Lost Boy Jack: Part One — Dead in the Water

Table of Contents

Chapter 4: Diversions

Friday, 14th March 1644

The coach stood in the courtyard of Babton Hall in the chill air. Breath of men and animals curling white in the lantern light, all but ready to strike north.

A horseman burst through the gateway—mount lathered and blowing hard. He reined up, sharp. Mud spraying from the hooves. A youthful face, streaked with sweat and dirt, eyes wide with urgency. “Captain Renwick!”

Renwick’s hand dropped to his pistol butt. Wharton moved to his side, carbine already unslung, as the rider slid down, boots hitting the cobbles. As his cloak parted, it revealed a buckle—the sigil of Lord de Vries.

Renwick waved an acknowledgement, identifying himself.

The horseman doffed his hat. “Word from the north, sir. Parliament drove out of Coventry at dusk yesterday—pushed hard toward Stafford. They’ve cut Watling Street and all approaches to Newport. The main road’s blocked.”

“How far does the trouble stretch?”

“There are Royalist riders out near Ludlow. Parliamentarians are moving to stop them.”

Wharton rested his carbine on his boot. “Devil take them all. Since Marston Moor, cocksure Roundheads push the King’s men hard. Captain, we must go another way.”

“No doubt, but where…” Renwick frowned. A moment passed. “I reckon south-west, to Bridgnorth, cross the Severn, and then on to Welshpool.”

“Not a route we’ve scouted.” Wharton rubbed his short beard. “It’ll add miles. A day and more if the river’s high, and I fear it will be.”

“Aye, Jake, but I don’t see a better way.”

Sir Thomas appeared on the porch, drawn by the commotion. “Captain?”

“Change of plan,” Renwick said, giving a quick account.

The lord of Babton Manor frowned in thought. “I shall charge my two best guardsmen to go with you—this smacks of trouble.”

“Steadman Wharton and I will ride ahead.” He glanced at Sir Babton. “Your fellows in the coach. Too many outriders might draw unwanted attention.”

Sir Thomas bowed. “Captain, Babton’s stables are yours. Take what you need.”

On the road, the Babton men sat opposite Jack and Edmund in near-silence. Shy? Jack couldn’t tell. Their gaze lingered on the countryside, with a sentry’s flat-faced diligence.

They carried English lock carbines across their laps and wore a pair of pistols tucked into the girdle at their waists, butts forward for a fast draw.

The creak of wood and hide, accompanied by the rumble and splash of wheels and hooves—breath and beating hearts. Far from silent, and yet without conversation, it seemed so.

“I’m called Jack, and this is Edmund.”

Edmund tipped his head up as if surprised. The adults shifted, almost embarrassed.

“William Nash, and this is Gerard Barker.”

Nash appeared older, with a fleck of grey in his beard. Barker fetched a canteen from his pocket and drank.

Edmund leaned across. A quick question. “What’s that?”

Barker hesitated, then held the flask out to Edmund. “Vils.”

Edmund accepted it. “I’ve never tried it.”

Barker’s surprise registered in a snort. “Nay?”

“Y’fool.” Nash shoved Barker’s shoulder. “The masters don’t take vils, so why would their lordlings?”

Edmund ignored him and took a sip. His face twisted and he wiped his mouth with his hand, spittle wetting it. “Horrible. Bitter.” Words snapped like a whip. He thrust the leather bottle away.

Nash caught hold of the bombard and returned it to Barker. “They didn’t teach you boys about vils?”

Edmund shrugged. “Yes and no.”

Jack couldn’t be sure, but everyone seemed angry. “Prince Brennos himself lends his own essence,” he recited from memory, “and like yeast causes bread to rise, so our brewers enliven brandy, wines, and ales. It makes men quick in mind and body. Strong and vigorous.”

Edmund mopped his lips again, remembering to slow his speech to match human norms. “That’s what they told us. What the book said—but we never… tried it.”

