It is an unfortunate fact of life that if you work the Urban fantasyland beat, your employer is probably not very respectable, and often one step above tabloid news only in that you’re probably not likely to accidentally ruin anyone’s life but your own. More recently, bloggers who post stories of the supernatural, or record paranormal incidents and upload them to streaming services fill a similar role,

Certain government monster-hunters swear by the tabloids as a source of unbiased news. We do not recommend this as a method in most Urban Fantasylands, as it will almost inevitably lead to bad places, like trying to remove the face mask of a presidential candidate on live television only to learn that he wasn’t actually wearing one and the story was fake.

(One should always keep in mind that many tabloids in Urban Fantasylands are owned by Sasquatch, who greatly enjoy pranking witnesses. This is why J was almost for Jackass.)

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

Charlie was waiting for me at the cop bar again, seated at the end and nursing a beer. At least it was after noon this time. I ducked in, sat down next to him, and ordered. “So. I saw the signals you were giving during the funeral- what’s up?”

He shook his head. “So I’ve been looking into ways Spider Bonaparte might be connected to Delacourt. Checking financials, that sort of thing.”

I nodded, and he continued. “A few years back, Delacourt financial was trying to diversify its holdings and started buying shares in other businesses. And along the way, it ended up with a controlling interest in a little shipping company called Grandmother’s Freight. Seemed harmless, except Grandmother’s Freight seems to only exist on paper. There’s no warehouse or central distribution hubs, no physical holdings. You might see a truck with its logo, but if you track those trucks they’re owned by another company or an independent operator.”

“That’s...huh. Weird. Let me guess. Grandmother’s Freight is was a front for Spider’s smuggling stuff.”

Charlie tapped the side of his nose. “Got it in one. I’m not sure how Delacourt bought it out- it might have been an intentional deal, it may have been sold as part of an allotment of other shares. But suddenly Delacourt financial owned a a chunk of an imaginary business with a lot of under the table cash flow.”

“Any idea who brokered the deal? Delacourt or Martin?”

Charlie looked at me, confused. “Martin? Oh, you must mean Martel. Lukas Martel. Not 100 percent sure there, but whichever one did it, the other probably knew about it soon enough. Delacourt was a literal numbers wizard and while Martel’s not magically talented, he’s good at his job.”

“If Spider’s eulogy was any indication, they worked things out eventually. Sort of.”

Delacourt financial sold controlling interest to Grandmother’s Freight to a shell company that’s probably owned by Spider Bonaparte last year.. Never gave any indication that they knew it didn’t really exist.”

“So that tells us how they’re all connected anyway, though it doesn't really give a motive for Hugo Delacourt to get killed. Unless there’s another deal in the offing.”

Charlie nodded. “That’s the question of the moment, yeah.”

I passed him a copy of the list. “Then I may have an answer for you.”

He squinted at it. “What’s this, then?”

“Supposedly, Spider’s people are offering a reward for just about every kind of magical snake they can get their hands on. That’s the ones they’ve got bounties on. It’s a demand from a private collector who I haven’t gotten a name on yet, but…”

Charlie gave me the side-eye. “But?”

I continued, “But tell me. Does it look like Lukas Martel has shed his skin recently to you?”

That drew a long pause, and Charlie drained the beer he’d been nursing all at once. “Fuck.”

I shrugged. “I got no real evidence of this, mind, but it’s certainly suspicious.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up. Maybe he’s got an exotic pet habit no one’s mentioned before.”

“Appreciated. I’ll leave you that then. Got to go see a man about a book, myself.”

Charlie ordered another drink as I left the bar. The car started up on its own as I sat down, and the radio started playing tense music, the sort you’d hear in a movie if, say, someone were hiding in the back seat waiting for you to be distracted to try and stab you.

“Fuck,” I said, and turned around, to a face full of...water.

Wait, water?”

“Just die again already!” said the man wearing a motorcycle helmet in my backseat.

“...Did you just throw holy water at me? Seriously? This isn’t Castlevania.”

“Fuck,” said the man in the motorcycle helmet, and vanished.

I swiped an awkward backhand through where he’d been sitting, but it looked as though he’d teleported, not turned invisible.

“Fucking tarnhelms,” I said, and sank into my seat.

Today was not shaping up to be a great day. I patted the car on the dash, though. “Good girl.” The engine purred.

The boss crackled in my ear. “Lorraine chased him, but he got away. The Gyges device makes him way too slippery.”

I sighed. “I should have punched him as soon as I saw him, the holy water just sort of...distracted me.”

“Holy water, huh? That suggests Lawson’s theory was correct.”

“Yeah, but don’t tell him, he’ll be smug.”

“You okay? I know some of that stuff does get blessed to repel creatures of fairie.”

“I’m not of fairie, boss, I’m from the Ironwoods. They make us tougher, there.” This wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good. “And besides, he was coming loaded for undead.” I paused. “Which means I need to go back to the church. It’s the obvious source for it without him having left the play area and come back.”

The boss pointed out, “Not like he couldn’t have done that easily enough with that helmet, but good thought. Might as well check there first before you head to the bookshop.”

I’d previously come to the Church of the Wicker Savior in the limo. I was fairly sure a possessed convertible wouldn’t be happy on holy ground, so I left the car on the street instead of using their parking lot, and walked up the path to the double doors.

