A walk in the Nightside

Digging into Shadows

Michael leaned back in his chair, the dim light of the café barely illuminating the tense expression on his face. Across from him sat a wiry man in a trench coat, his face lined with years of experience and perhaps a touch too much whiskey. Manfred was one of the best private investigators in the Nightside—quiet, thorough, and, most importantly, discreet. Michael hoped he would live up to that reputation.

Manfred raised an eyebrow, his sharp eyes studying Michael as he sipped his coffee. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to dig into the lives of Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke? Find out who they were and what kind of family connections they had?"

Michael nodded. "That's right. And I need you to keep a low profile while you do it. These guys came after me, and they didn't exactly announce themselves first. I need to know why."

Manfred set his cup down, his expression neutral but thoughtful. "Not the easiest job, you know. Families like theirs don't take kindly to snooping. If they've got reach, they'll know someone's digging."

"That's why I came to you," Michael said, leaning forward. "You're good at staying off the radar, right? I need you to find out who their families are, what kind of resources they have, and how much of a threat they pose. I can't afford to be blindsided."

Manfred let out a low chuckle, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "You've got a funny way of asking a man to stick his neck out."

Michael's tone hardened slightly. "I'm not asking for charity, Manfred. I'll pay. Whatever your rate is, I'll match it. But I need answers."

The PI's gaze lingered on Michael for a moment before he nodded. "Alright. I'll take the job. But you need to know what you're asking for. These kinds of families, if they're the ones I think they are, don't just have money. They've got influence. Political, magical, maybe even something nastier. You sure you're ready for what I might find?"

Michael exhaled slowly, nodding. "I don't have a choice. If they're coming for me, I need to know what I'm up against. And I'd rather know now than when it's too late."

Manfred leaned back in his chair, pulling out a small notepad. "Alright. Give me the details. Names, anything else you've got."

Michael handed over the IDs he'd kept. "Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke. This is all I have—no other records, no leads. I need to know who they were connected to, what their families are like, and how far their influence reaches."

Manfred glanced at the IDs before tucking them into his pocket. "Got it. And you want this as quiet as possible?"

"As quiet as possible," Michael emphasized. "If they get wind of this, I'll have more than just fireballs to worry about."

Manfred's grin returned, faint but wry. "Fair enough. You've got guts, I'll give you that. I'll start digging tonight. Might take a few days, maybe longer if they're as connected as I think. But I'll find out what you need to know."

Michael leaned back, relieved but still cautious. "Thanks, Manfred. Just... be careful. These people already came after me once. I don't want them coming after you, too."

"Don't worry about me, kid," Manfred said, standing and adjusting his coat. "I've been doing this a long time. Families like these? They don't scare me. I'll be in touch."

With that, Manfred left, disappearing into the shadows of the Nightside. Michael sat there for a moment longer, his fingers drumming against the table. The werewolf blood had made him harder to kill, but that didn't mean he was untouchable. If these families had the kind of influence he feared, he'd need every bit of information—and every bit of caution—to survive what came next.

Michael had been feeling it for days now—eyes watching, shadows lingering just a little too long, the same faces appearing in different places. At first, he thought he was imagining things, but the pattern had become too consistent. He noticed them around his apartment, lurking at the edges of his vision, and then again at Strangefellows, sitting in corners or hanging around just outside.

The Coletrane sisters were the first to comment. Betty leaned against the bar during a slow moment, her sharp eyes studying Michael as he worked. "You've been acting twitchy all week," she said, her voice low. "And there's something... different about you."

Michael paused, glancing at her. "Different how?"

Lucy joined them, wiping down a glass as she sized him up. "Your aura. It's got this... edge to it now. Wilder, rougher. And your features—look at your eyes, your nails. You've got this... wolfish vibe going on."

Michael gave a noncommittal shrug, though he knew they were right. The werewolf blood ritual had left its mark, more than he'd realized at first. His reflection was subtle but undeniable—the faint sharpness of his canines, the slight curve to his nails, and the way his eyes seemed to catch and reflect light in a way they hadn't before.

"Just tired," he lied, focusing on the task at hand. "Long week."

The sisters exchanged glances but didn't push further. Still, Michael could feel their curiosity simmering beneath the surface.

When his shift began in earnest, Michael made his way to Alex, who was busy arranging bottles behind the bar. He waited until the other patrons were distracted before leaning in close.

