Kipling placed his hand on Barnaby’s shoulder and they were off. They reappeared in the mouth of a dark alley, out of view of any onlookers. Barnaby couldn’t help blinking rapidly like he had been startled by the bright flash of a camera.

“Spare some credit bruv?” The voice of the drunk came from behind them. Half of the man’s face drooped and a basic stripped-down replacement took the place of one of his legs. He had a cardboard sign that read; “Kindness for a army vet?”

Kipling flipped a plastic disk towards the man like a coin. The prepaid credit disk bounced atop the drunk’s fingertips as he struggled to catch it. While the drunk was distracted Kipling waved his hand and the drunk passed out. The detective crouched down in front of the drunk and snatched the half-empty two-litre bottle that sat beside the man. With his other hand, he rummaged around his bag before retrieving a small glass bottle of violet liquid. The detective emptied the philtre into the drunk’s plastic bottle.

“That’ll treat you better than any amount of credits,” he whispered as he patted the drunk on the shoulder. “Excuse the distraction, let’s continue.”

The detective and his companion stepped out onto the average looking inner-city street and began to converse as they made their way onward. “We’ll be walking from here, hidden streets disallow blink travel,” Kipling said.

“Where are we even going?” Barnaby asked.

“I’ll be upfront with you, Mr Barnaby. You’re a smart man you’ve probably figured this already. There is a very high likelihood of me erasing your memory after this case is resolved.”

“I did suspect as much. Hard to keep such a big secret otherwise. And you do seem to enjoy putting me through this. Not once have you shown any sort of concern for the consequences involving me could have. It’s like this is some game to you or an indulgent treat,” Barnaby said.

“I’ll admit it does put a smile on my face. I could have put you in a trance, like the parents, hopefully, recovered the girl by myself, made up a story, and had you believe it. But as I said, having you involved is useful. It’s a waste of magic otherwise. The point is we’ll be on the move soon enough anyway. I might as well treat you to a once in a lifetime experience while we’re waiting.”

The streets were lightly crowded. This was by far a more central urban area than the picturesque peacefulness the Galow home resided in. Not only was there a security camera on every street corner but every few minutes an automated police drone would fly overhead making its rounds. Storefronts had stickers advertising their reinforced glass. Smart advertisements assaulted all who looked upon them with their curated product placements. Most of all, for every average looking person there were two covered in cheap cybernetic prosthetics or signs of genetic modification.

“This used to be such a nice area. What do you think of the mutant movement Mr Barnaby?” the detective inquired.

“I know some larger genetics corporations have come out in favour of it. But it seems awfully reckless. Obviously, that isn’t made any better by the cheap illegal practices either. I mean, it’s all well and good to cure genetic diseases and prolong life but animal hybridization? excessive cosmetic alterations? It’s all a bridge too far if I must say so,” Barnaby replied.

“Indeed under normal circumstances, I would agree. But let me offer you an alternative perspective,” the detective said with a raised finger. “The mutant movement has allowed non-humans to escape the shadows. Many magical species work within our hidden society. For centuries they have had to disguise themselves to walk among men. Recent developments have given them a new never before seen opportunity to walk the world of man without fear. Look over there.”

The detective swung his arm in front of his companion stopping them with a light thud to the chest. A pointed finger aimed towards a man of short stature. He was no more than 5 feet in height and his skin was pallid almost to the point of looking green. His facial features had exaggerated curves and points.

“That there is a Brag, a species of goblin. And that one.” The pointed hand curved to highlight another passerby. A burly gentleman with excessive ginger hair and feline facial features. “That is a Bodmin Puca, a feline shapeshifter. Oh and that is a rare sight!”

His gaze shifted to a pair of young women. They had tall and slender frames, reminiscent of runway models. Their skin was a ghostly white and their hair was a shimmering platinum. Sunglasses obscured their eyes even though the weather was overcast. “I can bet you anything that those are a pair of Nixie, water spirits. Pretty unusual to find in the city.”