The Priestess- the same one who’d presided over the funeral, I realized, was sitting in the front row, finishing off a bottle of what appeared to be a bottle of the sacred mead they use instead of wine in their services. “Can I help you, my son?” she asked, with a genial slur.

“My apologies for intruding into your...meditations, Mother. But I was recently attacked by a man wielding holy water as a weapon. He apparently thinks I’m some sort of undead, and well, I’m not, obviously, but it’s still odd. Since your church is the only obvious source of it, I was wondering if anyone might have drawn someone from the font or tried to buy some?”

The question caused her to get mead right up her nose, and she coughed for a bit, holding up a hand when I drew close to assist. “I’m alright, I’m alright. It’s just...there’s a reason I’m drinking. I’d just gotten back from the sending of the deceased, you see, and when I walked inside, there was a man all in black, with a helmet on, standing at the holy water font, filling up jars from it. I asked him what he was doing, and he just said “Sorry, Sister!”, picked up the jars he’d already filled, and vanished into the air.”

I sighed. “He seriously wears that thing everywhere. Well, good to know, anyway. He didn’t hurt you or anything, did he?”

She shook her head. “Just gave me quite the shock.” She looked at me. And he wanted it to use on you? Forgive me, but how can anyone mistake you for one of the undead?”

“It’s…a long story. He thought he’d already killed me and doesn’t want to believe he just missed, to sum up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, if you run into him again, give him a kicking for the Church of the Wicker Savior, huh? Don’t want any other would-be hunters of the undead getting the idea they can just come in and drain our holy font for their arsenal.”

I gave her an off-handed salute as I turned to leave. “I’ll toss in an extra one for you and the Church, mother.”

Admittedly, I didn’t figure that I’d be the one kicking him, because we wanted the guy to be still alive and in a condition to confess when we handed him over to the Carrefour clan, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Since the church wasn’t the lead that I’d hoped for, I headed on to Big Albert’s. I wanted to consult Sam on the list of snake names anyway.

He was with a customer when I got there, which briefly surprised me. Big Al’s didn’t strike me as a regular local destination, and it wasn’t a cast member I recognized.

I waited for him to wrap up, and after the woman left with her purchase, he waved me over. “Mr. Criss. Sorry about that. I fear I may have just taken some business from you. She wanted to confirm if her boyfriend was cheating, and well, there’s a few charms for that that are easy enough to whip up with household ingredients.” He smiled, with teeth that were still way too small for the rest of him. “I’m afraid I don’t have much news I can offer as yet, I’m still doing preliminary research.”

I held up a hand. “I may have something that can help with that.”

I handed him another copy of the list. “So there’s someone, who may be connected to my clients, who is incredibly into collecting magical snakes. This is his list. No idea which ones he has yet, but...any of these strike you as possibilities for what might cause someone to rot from the inside?”

He glanced it over. “A few, actually.” He tapped a finger on one of the ones I wasn’t familiar with. “This one...I hope he didn’t cross gazes with this one, or we’re all in terrible danger. The Bidi-taraubo-haza is from New Guinea legend- Daribi people, I believe. It’s a bit like a gorgon, but instead of stone, it causes you to rot from the inside, which may match the symptoms you describe, though if it is involved, he got off fairly gently. Normally they rot you completely. Perhaps someone introduced its venom directly into his kidneys?””

I made a face. “It’s a possibility. I’ll keep it in mind. What about the others?.

He looked. “A few deal makers...I see they’ve got Aim’s serpent here, though I haven’t heard anything in the news about inexplicable arsons, have you?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly. A bombing or two, but no random fires.”

Sam frowned. “This is a very dangerous list, Mr. Criss. With so many magical serpents on it, I hesitate to guess what they need them for.”

“Could any of them, say, be used for rejuvenation? I ran into a man who seemed to have all new skin, recently, as though he’d just shed it.”

“Oh, any of them, actually. It’s a fairly simple sympathetic magic procedure when it comes to serpents, but you wouldn’t need any of these for it, unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless this all a Gilgamesh ploy.”

“I realize you’re trying to keep this is layman’s terms but you may need to amplify.”

“Gilgamesh tried and failed to become immortal because the serpent stole the secret before he could use it. It’s essentially a just-so story about why snakes shed their skins. But there’s a crackpot theory that certain serpents may hold the key to...retrieving the secret. It’s possible that our friend here is trying for a brute force approach. Certainly, he’d gain a great deal of magical power regardless, if they were sacrificed in the right way.”

I sighed. “That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. You’ve been a real help, Sam.” I paid him again. “If you’re right about the Gilgamesh thing- you may want to get out of town for a few days. Wizards trying to make themselves immortal can cause a lot of collateral damage along the way.”

He smiled again, flashing those weirdly tiny teeth. “I’ll keep it under advisement, Mr. Criss. But Big Al’s has weathered worse, in its time. Maybe I will go check on the other storefront for a time.”

As I left, the doorbell didn’t ring. When I turned around again, Big Al’s was gone.

I looked at the now vacant lot. “Ha. Disappearing bookshops. Hadn’t seen one of those in ages.”

I had information, and no one in game or just infiltrating it was immediately trying to kill me, so I headed back to the office to go over my notes and make myself easier to find for any attempted murderers out there.