Priest & Hawthorne Investigations
Chapter One: Festive Spirits
Dancing, swirling flakes of snow filtered down through the grey Seattle sky on the night the ghosts began to disappear. For most of the Emerald City, the difference was not a marked one, and few noticed as they made their way through the unusual winter cold. Down busy waterfront streets, strings of twinkling lights made festive constellations in shop windows proclaiming only a week until the Christmas holiday. Families with laughing children wove their way through streets made magical by the falling snow, gentle clouds of steam puffing from their breath and cups of hot drinks they held in gloved hands. High overhead, the Space Needle lent its own phantasmal cheer to the city, wrapped in low, wispy clouds and glowing like a visitor from another world. And somewhere nearby, in the pooling shadows just outside the twinkle of fairy lights and shop signs, magic gathered in slow, pulsing patterns around a pair of men, their power making the air seem heavy and somehow ready to snap.
“Are you sure she’s here?” Came the first man, the larger of the pair, not that either were all that imposing. “We cannot be here long. Someone may notice.”
“I’ve seen her here before,” came the second, his voice high, the tone glass-sharp and nervous, “Come out, little spirit. Come out, come out, come out, come out,” he said, breathless repetitions coming quieter and faster in a manic, restless chant. He knelt and scratched at the snow with something he held in his knobbled fingers, sending up flakes and slush as his arm moved in arcs and slashing lines.
With a twitch almost as though he had been shocked, the smaller man’s hands flicked to each side, long, elegant fingers spread wide on each hand, the stick tumbling away with a clatter. His bulging blue eyes darted from place to place then snapped tight shut, his whole face becoming a tight-clenched grimace. Around him, slivers of magic churned like startled fish, tiny bursts of will lancing out into the night. The larger man took a step forward, raising a hand as if to drop it on his companion’s shoulder, then stopped. His own expression became first concerned, then melted into a smile of deep satisfaction as a grey-blue outline formed in the winter air, slowly filling in with monochrome detail.
A girl, no more than twelve, appeared in the snow, dressed in the fashions of nearly a century prior and without regard for the cold. She looked around as if startled, then an expression of confusion dulled her features as she finally turned and saw the pair. Her mouth opened, and her eyes stretched wide, but no sound came. After a long moment she began to turn, as though she would run down the darkened alley, toward a solid brick wall, but the larger man made a movement of one hand, hissed a word, and lines of power lanced through the night, webbing the ghost in delicate lines of glowing spellwork.
“The mortuary ghost,” The larger man said, slow, warm notes of appreciation in his voice, “Very well done, my friend. An old spirit for this town, and one they still tell stories about. Oh yes, she’ll do very nicely,” he finished, and raised his hand, more power gathering in the palm.
The smaller man watched, his eyes fixed on the ghost and the smile of a man doing good on his pale face. Beside him, light burst forth in the alleyway, there was a small, soft snap, and a deep, satisfied sigh.
—————
Morgan looked out her window, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of strong, black tea. A winter wonderland spread out below, only slightly marred by the darker tracks of cars down the city streets. City workers had erected hasty barriers in the night on some of downtown’s steeper hills, knowing that the morning commuters would only create chaos as they slid down the icy surface. Overhead, the sky was just coloring to pink and gold, promising the hard cerulean of a cloudless winter day. She took a deep breath, managed not to wince, and took a sip of her tea, delighting the feeling of warmth spreading through her chest. As she turned away from the window, feet padding on her apartment’s carpet, her phone started to buzz against a counter. She walked over, glanced at the screen, then tapped the glass to answer.
“Good morning, Mr. Tanner,” she said, taking another sip of her tea, “What an unexpected pleasure to hear from you so early.” To most, Morgan’s voice held nothing but British pleasantries, the subtle, dry tones of irony all but lost.
The man’s voice, huge even over the telephone, made a sound like a rockslide chuckling, “And good morning to you, Miss Blackwood. I trust you slept well.”