"I've been noticing people," Michael said quietly.

Alex glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Strangefellows gets all kinds, kid. That's hardly news."

Michael shook his head. "Not just here. Around my apartment, too. Same people, different places. They're not subtle."

Alex turned fully to face him, his expression serious now. "You're saying you've got tails?"

"Seems like it," Michael said. "They haven't approached me, but they're watching. Every day, every night. It's starting to feel... off."

Alex let out a low chuckle, his sharp grin almost amused. "If they're stupid enough to try anything here, they'll find out real quick why Strangefellows is the oldest bar in the Nightside."

Michael smirked faintly despite himself. "Not planning on dragging you into this, Alex."

"Too late," Alex said, pouring himself a drink and taking a casual sip. "You're my employee. That means anyone gunning for you is gunning for me, and I don't take kindly to that. If they're sniffing around here, they're either cocky or suicidal."

Michael nodded but kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't want to drag Alex into whatever this was, not if he could avoid it. But he also couldn't shake the growing sense of unease. Whoever these people were, they hadn't made their move yet—and that was what worried him the most.

As the night wore on, Michael's attention flicked between his work and the corners of the bar, where the shadows seemed to linger a little longer than usual. The faint hum of his swarm buzzed in the back of his mind, ready and waiting. He wasn't sure when the moment would come, but he knew one thing for certain: it was only a matter of time.

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, the faint hum of magic and the subtle buzzing of his swarm surrounding him. His latest project had been grueling but rewarding: infusing his tarantula hawks with protective magic to make them more durable in combat. It wasn't easy work—layering his magical intent onto his insects required delicate spellwork and relentless focus. The swarm was an extension of his will, but weaving protective wards into their essence had taken it to another level entirely.

Now, though, he felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched one of the hawks test its newfound resilience. The insect seemed unbothered by small impacts that would have injured it before, its orange wings glinting faintly as it hovered in the dim light of the room.

"You'll last longer now," Michael muttered, watching the hawk return to its hidden chamber in his coat. "And so will I."

On the desk nearby sat another of his creations: a shield bracelet. It was inspired by the Harry Dresden novels he'd read in his old world, where the protagonist used a similar enchanted bracelet to project a protective barrier in combat. It had taken weeks of careful enchantments, layering defensive spells over each link in the chain, but Michael had managed to replicate the idea. It wouldn't stop a heavy magical blast or sustained fire, but for sudden attacks or minor skirmishes, it could mean the difference between life and death.

He tested it again, flicking his wrist and murmuring the activation phrase under his breath. A shimmering barrier flickered into existence for a brief moment before fading. It wasn't perfect, but it was functional. And in the Nightside, functional was enough.

With his new tools in place, Michael turned his attention to the map spread out on his desk. At the end of a string, a small crystal dangled, its faint glow reflecting the dim light in the room. He had seen this technique in Charmed—a simple method of scrying to locate someone. The Nightside was a strange place, where even mundane methods of magic often worked if you applied enough intent.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind focus on Manfred. The PI had been gone for over a week now, and Michael hadn't heard a word. It wasn't like Manfred to go radio silent, and the silence had been gnawing at him. With a deep breath, he let the crystal swing freely over the map, his magic guiding it as he concentrated on the man's image.

The crystal circled lazily for a moment before suddenly jerking downward. It hovered, trembling slightly, before landing firmly over a specific spot: a part of the Nightside labeled Dead Town.

Michael frowned. "Dead Town," he muttered, leaning closer to the map. The name was ominous enough on its own, and he knew the area by reputation. Dead Town was exactly what it sounded like—a place where the dead and undead roamed freely. Ghosts, zombies, liches, and things far worse called it home. It wasn't a place anyone visited lightly, and the fact that Manfred was there didn't bode well.

"That can't be good," Michael said to himself, leaning back in his chair. He stared at the map for a long moment, his mind racing. Manfred was tough, but Dead Town was a whole different level of danger. If he was there, it wasn't by choice—or he was in deep trouble.

Michael stood, his coat swaying slightly as he pulled it on. He checked the hidden chambers, ensuring his swarm was ready, then strapped the shield bracelet onto his wrist. The revolvers he'd bought were loaded, their holsters secure on his belt. This wasn't a trip he wanted to make, but if Manfred was in Dead Town, he had to know why—and he had to be ready for anything.