Jack nodded. “Lady Renwick thought we may not need it.”

Nash stared at a farmhouse and barn set back among the fields. “From what I hear, you don’t.”

Edmund still wore a sour expression. “Why?”

Nash stifled a laugh. “I once took some ale from Prince Gallo’s House. It tasted wrong to me. I’ve heard said our Revered Lords only consume vils brewed from their own essence. Watching Master Edmund’s reaction, I reckon it must be so.”

Barker pocketed his flask. “It is just the nature of things—Huscarls take vils to be better soldiers, but you, young sirs, you’re already as strong and fast as us, so they say.”

Edmund’s face settled into an inexpressive mask. He fell back into the coach seat. “True.”

Nash frowned. “You are neither man nor master, something in between. Vils tastes bad to you because you have your own… what you called it, Jack… essence. That’s why you can’t stomach it, nor do you need it. We serve the masters, who give us a portion of their powers. You possess it. It’s part of who you are.”

Next: Chapter 5: The River Severn

Three days on the road.

Bad weather.

Civil war.

Unfamiliar country.

And ahead, the River Severn runs high.

Jack has spent his whole life learning about danger.

Tomorrow, he lives or dies.

Sara helped her son, Amir, into their car for another hospital visit. Amir, a young Persian boy, made paraplegic by a gunshot in Iran, displayed quiet courage. “Are you comfortable, Amir?” Sara asked, her voice soft yet firm.

“Yes, Mom,” Amir replied, his grin undiminished by his suffering.

Years passed, marked by medical care and growing adversities.

Amir grew into a teenager. He faced new challenges. Sara and Amir’s situation worsened. Thieves stole Amir’s powered wheelchair. Soon after, Sara disappeared, leaving the community in shock and Amir alone.

Mr Farid, a neighbour with a mixed heritage, took it upon himself to assist. “Don’t worry, Amir. I’m here for you. I’ll check in on you and take you to St. Joseph’s for your routine appointment.”

There, Farid ran into a tough-looking man in a leather biker jacket and boots. Ray proved more amiable than his appearance suggested.

Dr Keller, Amir’s surgeon, greeted Farid and expressed her concerns. “Amir’s gaining weight, putting stress on his already injured spine. It is a delicate matter. I need to keep him in overnight and run more tests.”

Stepping outside for a smoke, Ray accepted a cigarette from Farid, who didn’t notice Ray did not inhale. Farid explained Amir’s situation. “It’s heartless. These thugs targeted him for a few hundred bucks.”

Ray knew this. He worked undercover, targeting organised crime in the Persian district, but needed more proof to act. “So what’s happening?”

Farid frowned. “These dogs saw an opportunity in his solitude, and they are very devout.” He shook his head. “If you know what I mean. They started talking to him. They’ve been eyeing Amir. Counting on his disability to make him an easy mark, y’know. Turn him into a radical.”

Ray’s expression hardened. “A powered wheelchair would be a hell of a place to hide something.”

Farid shrugged. “That goes bang.”

Just then, Dr Keller rushed out, knowing where Farid would be. Her face strained with urgency. “Farid, Amir’s gone!”

Ray took Dr Keller aside and broke cover. “I need to check his room,” Ray demanded, flashing his badge.

Ray scoured the scene. He recognised signs of a struggle. Something glinted. He bent over, picked up a lapel pin, and examined it. Ray looked at Dr Keller. “It’s the symbol of the Saaya, a gang emblem.” He bagged the evidence.

The night air brimmed with tension. The pin’s insignia proved critical, justifying a search warrant.

“Secure the building. We can’t allow anyone else to get hurt.”

Ray and his team breached a dilapidated unit in the Persian district.

Gunfire followe in a brief but decisive exchange.

Sara and Amir lay inside, bound and frightened in a makeshift cell.

“Sara, Amir, you’re okay now,” Ray announced, untying them. “You are safe.”

Sara’s eyes filled with tears of relief as she embraced Amir. “I was so scared for you,” she whispered.

