The sun had passed its zenith by the time they team had regrouped at the turn of the century brownstone which served as the headquarters of the Sunday Group. It was nestled not too far from Chigago’s downtown and blended in with a dozen other white shoe law firms, upscale physicians practices, and various other difficult to define yet clearly lucrative businesses. At least, it blended in if you didn’t know what to look for. A shrewd observer might notice, for instance, that no pigeon would fly directly over the building, or that neighborhood ants always deposited a small piece of whatever food they were gathering on leaves just outside the fence. An observer less prone to fancy, might be able to pick out discrete motion sensors, or the slight shimmer of tempered and bullet resistant glass. People crossed the street to avoid it without conscious intent, and those that did force themselves to approach felt an almost crippling sense of dread as they neared the door. For obvious reasons, The group tended to do business ‘by appointment only’.
The interior of the building was no less a wonder, though this was accomplished more by the judicious application of money rather then less effective forms of magic. Gone were the claustrophobic maze of turn of the century rooms and in its place sprawled open floors lined with offices separated by doors of dark wood. Several were, as always, empty. Nor did Spartan extravagance end with the floor plan, the four stories above ground contained ritual spaces, an impressive library, even a gym.
Eleanor passed her own office and noted that her wards indicated no one had entered. Any reassurance that might have brought her was immediately overwhelmed by the view of Emmaline sitting on one of the comfortable leather chairs, wearing one of her UCLA shits. The witch was either taking advantage of the electrum inlaid casting circle, or using the wi-fi to catch up on Bridgerton. She waved as Eleanor passed but didn’t get up. Eleanor gave the other woman a wry smile which faded as she headed down to the fifth, basement level of the building.
The basement was larger than was usual for the area and contained a shooting gallery, a sealed storage facility and the object of their visit.
Eleanor took a deep breath and then entered the realm of the Necromancer.
The morgue, as always, was overwhelming. It looked like what a particularly sugar high child might draw if asked to envision a morgue. Bright colors covered some walls, others were half painted in murals including a rather impressive combination of Van Gough’s starry night which had been modified to include the silhouette of Count Chocula’s castle. Examination tables lay pilled with odds and ends of ever conceivable type. Brass tubing, balsa wood, duct tape in eye searing neon shades, chemical condensers and flasks, repurposed circuit boards, old laptop computers, a brass astrolabe, all piled in disordered confusion. Several… work benches were the best term, ran along two of the walls. Soldering irons smoked and surgical tools sat on charging racks. The astringent scent of formaldehyde stung the back of Eleanor’s throat.
A sign hung over the door cheerily marked: Life Begins at Dissection.
Jocasta O’Glynn, lay slumped sideways on a couch drinking an off brand energy drink through a crazy straw. She started upright when she saw Eleanor standing in the door. The articulated bones of a human hand scuttled across to close a laptop which looked like it was discord sharing a stream of Bridgerton. The little hand scuttled away and began trying to unobtrusively tiding, gathering up fast food containers and tossing them like three point shots into trash bins. Other such constructions ran wild within the confines of the morgue, moving about on their own tasks. Two other hands appeared to be engaged in a fencing match with knitting needles, while third appeared to be playing a game of solitare. Nor were these creations limited to purely human arrangements. A kind of butterfly made of human finger bones, cellotape and florists wire was flapping its way across the room, attempting to drop marbles onto the fencers. Eleanor repressed a sigh.
“What’s up boss!?” Jocasta asked if she sprang to her feet. She was a small woman, attractive in a manic kind of a way with large green eyes and a shock of almost painfully green hair. She was dressed in cargo shorts and a tank top incongruously paired with unlaced combat boots.
“Oh Shit! She gets a crow! Ele! why does she get a crow! All I want is one mongoose and you are like…”
“I thought I might see if you’d made any progress with the body?” Eleanor asked, a touch acidly. A look of confusion came across Jocasta’s face.
“What body?” she asked quizzically. Eleanor felt her temper rise but caught it as she saw the twinkle in Jocasta’s eye.
“Fine, fine, I’m all done,” Jocasta admitted and lead Eleanor to the one bench not covered with equipment. Jocasta was what was known as a monomagus, a magical talent that expressed itself in on single field but did so with amazing strength. While she could understand the theory she would never be a magical match for Eleanor or Emmaline. In her own area of expertise, necromancy, she was a prodigy. Monomagi also had a tendency to be extremely socially awkward and difficult to deal with, the classic traits of the obsessive. Eleanor had reluctantly agreed that the best way to use Jocasta’s talent was to more or less leave her alone when she wasn’t actively working on a problem. Making severed hands practice sign language was less harmful in the long run then making all men in the Chicago area develop male pattern Mohawks because she was bored.
The body lay on the table, scraped largely clear of black goo. Revealed beneath was a fit looking man of vaguely middle eastern features, comically accentuated where goo still stained the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, like someone had added extra character detail.