"Dead Town," he muttered again, shaking his head as he locked his apartment door behind him. "This is going to suck."

And with that, he headed out into the shadowed streets of the Nightside, the map folded neatly in his pocket, the crystal still faintly glowing.

Michael unfolded his electric scooter at the edge of the road, glancing warily around the shadowed streets of the Nightside. The world here never truly slept, but it shifted. The deep hum of activity in other parts of the city was muted here, replaced by an oppressive quiet that seemed to watch him.

As he started his journey, the soft whir of the scooter's motor barely broke the stillness. His senses—sharpened by the werewolf blood coursing through his veins—picked up every shift in the air, every distant sound. The Nightside always felt alive, but this stretch of his trip seemed to pulse with something colder, darker. The buildings he passed seemed less substantial than elsewhere, their walls cracked and pockmarked with what looked like claw marks or bullet holes. Shadows moved in the corners of his vision, and occasionally, his swarm would buzz with unease, warning him of something unseen.

The roads were particularly treacherous, not because of potholes or bad design but because of the predators that disguised themselves as vehicles. Michael had seen one once, a sleek, black sedan that glinted with an unnatural sheen. It had cruised past a pedestrian, its engine purring almost seductively, before the car unfolded into something monstrous—a tangle of chrome teeth and rubber tentacles that devoured its prey in seconds.

He stuck to the sidewalks whenever possible, even on his scooter. Occasionally, he'd see one of the things roll by, its headlights scanning like the eyes of a hungry predator. Michael held his breath each time, praying it wouldn't notice him.

As he drew closer to Dead Town, the air grew heavier, thicker, almost as if it resisted his passage. His enhanced senses caught it all—the acrid tang of decay, the faint metallic scent of old blood, and the sour staleness of mildew that clung to the walls like a living thing. He passed by a group of buildings with shattered windows and sagging roofs, their interiors filled with what looked like a living mist, twisting and writhing unnaturally.

The sounds were worse. The faint whispers of things he couldn't see seemed to drift on the air, soft enough to be unsettling but not loud enough to understand. Occasionally, a distant wail would rise and then fade, its source invisible. The clink of bones rattling against pavement echoed faintly, accompanied by the soft shuffle of feet too light to belong to anything living.

As he crossed into the outskirts of Dead Town, the Nightside's usual dim glow seemed to falter, the light fading into an unnatural gloom. The streetlights were fewer and farther between, their bulbs flickering weakly as if struggling to stay lit. The shadows here felt thicker, almost tangible, and Michael could swear he saw them moving of their own accord.

Stores lined the streets, their cracked signs advertising goods and services that only the dead—or those desperate enough to deal with them—might need. An apothecary displayed jars filled with embalming fluids and powders labeled for "spiritual preservation." Another storefront offered "freshly harvested graveyard soil" and "authentic burial shrouds, guaranteed enchanted." A café stood on the corner, its windows cloudy with age, advertising "Ectoplasm Specials" and "Soul-Touched Coffee" on a faded chalkboard.

The residents of Dead Town were no less unnerving. Ghosts drifted lazily between buildings, their forms translucent and flickering in and out of visibility. Zombies shuffled along the sidewalks, their hollow eyes glowing faintly as they dragged their decayed forms toward unknown destinations. In the distance, Michael spotted something more monstrous—an amalgamation of bone and sinew that skittered on too many legs, disappearing into an alley as quickly as it had appeared.

The swarm inside his coat buzzed with discomfort, their unease bleeding into his awareness. Michael tightened his grip on the handlebars of his scooter, slowing down as the oppressive atmosphere closed in around him.

When he reached the heart of Dead Town, he folded up the scooter and slung it over his shoulder. His steps were cautious, his every sense on high alert. The air was colder here, and with each breath, the metallic taste of decay lingered on his tongue. The whispers grew louder, and his swarm pulsed faintly in response, keeping him grounded.

Dead Town was alive, in its own way, but it was not a place for the living. Michael was keenly aware of that as he walked deeper into its decaying streets, the map folded in his pocket and the crystal on its string weighing heavily in his coat.

He glanced at the shops, the shambling figures, and the flickering lights. Manfred better be alive, he thought grimly. Because if he isn't, I'm walking straight into hell for nothing.