Sara glanced up at Ray. “They demanded names… information… people in our community. I couldn’t let them use that against us,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Ray nodded. “You’ve shown incredible bravery, and protected many.”

Back at the hospital, both needed a check-up. A relieved Dr Keller greeted Sara. “It’s wonderful to see you!” She turned to embrace Amir. “Both of you are heroes.”

Ray shook Amir’s hand. “You showed great courage. We understand why the Shade—the Saaya—wanted you and your chair.”

Amir looked defiant. “I would have died before...”

“I know,” Ray said. “You’re fluent in Farsi, right?”

Amir nodded.

“There’s a role for brave young men like you.” Ray gave Amir his card. “Being a cop isn’t just about running down criminals in the street. It is about language and intelligence—you have both.”

Amir’s face lit up at the prospect of a new life, one that began now.

Walter Reed General Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Thursday, August 16th, 1945, 2:10 PM

Hennessy stopped the Ford at Walter Reed’s main gate and killed the motor.

Two military policemen occupied the post beside the barrier, white belts breaking the khaki of their uniforms. The junior man, a private, stepped into the road, hand raised, while the other watched from beneath the gatehouse awning. Three stripes on his arm.

“Sit tight.” Hennessy opened his door. He showed his shield and spoke with the MP, gesturing once toward the hospital grounds and then back at the Ford.

King sat in the passenger seat, passing a coin across his knuckles of one hand. The sun reflected off the metal. Not a dime—similar in size, but not currency. Some kind of token or small medallion. King paused for a moment. Mercer spied a stamped impression in the silver: a tree cut into the raised image of a ship. That King could do this blind, suggesting a skill many years in the making.

Mercer recalled another law: kicking a habit is harder than changing your name.

He thought about this as he opened a stick of gum and chewed, tasting peppermint.

Hennessy stepped back to the car and leaned through the open window. “They’re trying to get hold of Major Grant over at Military CID.” Hennessy lit a Chesterfield. “King, if you want, Mercer can drive you up to the hospital steps while I wait for an answer?”

“I might as well sit here as inside. I’ve another half-hour before my appointment. Besides, still getting used to the hand-me-down.” King raised a battered white cane.

“Looks like it has been through the wars.”

“Figures.” King rubbed the chipped paint with his thumb beneath exposed wood. “Redmond found it in a cupboard at Albion House. It’s a bit short, but it serves for now.”

“I remember, you give your sticks a hard time.”

King grinned. “You can say that again, Walt.”

Hennessy gestured to Mercer, and they crossed to the gatehouse. Inside a desk fan pushed warm air around the cramped room. A telephone, message pad, and duty ledger occupied most of the counter. The senior soldier depressed the receiver’s cradle to end the call—it clicked. “Detectives, Major Grant has cleared your request. You can view Doyle’s visitor log and associated paperwork.”

Hennessy nodded. “Much obliged.”

The MP gestured to the phone. “I’ll tell them you are coming.” He dialled the operator. “Records section, please.”

Mercer stood beside Hennessy as the call connected.

“Walter Reed gate, Sergeant Harris speaking.” A pause. “Hello, Dennis, on the days this week?” He glanced at Mercer and Hennessy. “Change is as good as rest, they say. Thing is I’ve a couple of Metropolitan Police detectives here. They are working with Major Grant, over at Military CID.” Harris nodded. “Yeah, it’ll be the mystery dame. Detectives Hennessy and Mercer, they want to talk to you about former Sergeant James Doyle’s visitors, from his time in Ward 3B.”

Another pause. “You still there, Dennis?” Harris frowned. “Good, Major Grant wants you to dig out the visitor log, and help these Metro PD boys out.”

Harris listened again for a moment and replaced the receiver. “He’ll need about ten minutes to pull everything together. Go up to Building One—the main hospital. The Records Department is on the west side of Central Administration. The receptionist is expecting you. Make nice and Deb’ll get you fellas a coffee, while you wait.”

