In Urban Fantasyland, Blood is perhaps one of the most commonly used artistic, magical, and dietary ingredients. People paint walls with it, drink it, use it to write pithy notes to protagonists, and draw runes in it for sinister purposes. Just the presence of blood can tell you many things, such as, for example, that someone bled a lot in this room not long ago, or that the protagonist is probably going to be absolutely covered in the stuff soon. Blood may also indicate the use of blood magic, which distinguished from regular magic by being messier

It is theorized that the inhabitants of urban fantasyland have much more blood in their bodies than their size or apparent anatomy would indicate.

-Quote from an internally circulated employee email at Mystery Play LLC, presumably not for public consumption.

Lawson had carted his cousin’s body away, the better to keep up the illusion that there hadn’t been a death here, after wrapping me in a double glamour- one of Louis Carrefour’s real appearance, that wouldn’t trigger unless the first, our ‘standard hero package was dispelled. I got a look at Carrefour’s real face in the bathroom mirror between enchantments and not to speak ill of the dead, but I was going to be glad to have an actual chin again.

For now, the boss was keeping the fact that the client had been killed a secret between the three of us. He didn’t expect it to last long, but the word got went out that HR had forced me to use some of my accumulated vacation time so the play needed a stand in for the heavy, while instead I’d secretly be pretending to Carrefour pretending to be a hero.

This was rapidly getting complicated.

While I was sitting at the desk and drinking the drawer bourbon intended for a dead man, I called the boss. “So who’s my understudy on this anyway?”

At first he didn’t seem like he wanted to answer, but finally, he muttered, “‘mone.”

“...Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.”

“It’s Simone. She doesn’t usually volunteer for these parts, so I wasn’t expecting it. Sorry. But it should be fine. She shouldn’t realize it’s you. Just remember to stay in character, and use the stuff Lawson gave you to pretend you’re a magician.”

I groaned. Simone d’Forneus usually worked in the FX department with Lawson, providing explosions on demand with as much variety and as little repetition as possible. She used to be a combat wizard with some sort of magical PMC. Under normal circumstances, she’s professional and a pleasure to work with.

She also has not let up on wanting to spar with me since she found out my grandmother was a trollwife from the Ironwood. The trollwives have a rep for being some of the most potent magical heavyweights in the field of curse-slinging around. None of that applies to their sons and grandsons, since they don’t teach us trollwife magic unless one of us realizes that we were a daughter or granddaughter all along, but that didn’t stop Simone. HR had gotten involved and legally she wasn’t allowed to challenge me to duels anymore, at least not during work hours.

“You’re sure she doesn’t know? Because like hell am I going to fuel her duel-junkie habits.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. Now get off the line, she’ll be there soon.”

The boss hung up, and I settled back at the desk and pretended to be asleep, the better to be surprised by the intrusion of the Heavy. The first scene, last night’s scene, had been the detective agreeing to take a case from the femme fatale client. Now he was getting warned off the job. It’s an old bit, but not one I’ve ever played from this side of the desk before.

Simone’s style isn’t my style, and I should have taken that into account- instead of kicking the remounted door in, she blasted it with a spell, sending it flying at the desk and forcing me to dive for cover. I grabbed the pre-loaded wand Lawson had passed me earlier, but then remembered the character I was supposed to be playing, so I stood up as she stepped inside, and just drawled,

“You could have knocked, you know.”

Simone smirked. It took me a moment to realize what felt off. When I’m not under a glamour she barely comes up to my chest, so I’ve always thought of her as fairly petite. But Carrefour/Criss is a good foot and a half shorter than me, which meant Simone’s got a good four inches of height on him. It was an odd perspective shift.

“I wanted to be sure to get your attention, Mr. Criss. I understand you took a new case last night.”

“For someone I’ve never met you sure know a lot about my caseload.”

“My employers like to keep informed.” Another smirk. She was definitely enjoying the part- I’d have to talk to the boss and see if maybe she could spell me on other jobs, too. “We’d like to encourage you to reconsider. We’ll pay double your regular daily rate for you to just...not work. Take a nice vacation somewhere instead”

“Really? My usual fee includes expenses, so I hope you’re gonna pay for my door, too.”

“Probably your desk as well. If you agree to my employer’s offer.” Her smirk vanished, and she lowered her wand, blasting the desk. I thought about it, and decided that Carrefour was exactly the guy who’d think he was invincible and ignore the medical waiver he signed, so just stayed in place.

