle a cough into the elbow of his arm.

Without much hesitation when he entered the dreary hospital room, the old man reported to Anders what had happened. He walked over to the far side of Jones’s bed and pulled up a chair to sit in as the old man spoke. Anders leaned back in the chair placing his arms on the armrests. A moment of silence fell after Jones mentioned the vampires and how they snatched some kids.

The younger of the two men looked up and made eye contact after staring off into the distance, lost in contemplation. He leaned forward, then asked the old man if he happened to see anything else unusual. “Did you see anything else? I mean, something about this seems strange,” he said as he leaned back into the chair. “I might just have to head down to the old theatre myself. Try to find the Foreman and see if he noticed anything; that is, if he’s feeling generous."

In the corner of his mind he imagined the House of Usher acting troupe that he had heard the whispers of rumors. Something about them supposedly using an acting front as a disguise for their ruthless and gory murders. An urban tale to scare children into coming home before dark, surely.

"But, enough about that for a second. How are you holding up?”

Anders casually examined the gashes and parts of the man’s body that now seemed anatomically incorrect. He attempted to distance himself from Jones emotionally. The old man was like a father to him in a way.

@Penny

The atmosphere was tense. January's threats didn't seem to land as effectively as he'd wanted them to. Slowly, his hand began to move from pommel to handle as he readied himself to draw steel and fight. Before he could though, Corbett called the group's attention to other things. By the time they started moving to leave, January was already closing and locking his apartment door. He'd dealt with enough nonsense for the time being. Now he just wanted to go back into his apartment and sulk about his dead friend some more. And that is exactly what he did. After lying on his sofa for a bit though, January became curious about the key he now had in his pocket. Pulling it out into the open, January got himself a better look at the thing.

@rush99999

Other than the gentle hum of magic there doesn't seem anything out of the ordinary about the key. It is deliberatly fancy, a gold plate over a serious steel core. The tag is made of decorative wood, tiger maple polished to the sheen of marble. A gold inlay of the number 119 has been pressed into the timber.

January put the key back in his pocket when he was done with his examination of it. With nothing much to glean from the key itself, January decided to track down the person he got it from: Quincy. January needed answers and Quincy needed a fist in the face for bringing trouble to January's door while he was grieving the loss of a dear friend. Donning his coat and grabbing his keys, January left his apartment to go find Quincy. January knew enough of the Quincy's haunts and hideaways to know where he might be. And if that turned up nothing, he could always go looking at Ryder's to see if he bought himself a drink from the Werewolf Who Would be King.