King sat looking out into space, waiting for their return—which, given his blindness, did not strike Mercer as odd.

Next: Chapter 9: Accident

Chapter 3: Safe House

Captain Renwick stared out at the road. “We can expect our journey to take us the better part of ten days. We’ll push hard and overnight at Dominion safehouses.”

Two hours and a dozen miles or so later, they sighted Berkhamsted. Another stop for fresh horses.

Renwick pointed. “Be quick, boys, heads down, mouths shut.”

The old Roman road took them to Dunstable and lunch. Here, the outriders changed their mounts. Renwick added scarce minutes to their layover. Still, Jack and Edmund enjoyed mutton. Flat farmland along the River Ouzel made for a reasonable four miles per hour. Another change of the coach’s team came at an inn in Fenny Stratford.

Renwick broke the silence as dusk fell. “Our last destination today is Babton Hall.”

The country manor, an older building than Blackthorn, hunkered among mature trees. Squat and broad, medieval and stone-built with a later timber-framed extension. A high wall enclosed a cobbled yard. A barn and stables to one side of the residence itself: two storeys of honeyed limestone under a steep tiled roof, mullioned windows shuttered against the night.

The outriders dismounted and handed their horses over to a stableman and his lad.

Lanterns burned at the corners of the porch, their light pooling yellow on wet flagstones as the door opened. “Captain Renwick. Welcome.” A man in plain Puritan wool garb—mid-forties, close-cropped beard, in well-made clothes—greeted them.

“Good evening, Sir Thomas.” Renwick gestured to his men. “Strong ale for the guard.”

Thomas Babton glanced at Jack and Edmund. “Of course. I have brandywine, and more… inside.”

The great hall smelled of beeswax candles, fires, and the clean bite of winter herbs hung from huge joists. Flames spat and burned in a more modern inglenook topped with dry wood upon their arrival. Jack looked up—his eyes fast focused, and he saw the heavy beams arching with perfect clarity. The roof blackened in the middle where an open fire pit in the medieval hall’s centre once sent smoke upwards.

Set before the hearth—two high-backed settles. By them a trestle table already laid with trenchers and horn cups. Hot food from the kitchen arrived in the hands of an older woman.

Babton attended to the platters himself. Carving slices from the roasted joint. “Ale, bread, and beef for you, Captain. Meat, aplenty too, for Edmund and Jack, also…” He paused, betraying his knowledge of the boys’ diet.

“They’ll always find room for blood,” Renwick said.

“I shall have a cup filled for them.”

Edmund smiled with his eyes. Jack felt his own hunger, worsened by the ache in his arm. The one making the other worse still.

Babton left them as Renwick’s gaze weighed them. “You are but babes for all your powers. No fangs yet. Though Adler tells me, he thinks they’ll drop.”

Jack touched his mouth with his tongue. Hard ridges betrayed hidden teeth.

The lord of the manor returned, carrying two gilt chalices. Renwick took them. Babton nodded a bow and departed.

Renwick appeared angry—his features stern. “You fangless boys need the Cup Bearer’s gift, behave, or I’ll deny it to you.”

Jack found emotions difficult to understand. He accepted his portion, and at once he knew the recipe—bloods: cow and human, fresh and still warm, in equal measure: Dr Adler’s prescription, the first bitter, the other sweet.

Edmund reached the same conclusion, downing his share. “For the material and immaterial soul.” He mimicked Adler’s speech and tone.

Renwick took the boys’ empty cups and set them on the trestle. “One rule.” The captain stared at them. Jack wondered why. “Say it, damn you!”

“Stay…” Jack started the words. Edmund tripped in afterwards, in unison, “…in the shadows.”

The tall soldier pointed to Edmund and Jack. “You—Dr Adler named chimeras. Our lords, he calls vampires, and I am but a man. What does the Shadow Directive mean?”