“Cause of death, tentatively, stab wound to the chest, incision to anterior portal vein just above the liver,” Jocasta said, pointing to the cut which had been revealed by her cleaning. She punctuated her points with several dramatic stabbing motions. Both sword fighting hands stopped and turned towards her, holding their needles low as if on guard. Jocasta made a quick ‘not now’ gesture.
“No signs of exsanguination at the scene,” Eleanor remarked in a carefully neutral tone.
“All emptied into the peritoneal cavity,” Jocasta explained, pantomiming her stomach blowing up with a mouthed ‘boom’. “Black goo probably sealed it up.”
“Speaking of black goo, any idea what it is?” Eleanor asked, “Alcander seemed to think it might be basilisk bile.” Jocasta snorted.
“Basilisk bile? Keep it in your pants Percy Jackson!” she called with a shake of her head.
“As it happens, its ink, sixteenth century Turkish ink,” Jocasta declared with every appearance of a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of an obviously empty hat.
“What kind of spell did you use to figure that out?” Eleanor asked, surprised by the specificity.
“Hippity hoppity mass spectroscopy,” Jocasta sing-songed, pointing to an instrument tucked into a corner. “After that I just hopped on the internet and looked it up. You’d be amazed how in the weeds people get about ink. I was DMing this guy who rexpresses tattoo ink from…”
“Jo,” Eleanor broke in gently, “if we can stick to our dead man..”
“Fazel,” Jocasta corrected. Eleanor arched an eyebrow.
“What?”
“His name is/was Fazel Ibrahim Al-Jalasi,” Jocasta explained. “Dental records bear it out.” There was a rattling of bone on steel and Eleanor glanced aside to where several molars appeared to be bouncing with excitement in a specimen tray. Eleanor didn’t bother to rebuke the necromancer for not leading with that information.
“The name is familiar,” Eleanor admitted, not quite able to place it.
“FIAJ! The Thief of Bagdad? Come on boss!” Jocasta exploded. “Home boy here was a FIRST round draft pick on any heist team. Cat burglar, safe cracker, procurer of rare antiquities… uhhh ink guy. I’m kind of fan girling,” Jocasta admitted.
“Ah, he recovered all those artifacts from the Iraqi national museum,” Eleanor realized, dredging the datum from her mind with some effort.
“And he stole all those cuneiform tablets from those ISIS guys, and from those Hobby Lobby guys, and…”
“Right, so what is he doing dead in a Chicago alley?” Eleanor asked. Jocasta rolled her eyes.
“Sort of thing someone should pay a group of occult investigators to find out?” Jocasta asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Any Chicago associates? Seeing you apparently have posters of this guy on your wall?” Eleanor asked.
“Well he usually works with a team, and I know he has done some work for Gretchen Colter in the past,” Jocasta admitted. The necromancer extended her hand, and Fazel’s molars bounced up onto her palm and up the arm with every appearance of delight.
“Questions?” Eleanor asked the team.
The interior of the building was no less a wonder, though this was accomplished more by the judicious application of money rather then less effective forms of magic. Gone were the claustrophobic maze of turn of the century rooms and in its place sprawled open floors lined with offices separated by doors of dark wood. Several were, as always, empty. Nor did Spartan extravagance end with the floor plan, the four stories above ground contained ritual spaces, an impressive library, even a gym.
Eleanor passed her own office and noted that her wards indicated no one had entered. Any reassurance that might have brought her was immediately overwhelmed by the view of Emmaline sitting on one of the comfortable leather chairs, wearing one of her UCLA shits. The witch was either taking advantage of the electrum inlaid casting circle, or using the wi-fi to catch up on Bridgerton. She waved as Eleanor passed but didn’t get up. Eleanor gave the other woman a wry smile which faded as she headed down to the fifth, basement level of the building.
The basement was larger than was usual for the area and contained a shooting gallery, a sealed storage facility and the object of their visit.
Eleanor took a deep breath and then entered the realm of the Necromancer.
The morgue, as always, was overwhelming. It looked like what a particularly sugar high child might draw if asked to envision a morgue. Bright colors covered some walls, others were half painted in murals including a rather impressive combination of Van Gough’s starry night which had been modified to include the silhouette of Count Chocula’s castle. Examination tables lay pilled with odds and ends of ever conceivable type. Brass tubing, balsa wood, duct tape in eye searing neon shades, chemical condensers and flasks, repurposed circuit boards, old laptop computers, a brass astrolabe, all piled in disordered confusion. Several… work benches were the best term, ran along two of the walls. Soldering irons smoked and surgical tools sat on charging racks. The astringent scent of formaldehyde stung the back of Eleanor’s throat.
A sign hung over the door cheerily marked: Life Begins at Dissection.