“Okay Detective, I get the picture. There aren’t any dangerous types around are there?” Barnaby asked.

“No more so than the potential danger a human could endeavour to be. This city is well protected from the shadows, I can assure you,” Kipling said.

“You still haven’t told me what a dream den is,” Barnaby said.

“Ah, yes, best to get that out of the way before we make it to our destination. We don’t want to alarm anyone by publicly talking about dream dens.”

Kipling retrieved a bent cigarette from his coat pocket, placed it between his lips, and shrewdly lit it with a flame that sprung from his thumb. He asked his client, “Care for one? Vintage 2020. Just before the tobacco ban.”

“No, thanks. Having to quit once was enough times for me. Dream dens are that bad then?” Barnaby asked.

“Well, it would be like talking about drug dens in a crowded mall. Have you read ‘The Matrices of Zion’ Mister Barnaby?”

“The story about machines enslaving humanity in a virtual world? Using them for batteries? I know of it. It was quite the bestseller during the 2000s.”

“That’s the one. Did you ever find it was odd the humans were being used for batteries?” the detective asked.

“Well now that you mention it, it’s not very logical.”

“Indeed. And the reason for that glaring plot hole? It was changed in editing. The publisher believed audiences at the time wouldn’t grasp the original concept.”

“Which was?” Barnaby asked.

“Humans were being used for their processing power. Their brains were connected to the vast computer network that hosted their mechanical overlords. But what does any of this have to do with your niece you must be thinking? What if fiction became reality?”

“You’re not about to tell me we’re in a computer simulation, are you? Because there is only so much I can take in one day,” Barnaby said.

“No, of course not. Though that would be a rather exciting journey to take you on wouldn’t it? As I’ve already alluded to; dream dens are similar to drug dens. Patrons pay up and the den workers hook them up to virtual reality machines.

“These are obviously no ordinary VR systems. Patrons can do what they want, as they want, with some caveats. It’s like being in a dream, hence the name. The more processing power a den has, the closer to the feeling of a lucid dream the patron can achieve. This is where the situation becomes legally grey.

“A den could be using animals, but the experience will be more limited. Less colourful, less control. Or a den might use ‘volunteers’. Drug addicts promised a constant supply of their favourite narcotic.

“Sooner or later, a volunteer will burn out and need to be replaced. The human mind is not designed to run like that 24/7. As you might expect, the type of addict that would volunteer isn’t likely to be in the best state. Leading to a need for more frequent replacements.

“So sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, a den will cross the line. They'll boost their business with the freshest, most active, pliable minds they can. Healthy young teens. If my suspicions are correct that is why your niece was taken. She might not be the first and she won’t be the last until the business is uprooted.”

“Burn out? Is Sarah going to be okay? Shouldn’t we involve the authorities? The magic police? People in the shadows or whoever?” Barnaby asked.

“She’s young, healthy. She should make a swift recovery so long as we get to her soon. Which answers your second question. It would take at least another week for the proper authorities to put together a full investigation. We’re here.”

The two men found themselves in front of an alleyway. It looked completely unremarkable. It might as well have been the alleyway they started their trip in. Kipling locked his arm around Barnaby’s. “Deep breath, there’s a perception filter on the entrance. This will feel rather uncomfortable but push through it and it’ll be alright. Trust me.”

Kipling began walking towards the alleyway. Barnaby followed stride, not wanting to be pulled along by the arm. At the boundary marked by the adjacent walls, the men started to feel their vision warp. The alley appeared to stretch on forever. The walls began to close in around them. With each step forward the suffocating atmosphere worsened. Just as it felt like they could go no further, the two broke through the barrier. Barnaby bent over, his hands on his knees, he was sweating and his breathing was ragged.

“You okay old chap?” Kipling asked.

“I’ll be fine, just give me a moment,” Barnaby replied through laboured voice.

“Welcome Mr Barnaby to Portobello Road.”

“The market street?”