Jack raised his gaze. “None may speak of the Wrought World to anyone outside of it.”

“Mankind has stories, myths, and legends.” Renwick stepped forward. “Some whisper of the masters. All stays hidden, clothed in this cloak of doubt. Secrecy protects the Dominion.”

Edmund stiffened. “Sir, your lady wife taught us these things.”

“Did she? Robert’s death tells me you didn’t listen. I reminded your brothers too. Here in this house, now it’s your turn to hear me out. The Wrought World’s greatest commandment applies to wights of all kinds. Lord Marshall Lucian Viterion himself came to Blackthorn to hunt the Black Shuck.” He approached, his hands taking hold of their shoulders. “Any creature that breaks the Shadow Directive must die.” His grip tightened. “To be reckless is to risk being seen by the Wild World—not as mere boys, but as monsters.” He paused and stared at Jack. “Then the Night Knights will find you. As sure as Lord Lucian sliced the Shuck’s head from its body—he and his brethren, the Equites Nocturni, shall take yours.”

Next: Chapter 4: Diversions

England is at war.

Roads close without warning. Armies move. Plans become useless.

Jack’s journey to Wales now takes an unexpected turn.

And beyond the roads he knows, the Wild World grows less predictable.

Brookland, Washington, D.C.

Thursday, August 16th, 1945, 1:05 PM

Mercer rode in the passenger seat. Hennessy drove. He seemed brighter than yesterday—the benefit of a good night’s sleep. They left Police Headquarters and Judiciary Square, on to North Capitol Street—the dome visible for a while. Along Rhode Island Avenue, past the fumes, whistles, and clatter of trains edging to and from Union Station.

Mercer opened a stick of gum. “I read the story in the Times-Herald last night about the Swan Club.”

“Yeah, that Sal Blake is quite the lady reporter.” Hennessy exhaled smoke through the open window. “Lots of powerful people eager to distance themselves from what happened under their noses. Well, to be generous, their feet—several yards below ground.”

Brick row housing, small units, and shops gave way, northeast of the broad concourse shared by trams and buses, to Brookland’s detached houses and larger gardens shaded by mature trees. The spires of the Catholic University pricked the skyline.

“So, in Blake’s article, the consultant—the blind guy—that’s Arthur King.”

“Yeah, everyone calls him King, well… almost.” Hennessy did not elaborate. “He also helped with the arrest of the Doyles.”

“Mick the Brick and his nephew—they’re connected?”

“The bigger picture… Walter Reed released Jimmy at the end of June—he came back from Berlin wounded. What isn’t public knowledge… so did a special kind of rifle scope. Stolen Nazi gear that can see in total darkness.”

“Doyle smuggled that from Germany?”

“Yep, and he’s a trained sniper, too.”

“So, that’s how Captain Shaw died in the dark, and the thing with Congressman Whitmore on VJ day?”

“Shaw’s death settled a score for Mickey Doyle, and… but for King that night, I reckon Charlie Whitmore would be dead, too.”

Mercer whistled as the scale of the problem slotted into place. “No wonder HQ’s jumpy.”

Walt nodded. “Feds, Military CID, and yours truly are all on this case, but the only one who knows for sure is Jimmy Doyle. However, he is in a bad way—a gunshot wound.”

“That can’t be King’s doing? He’s blind.”

“No, someone else.” Walt paused, the kind of hesitation that indicates there’s more to the story.

“So the fräulein with the SS tattoo—impersonated a nurse, tussled with King. All to get to Jimmy Doyle… about this stolen gizmo? What? They wanted it back?”

“Looks that way. We may never know for sure. Doctors can’t say if Jimmy Doyle will live to stand trial. He’s not up to answering questions, which is why we’re… here.”

Mercer pointed to Albion House’s imposing gateway. Hennessy drove through, along a short drive, and pulled up outside. “There’s around half a dozen guys here.” He killed the motor as a middle-aged man opened the front door, responding to their arrival. Walt exited the car.