Jocasta O’Glynn, lay slumped sideways on a couch drinking an off brand energy drink through a crazy straw. She started upright when she saw Eleanor standing in the door. The articulated bones of a human hand scuttled across to close a laptop which looked like it was discord sharing a stream of Bridgerton. The little hand scuttled away and began trying to unobtrusively tiding, gathering up fast food containers and tossing them like three point shots into trash bins. Other such constructions ran wild within the confines of the morgue, moving about on their own tasks. Two other hands appeared to be engaged in a fencing match with knitting needles, while third appeared to be playing a game of solitare. Nor were these creations limited to purely human arrangements. A kind of butterfly made of human finger bones, cellotape and florists wire was flapping its way across the room, attempting to drop marbles onto the fencers. Eleanor repressed a sigh.
“What’s up boss!?” Jocasta asked if she sprang to her feet. She was a small woman, attractive in a manic kind of a way with large green eyes and a shock of almost painfully green hair. She was dressed in cargo shorts and a tank top incongruously paired with unlaced combat boots.
“Oh Shit! She gets a crow! Ele! why does she get a crow! All I want is one mongoose and you are like…”
“I thought I might see if you’d made any progress with the body?” Eleanor asked, a touch acidly. A look of confusion came across Jocasta’s face.
“What body?” she asked quizzically. Eleanor felt her temper rise but caught it as she saw the twinkle in Jocasta’s eye.
“Fine, fine, I’m all done,” Jocasta admitted and lead Eleanor to the one bench not covered with equipment. Jocasta was what was known as a monomagus, a magical talent that expressed itself in on single field but did so with amazing strength. While she could understand the theory she would never be a magical match for Eleanor or Emmaline. In her own area of expertise, necromancy, she was a prodigy. Monomagi also had a tendency to be extremely socially awkward and difficult to deal with, the classic traits of the obsessive. Eleanor had reluctantly agreed that the best way to use Jocasta’s talent was to more or less leave her alone when she wasn’t actively working on a problem. Making severed hands practice sign language was less harmful in the long run then making all men in the Chicago area develop male pattern Mohawks because she was bored.
The body lay on the table, scraped largely clear of black goo. Revealed beneath was a fit looking man of vaguely middle eastern features, comically accentuated where goo still stained the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, like someone had added extra character detail.
“Cause of death, tentatively, stab wound to the chest, incision to anterior portal vein just above the liver,” Jocasta said, pointing to the cut which had been revealed by her cleaning. She punctuated her points with several dramatic stabbing motions. Both sword fighting hands stopped and turned towards her, holding their needles low as if on guard. Jocasta made a quick ‘not now’ gesture.
“No signs of exsanguination at the scene,” Eleanor remarked in a carefully neutral tone.
“All emptied into the peritoneal cavity,” Jocasta explained, pantomiming her stomach blowing up with a mouthed ‘boom’. “Black goo probably sealed it up.”
“Speaking of black goo, any idea what it is?” Eleanor asked, “Alcander seemed to think it might be basilisk bile.” Jocasta snorted.
“Basilisk bile? Keep it in your pants Percy Jackson!” she called with a shake of her head.
“As it happens, its ink, sixteenth century Turkish ink,” Jocasta declared with every appearance of a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of an obviously empty hat.
“What kind of spell did you use to figure that out?” Eleanor asked, surprised by the specificity.
“Hippity hoppity mass spectroscopy,” Jocasta sing-songed, pointing to an instrument tucked into a corner. “After that I just hopped on the internet and looked it up. You’d be amazed how in the weeds people get about ink. I was DMing this guy who rexpresses tattoo ink from…”
“Jo,” Eleanor broke in gently, “if we can stick to our dead man..”
“Fazel,” Jocasta corrected. Eleanor arched an eyebrow.
“What?”
“His name is/was Fazel Ibrahim Al-Jalasi,” Jocasta explained. “Dental records bear it out.” There was a rattling of bone on steel and Eleanor glanced aside to where several molars appeared to be bouncing with excitement in a specimen tray. Eleanor didn’t bother to rebuke the necromancer for not leading with that information.
“The name is familiar,” Eleanor admitted, not quite able to place it.
“FIAJ! The Thief of Bagdad? Come on boss!” Jocasta exploded. “Home boy here was a FIRST round draft pick on any heist team. Cat burglar, safe cracker, procurer of rare antiquities… uhhh ink guy. I’m kind of fan girling,” Jocasta admitted.
“Ah, he recovered all those artifacts from the Iraqi national museum,” Eleanor realized, dredging the datum from her mind with some effort.
“And he stole all those cuneiform tablets from those ISIS guys, and from those Hobby Lobby guys, and…”
“Right, so what is he doing dead in a Chicago alley?” Eleanor asked. Jocasta rolled her eyes.
“Sort of thing someone should pay a group of occult investigators to find out?” Jocasta asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Any Chicago associates? Seeing you apparently have posters of this guy on your wall?” Eleanor asked.
“Well he usually works with a team, and I know he has done some work for Gretchen Colter in the past,” Jocasta admitted. The necromancer extended her hand, and Fazel’s molars bounced up onto her palm and up the arm with every appearance of delight.
“Questions?” Eleanor asked the team.