“I know of no better sleep aid than being hit by a garbage truck sliding across an icy road,” Morgan said, and ran a hand over her side. Her ribs ached, but much of the tenderness had gone.
“Excellent news,” Sol rumbled, still good-natured, “Now, Agent Blackwood, I’ve called you because as much as I know you abhor your fellow commuters of a morning, I should like your company at headquarters before lunch today. Before eight-thirty would be ideal.”
Morgan glanced up at a clock and smirked, “Surrounded by mortals and walking in the snow? There are days you test my love, Mr. Tanner.”
“I expect you love a regular paycheck more than me” Sol said, and Morgan could hear the grin, “According to Mr. Priest, we’re expecting a client around nine. He wouldn’t say what she might be bringing us-“
“Does he ever?” Morgan interrupted with a sigh.
“But he did say we may want some considerable resources. I’ve called in the others as well,” Sol finished, as though Morgan hadn’t interrupted.
Morgan looked up at a clock. Just before seven in the morning. Enough time to enjoy her tea, then prepare to trudge toward the office. At least the trip would only be twenty minutes or so, even in this slush.
“All right, Sol,” Morgan said with a sigh, “I’ll see you soon.”
“If you’re worried about the cold,” Sol said, “You should wear the coat that…oh, the botanist we worked for gave you. You remember, the one from the University? I remember how much you liked it - now that I recall, did you two ever go-“
“Goodbye, Sol,” Morgan said, and tapped the line off with a finger.
————
Priest & Hawthorne’s offices in Pioneer Square had a well-trampled lane of snow out front by the time Morgan arrived, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a long, dark blue coat. She pulled the building’s door open and made her way up two flights of creaking wooden stairs to the main office door, peeling her gloves off and undoing the coat’s belt and buttons as she climbed, each step making a solid thump on the old wood. Down a short hallway and on the left, a worn wooden door with a glass window, the investigative firm’s name marked out in crisp black and gold lettering, the same crispness she'd seen for a dozen years. Below the words, her long fingers wrapped around a brass knob polished bright by decades of hands. Morgan pushed the door open and strode in, shrugging her coat off to hang on the old wrought-iron rack by the door.
Everything in the office was old, but incredibly well-made and, in general, well cared-for. The desks were ancient things of dark wood, leather surfaces a testament to when the company had needed fountain pens and blotters. Now, of course, they held laptops and monitors, in addition to stacks of paperwork and odds and ends indicating their owners. On the ceiling, the walls, and even the office’s windows, Christmas decorations hung and sparkled in an enthusiastic chaos of paper and tinsel and colored lights, most intensely around Jacob Mcallister’s desk, with its attendant smaller desk and chair. Morgan couldn’t help but grin at that. The grin faded into a resigned smirk, however, as she looked toward her own desk, and the bright, bright red berry of a mistletoe someone had hung above it.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who did that,” Morgan said to Sol as he walked into the room.
“I strive to remain neutral in these matters, Agent Blackwood,” The big man said. He carried two cups of coffee, and handed one to Morgan with a smile.
“Mm,” Morgan replied, and took a sip. Dark, rich, and sweet, just as she liked, “And have the others arrived?”
“They’ll be along shortly, I have no doubt. We’ll likely be meeting in the conference room,” Sol said, gesturing to a door on the far side of the room, which held the firm’s only large table.
“And are we still in the dark about what this case is about?” Morgan said, as the sound of footsteps came from the staircase outside, another employee arriving.
“Ah,” Sol said, taking a drink from his own coffee, “Our client called shortly before you arrived. A most curious situation.” He took another sip, his eyes twinkling.
“Did she indeed?” Morgan said, locking eyes with the big man, “And what did she say?”
Sol met Morgan’s eyes for a couple of moments, then broke that contact and looked at his coffee cup, swirling the liquid around, the movement thoughtful, contemplative. At length, he looked back up.
“She says she’s lost her sister’s ghost,” he said.