“Yes, well, the real one. The one you know is a recreation. Not a bad facsimile I suppose,” the detective said.

The two stood at the end of a wide street paved with cobblestone. The alleyway lingered behind them with a dark aura surrounding it. Buildings of stone and brick with first floor overhangs towered shoulder to shoulder on both sides. Each boasted its own storefront hawking all variety of wares. Between the pop-up stalls, overloaded carts pulled by unfamiliar beasts, and the clustered crowds of busy shoppers, personal space was something of a luxury.

On each side of the street, atop a short pedestal, stood a stone statue of a soldier. To Barnaby’s surprise, the soldiers began to move and talk in unison.

“Oi!”

Left, “You can’t-”

Right, “-bring a-”

Left, “-Frack-”

Both, “-in here.”

Kipling pulled a metal badge the size of his palm from his coat and held it out towards the two statues. He told the two, “I can, have, and will deal with the consequences later. By Astraea authority let us pass.”

The statues had left their pedestals and approached the detective and his guest to get a closer inspection. One scanned the badge while the other looked over the out of place banker.

The left spoke up, “Can he do that?”

“I dunno can he?”

“He can’t.”

“I think he did.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

The detective cleared his throat to get their attention. The statues stopped, looked at the detective, then to each other before straightening themselves and speaking.

“You’re free-”

“-to go.”

“But don’t-”

“-let him-”

In unison, “-out of your sight.”

“Will do. As you were,” Kipling said. The two saluted and went back to their posts.

“I’m a what?” asked Barnaby.

“A Frack, short for the Latin fractum, meaning fractured. It’s part of an old myth about how the world came to be as it currently is.” Kipling’s voice took on an air of mystery. “In antiquity, the world was whole. Nature and magic, man and myth, were one and the same. Then something tore the world apart. Beast and spirit, mundane and magic, were left divided. And man; the embodiment of both, was split in two. Those that kept their connection to magical energies, Totum, and those that were cut off, blinded, Fractum.”

“Why keep it a secret? Wouldn’t everyone benefit from knowing?” Barnaby asked.

“Eh well, it’s some old messy politics. There are some good arguments for keeping the secret. Prejudice, political struggle, weaponization. And well, the mundane world has a history of having a short memory. For the past century, the world has been on the cusp of something, of having knowledge at our fingertips. Perhaps a merger could work this time. But,” the detective paused unsure of his own words. “Even now time and again, humans prove to be unreliable, forgetful, deceitful. Enough of this dreary exposition. Let’s enjoy ourselves as I said we would.”

The two whittled away the time they had browsing stall after stall of junk, oddities, and antiques. After a while, they settled on taking to some of the food and drink on offer.

They sampled golden rainbow trout sashimi freshly prepared by the skilled hands of a Japanese Tengu. They were thankful the tengu used a knife and not his sharp talons as tengu are known to traditionally. The clean and bright flavours paired considerably with the stall’s ginjo saké.

At a stall run by two German hunters, they savoured the rich and robust prosciutto style ham of the ghost boar, found only in Germany’s black forest. It washed down well with a half-pint of German arenaria ale.

Kipling and Barnaby were beginning to feel pretty satisfied. But before they could call it a day a brightly coloured cart caught their attention. Its sign hung arched overhead with bold red and white lettering.

Dr Ambrocor’s Gourmet Confectionery

Names of all manner of candies were painted all over the cart in a hand-drawn cursive. Stepping up to the stall the older gentleman greeted them. He was wearing an apron over a red and white striped shirt and modelled a stylish handlebar moustache.

“What can I get for you boys?” asked the confectioner.

“You much of a sweet tooth Barnaby?”

“I uh can’t say I am,” Barnaby said.

“Normally I’d say the same. But I can bet this will be something special. Like that which you’ve never had.” Kipling turned to address the merchant, “Would you be so kind as to offer a recommendation?”

“Oh indeed I could, I like to think I have an eye for people, you know?” The confectioner looked the two over for a moment pondering what out of his bountiful, handcrafted selection each would enjoy.