“That’s really impressive, miss…? But how am I going to trust your boss to pay up? I at least know my client’s name.”

“Moran,” said Simone. “Bastienne Moran. My employer, and if you’re smart, your employer, prefers to remain anonymous.”

I made a note to thump the scriptwriter in the forehead for stealing that blatantly from Sherlock Holmes. But it was time to try the tricks Lawson had left me. I waved the wand I’d been given, and the desk mended itself. “Unfortunately for us all, Ms. Moran, I’m not that smart. Tell your boss that I don’t welsh on a contract just because a new offer comes along.”

“He’ll be very disappointed,” Simone said, and did her best threatening loom. It’s a lot more impressive when she’s taller than you than at my regular height, I’ve gotta say. “I’ll deliver your message. And then I’ll be back to deliver his reply. You may not want to be here when I do.”

I waved her off dismissively. “Yeah, well, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Oh, wait, you can’t, it’s on the floor.”

Simone stalked out of the room, as soon as I was sure she was out of earshot, I collapsed into the chair and called the boss.

“You were monitoring, right? Think that passed muster?”

“Yeah, we’re good. I’ll get it up on the members broadcast site tonight. Hopefully our killer will see it and think he missed his mark.”

“So how long do I need to keep this up, anyway? Should I just head to the next scene and call the client? Who’s playing her this time? I didn’t see meeting her in my original script, so I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“You sure you want to admit that to your director?” This was apparently a rhetorical question, since the boss carried on. “Moira. Carrefour expressed a preference for redheads. ”

I made a face. “Moira? She’s like twelve, boss, I can’t.”

“Don’t be an idiot, she’s 27. You just have trouble telling anyone under 5’6” apart because all you see is the tops of their heads.”

Moira Roan is a perfectly nice girl that I could not see playing the sort of vamp that most clients expect in the event package we were using. But then I’d never seen her play against her previous typecasting as the spunky assistant or the wise-cracking reporter, so maybe she wanted to broaden her horizons and show off her hat with veil-based seduction skills.

Mystery Play LLC does, for the record, not allow or even unofficially encourage employees to sleep with customers. There’s a whole lot of legal paperwork or any sort of simulated romantic encounter and how far both sides are allowed to go. For scenarios where sex -would- happen, we’ve got a Mara on staff who can toss the client an erotic dream but all they do is provide the basic stimulus - and let the client’s subconscious fill in the rest. This is all covered in the forms they’ve got to fill out. There are other outfits that are more sleazy about the whole thing, but I wouldn’t work for them.

(I’m honestly not even particularly comfortable about the Mara, but that may just be internalized prejudice against the species, which I’m trying to get over- with the things people say about Trollbloods, I shouldn’t think bad of someone just because they can invade your dreams and reshape them at a whim. Probably.)

I called ahead to the number that had been provided for “Criss” to reach “Miss Delacourt”, to arrange a meeting, and the phone got answered by Chauncey Sanders, doing his usual butler schtick, which meant that Moira’s character was going to be rich as Croesus. Rumor in the company was that Chauncey had been an old stage actor who was hired as a butler because he played one so well in a play, then took the job with Mystery Play when his employer had passed away. Whether any of that was true or not, it made for good copy on the company website cast list.

“Hello, this is Derek Criss, is this the Delacourt residence?”

“Yes, sah.” answered Chauncey. “How may I be of service?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Delacourt last night regarding work- it’s going to require some follow up. Is she available?”

“A moment, please.” Chauncey stepped away from the phone, and returned. “She asks that you call on her within the hour, if you please, and will be awaiting your arrival in the solar. When you come to the estate, please use the servant’s side entrance.”

“Riiight. Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.”

The Wainscotting neighborhood we were using for this package was, like I said, basically a small city in its own right, which is why the “Criss” persona had been provided a car to get around in- a red convertible that there’s no way his assumed person would have reasonably been able to afford. It was parked in an underground garage in the basement level of his ‘office’ building.

It took me a lot of shuffling to get to a place where I was comfortable driving the thing- the glamour can only do so much to conceal your real height, since it’s just an really fancy illusion, and it doesn’t actually shrink your legs, just adjusts people’s perception so whatever’s happening doesn’t seem off.

