Cook shuts the door to the interrogation room behind them. He does not mention the spells that pipe the sound in the room into a scribe’s ears on the other side of the far wall. Their every word is written down for use in court later, but he’s under no obligation to tell the suspect that much.

“Here’s your shirt.” Alton fishes a white tunic and dusty tan colored gambeson from the crate of armor and weaponry. “I trust there’s no weapons hidden in your clothing?”

“Nah, like I said,” Wymark pulls his tunic over his head first, “I don’t got cash for much else.” He ties the laces before picking up the padded gambeson.

“So what are you doing in Two Rivers?” Cook asks, his eyebrows knitting together in concern while he fishes out his notebook.

“Well, my home’s pretty much a complete wreck.” His head pops through the top of the gambeson. “So I needed somewhere else to go. All that sand in the southern Satrapie didn’t agree with me, and all them werewolves and shit out West gave me the heeby jeebies.”

“I’m sorry about what happened in the Lantern States,” Alton says cautiously. “It was such unfortunate luck.”

“Story of my life, knife-ear.” He plops into a chair. “Pass me my socks.”

Alton fishes around the crate and uncovers a pair of woolen stockings rolled up and stuffed into the buckles of one of his greaves. They’re grey with sweat stains and repeated washing, but relatively clean. She hands the suspect his socks.

“So the place was already a latrine of a country when the tortugatans took their wrong turn and showed up on the coast. Between the civil war, ork raids, and an invading army of fucking turtles, it kind of got the shit stick.” While dressing, Wymark keeps up his complaints about his home country’s fate.

“And what was your plan for living here?” Cook springs the eyebrow trick on the unsuspecting human. It goes over pretty well.

“Eh, I thought I’d try out for Blackfeather, Red Hawk Riders if that failed, and go mercenary Mikey’s Marauders if both failed. Waiting on a response from Blackfeather right now. Their paperwork process is slow as oozes.”

“So you’re a professional adventurer?” Cook’s trick falters as the second brow pops up to join the first.

“Pass my boots.” Wymark finishes pulling on his socks. “Semi professional I guess? I’ve done a few quests locally, none of the big juicy contracts like the corporate pros get.”

“Any of that involve vampires?” Alton stealthily checks the boots for knives before passing them over.

“What?” His demeanor shifts. “I’m a swordsman. I ain’t got a way to avoid the mind control for that.”

“Fair.” Cook watches their suspect tuck his trousers into his boots before tying the laces. “You were at the Thirsty Pilgrim Sunday night, correct?”

“Yeah, I drink there.” Wymark goes quiet. He does not ask for his belt.

“Sunday night you were seen with a teen named Marion. Do you remember her?” Cook’s dry voice is rough. He doesn’t mention her vampirism.

Wymark says nothing.

“She must have made an impression,” Cook remarks.

“Can you just tell us what you remember?” Alton lightly touches his shoulder.

“Look, I know killing the undead in this whack job place is illegal.” Wymark grunts his contempt. “But she came onto me. She attacked me. It wasn’t the other way around, I swear.”

“So you admit to lopping off a woman’s head in the street?” Cook asks, cautiously.

“Maybe?” Wymark responds, nervous.

“Walk me through what happened,” Alton suggests, passing the suspect his belt, “you said she attacked you. Do you have any other information about it than that?”

“Um, yeah.” Wymark launches into his next epic. “I was having a drink or three at the Pilgrim and this smoking hot blond starts flirting with me. I didn’t see her teeth or nothing just then and nobody told me the was a vamp or anything. She was all over me, touching my hair, my face, my chest. I thought she wanted to get a room somewhere or something, so after another drink or four, we left.

“Only, she didn’t want a room. I asked her where we were going, and she said we should go back to the crypt. I asked what the fuck she meant by a crypt, and she actually said it was a gods forsaken tomb. A real tomb! I mean, this city’s off its rockers and all, but people actually living in graves just takes it to an unnecessary level of crazy. So anyway, she’s all ‘come with me to my private casket’ and I’m all ‘oh fuck no, not for all the pancakes in the demiplane of breakfast, no way no how that shit’s too strange.’

“And then she actually acted offended, like it hurt her dark little feelings to be turned down or something. A girl living in an actual fucking grave got hurt because she was rejected? Fuck me sideways. So I try and suggest that we get a room elsewhere again. I know a place, and if that’s no good then I know a guy who’ll let me borrow his pad in a real emergency like this one. It’s not everyday you get a chance like this if you know what I mean.

“But no, she really wanted to get to that crypt. And I really wanted to avoid it. So when I refused again, it totally caught me off guard when she threw a punch. Or, you know, tried to. She might be some kind of villainous monster from beyond the grave, but she sure didn’t know how to fight. That was more of a swipe than a punch. Or maybe she did and thought she could just play with me or something. Anyway, I drew my sword and the next thing I knew her head was clean off.”

“That easy?” Cook asks, incredulous. This is a vampire, and probably vampire spawn at that they’re talking about.

“I guess so.” Wymark shrugs. “Guy who sold me the sword said he thought it was magic, but couldn’t be sure. I think he was right about that magic.”

“We’ll have to confiscate your weapon,” Alton says gently, “since you’re admitting to having destroyed a person within the city, you’ll be investigated for her death and your sword is evidence.”

“Yeah, of course,” the suspect admits. “I’d take me in custody too. Thanks for not making me do that mostly naked.”

“The jail is chilly this time of year,” Alton admits, “and we strive to be fair, not cruel.”

“Do you have any evidence to corroborate your story?” Cook asks, still striving for skeptical.

“Ah, um, not really.” Wymark searches for words, it’s a difficult search. “She did say something like ‘Helengelo’ right before she attacked.”

“Helengelo?” Cook asks.

“Yeah, or maybe Helen jello?”

“Could it have just been Helen go?” Alton suggests.

“Sounds right when you say it. Maybe I’m just getting the accent wrong.” Wymark shrugs. “Oh, and there might be marks from her fingernails in my armor.”

Alton pulls his scale mail cuirass from the mixed stack of armor and weaponry that still fills the crate. Indeed, there are marks in the steel, but they were definitely not made from regular human fingernails. Or rather, they could have been, if those fingernails were actually extremely hard and sharp and completely indestructible.

So there are fingernail marks, exactly where he said there would be. They’re just not consistent with a story about a vampire. A spawn might have acted like that, but a vampire working alone would have accepted a change of venue as a reasonable request and gone ahead with the meal. A spawn might also attack unprovoked, and potentially the master vampire’s concentration might slip and speak aloud things meant to be heard only in their own physical vicinity.

“We’ll be back in a bit with some paperwork for you,” Cook says, opening the door. “Sit tight.” Both detectives leave.