“You the good sir to my left.” He pointed towards Barnaby. “You must try a piece of our Ticklish Star Fudge.” With a gloved hand, he slid open the door of a compartment, reached in and pulled out a single piece of fudge. It sparkled in the light as he handed it to Barnaby.

Barnaby didn’t hesitate to pop the sweet in his mouth. “It’s a quality fudge but gourmet?” Barnaby thought as he chewed.

It was only until after he had swallowed it he felt a little strange. His body began to glow with a gentle golden light. Without warning, Barnaby bleated out a short, sharp chortle. He slapped a hand across his face, embarrassed by his bizarre involuntary reaction. But he couldn’t stop. A smile grew across his shielded face. He burst out in a full case of the giggles as he felt flashes of tickling randomly across his body.

“I- c-can’t stop.” He said among a wash of laughter.

“Don’t worry, it’ll only keep you busy for a minute or two,” assured the confectioner. “And for the famous local detective. I bet you’re a liquorice man.”

“I can’t say I’m averse to it,” Kipling replied.

“Then I think you would appreciate our Surprise Salted Licorice. Here take a piece.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Kipling had a feeling, as he reached for the liquorice, this would not be a pleasant sort of surprise. By the grin on the confectioners face whatever he had in store would pack quite a punch.

Luckily for the detective, he was a glutton for punishment. He threw back the liquorice with reckless abandon. Kipling was initially hit with the familiar taste of salt, as you would expect from salted liquorice, followed by the bitter anise-like herbaceousness. As he began to chew the first surprise hit him. It was sour, very sour. You could suck on a hundred lemons and it wouldn’t be this sour.

Kipling fought tooth and nail with his facial muscles to maintain his composure. With all the competitive spirit the detective could muster, he refused to give the merchant the sadistic satisfaction they were waiting for.

The detective had only yet suffered half the ordeal the confectioner supplied. He had no time to celebrate his assumed victory as he dramatically swallowed and watched the merchant’s face. But the stall owner was unphased. There wasn’t even a flicker of doubt in his conniving smile.

It finally hit the detective, a peppery sour heat. His face turned red and his eyes watered as the Scovilles continued to climb in his mind, and they showed no signs of slowing.

Barnaby couldn’t help but continue to laugh. “S-sorry my good detective b-but are you feeling alright?”

Maybe it was the detective’s growing delirium but he could have sworn his companion’s laughter had grown more boisterous at his expense.

“Buy a bag of the liquorice right now and I’ll throw in a bag of our milk gushers completely free. Guaranteed to help soothe even the fieriest of spices. I will remind you, this is a limited time offer and won’t last forever,” the confectioner said smugly.

Unable to speak, the detective raised a pointed finger and nodded to signal the sale.

“That’ll be one moon,” the merchant said.

Kipling thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved a silver coin.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you, sir,” said the confectioner.

As soon as the detective was handed the two paper bags he hurled two of the soft white chews into his burning maw. His mouth nearly spilled over with the soothing sugary cream that sprung from the gnashing of the sweets.

Kipling had regained his composure and with a sniffle said, “That was an audacious read, but not a wrong one. I have to wonder if you receive a lot of disgruntled demands for refunds with stunts like that.”

“Can’t say I do. It’s in the eyes see.” The man gestures with his two fingers to illustrate the point.

“How much for a bag of his?” Kipling asked as he pointed to his companion.

“That’ll be another moon,” the confectioner said.

“No, that’s quite alright, you’ve treated me well enough today,” Barnaby said.

“I insist,” said the detective and traded another silver coin for the third paper bag.

The detective’s phone buzzed in his coat’s breast pocket. He read the message’s contents to himself with a sober face.

“Alright, enough dilly-dallying. We’ve one last stop. This way, Mister Barnaby.”

Barnaby left the confectioner with a “Thank you,” before chasing to catch up with the detective.

“Any time,” the stall owner said with a smile and a wave.