I drove to the Delacourt estate with the top down- not only was it more comfortable for me to -not- potentially pop through the canvas top and ruin the illusion, but I wanted our killer to get a good look at the guy they must have thought was certainly already dead.

It tooks some wrangling with the security guard at the gates- he had to call the house and speak to Chauncy, Chauncy allowed as riffraff like me was allowed in, and I was directed on where to park to be closest to the servants and tradesman’s entrance. There really was one, so I figured who ever owned this estate when it wasn’t being rented out by a mystery event package company was probably old magic. I reminded myself to ask the boss about that, later.

I was met at the door by Chauncy, who escorted me to the solar, where Moira, in costume as the Widow Laura Delacourt was waiting to receive the private eye she’d hired to investigate the recent passing of her husband. Tight black dress with a plunging neckline and a pendant placed to draw the eye to her decolletage- our costuming department knew its business- and of course, she was wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a fine lace veil covering the upper part of her face

I took off my hat as I stepped in and Chauncy left us alone. “Ms. Delacourt. My apologies for requesting a meeting on such short notice.”

She smiled, playing the still teary widow, and set aside the glass of brandy she’d been nursing. “Not at all, Mr. Criss. Have you found something out?”

I spread my hands. “Someone really doesn’t want me to work for you. They showed up at my office and offered to double my pay to not do anything, then broke some furniture to show they were serious. Do you and your husband have any enemies you can think of that’d hire some muscle like that?”

Moira/Laura gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Certainly not. At least...I don’t think so. Could you describe them?”

“A dark-haired woman, very tall, around 6’4”. Red eyes, handy with a wand. She said her name was Bastienne. Bastienne Moran. Know her?”

She obviously did, based on the reaction Moira allowed herself to have in character. “Bastienne? No, that can’t be right. Bastienne is a dear friend. I can’t believe she’d try and interfere that way, unless…” She trailed off, lost in thought.

“Unless what?” I prompted.

Moira covered her face with her hands, took a deep breath, and lowered them to fold them in her lap. “There’s a suspicion of foul play in my husband’s death, but no real evidence. You know that of course, it’s why I hired you. But there are elements in my husband’s company that suspect I may be involved and are trying to contest the will as a result. That...only makes sense, of course, horrible as it is. It’s possible that Bastienne believes it and is trying to warn you off to protect me from being ‘found out.’”

“If that’s the case, Mrs. Delacourt, she mentioned she was working for someone else. Any idea who that might be? Someone who believes you may have killed your husband but wants you to inherit anyway?”

Moira shook her head again. “No. But I know a good opportunity to find out- my husband’s funeral is in two days.. Everyone who knew him will be in attendance. Would you…” She leaned forward, placing a hand on my knee and looked up pleadingly. “Could you accompany me? We’ll say that I hired a personal bodyguard.”

With any luck, we’d have caught the guy behind the actual murder by then, so I wouldn’t have to keep playing the part. But I had to stay in character. So I coughed, and placed my hand on hers. “Of course, Mrs. Delacourt.” I removed my hand, but she let hers linger, brushing her fingertips along my leg before leaning back. “Thank you, Mr. Criss. Will you be attending the…” she bit her lips. “The autopsy?”

I shook my head. “I’ve got a friend on the force who can get me the report, but sneaking me into the actual morgue is a bit much to ask. But if there’s any weirdness with the report, I’ll have a word with the coroner in person.” I stood up, then. “But I should be going. Sorry for having taken up so much of your time, Mrs. Delacourt.”

Moira-as-Delacourt stood up as well, shaking her head. “It’s fine, Mr. Criss. Thank you for staying on the case for me. It’s very kind.” She stood on her tiptoes, obviously attempting to kiss me on the cheek.

The glamour can only cover so much cognitive dissonance. I had to hastily get down on one knee so she could actually reach my cheek and didn’t get a mouthful of my shirt instead.

She stepped back, and I stood up quickly. “Just doing my job, Mrs. Delacourt. I’ll see you again soon.”

She handed me a card. “This is my personal number- you don’t need to call the house line the next time you arrange a visit.” A pause, and she smiled. “Or enter through the tradesman’s entrance.”

I smiled back, tipped my hat, and left the house- through the tradesman’s entrance- it was closer to where I parked. I got in the car and started it up, and of course, that’s when it exploded.