“Hello, Mr Redmond.”

“Detective Hennessy.”

Mercer followed.

“This is my colleague, Detective Mercer. We are here to see Mr King.”

The rotund superintendent stiffened—a neat fellow, his clothes well-kept but worn. He checked his pocket watch. “Yes, I’m aware.” The clock in the hall chimed, and Redmond smiled. “Mr King told me you would be coming. He won’t be here much longer, you know?”

“I heard something about that.” Hennessy moved past Redmond. “He’s still in the same room, for now?”

Redmond waved them on. Mercer gained the impression that the manager of Albion House looked forward to the day King left.

King invited them in following Hennessy’s solid knock at his door.

“Walt, good to hear your voice.” King stood tall and broad. However, the black glacier glasses that wrapped his sightless eyes did not quite hide the pinkness of his healed skin.

“What’s this about?” King asked. “The business at the Swan Club or—”

“Our mystery lady from Walter Reed.” Hennessy pulled out his cigarettes. He offered the pack to Mercer, who shook his head.

King gestured to Walt to take the chair. “I’ve been sitting all morning, reading.” He tapped a large tome, the size of a family Bible, that sat on the floor. Braille—Mercer concluded. “Second volume of three parts. The Red Badge of Courage.” King pivoted in Mercer’s vague direction. He waved in the same indistinct way. “There’s the bed if you need to rest your pins, Detective.”

“I’m good, sir, thanks.”

“King’s fine. What are you—thirty this year? I am not so much older than you and now just a regular civilian.”

“Yeah… but…” Mercer’s surprise telegraphed in his speech. People read his boyish features and pegged him for his mid-twenties, but for a blind man, only his voice and his attitude mattered.

Hennessy’s laugh came low and quiet to the rescue. “Why don’t you tell Mr King what you found at the boarding house in Columbia Heights?”

Mercer baulked, but he figured Hennessy must have his reasons. He laid the matter out—concluding: “Names: Schmidt, Shaw, and Hoffman. Same description, tall and blonde. She changed her hair colour to impersonate the nurse.”

King took out what appeared to be a dime from his pocket and passed it over his fingers, rotating it in one hand. “Whose orders she followed when she went to grab Sergeant Doyle at Walter Reed is anyone’s guess. Either way, we’re a lot nearer, no longer a Jane Doe on a slab, but names mean a trail. I suspect you’re both here to find out if I recognise any of them?”

Hennessy lit a Chesterfield. “It’s a long shot, I know, but we can’t talk to Doyle, not yet anyway.”

King nodded. “You thought the new information might jog my memory?”

“Sure. Is there anything that happened on July 4th or Tuesday for that matter—that makes more sense now?”

King stiffened. “Well, there is something that has been on my mind. I think the mystery woman may have visited Doyle before she attacked him.”

Hennessy frowned. “That’s quite a revelation.”

King shrugged. “I can’t be sure, but it bugged me back on the Fourth. So-called Nurse Klein felt familiar, but with everything going on I didn’t give it credence. Now, Detective Mercer reminds me that the body in the morgue is a blonde. It got me thinking.”

“About?” Hennessy asked.

“The woman who came to see Doyle on June 26th. I remember the date because it’s the same day that Maggie first visited. The thing is, Doyle’s girlfriend caused quite a stir—a looker, I guess. I couldn’t tell.” King glanced left. “I recall talk at the time—she sent him a letter and a photo. Last weekend Maggie reminded me about her, and something… clicked.”

Hennessy tapped ash into the cold fireplace. “I get where you’re going with this. It’s a tangible link between Doyle and his attacker—when he claimed not to know her.”

Mercer leaned forward. “I guess there’s a solid chance she used one of her aliases to sign the visitor’s book.”

King spun his coin in his fingers. “Ward 3B has extra layers of security, because it’s designated for those wounded on secret missions. Those visiting need to present credentials.”

Hennessy stood. “An address, and an identity.”

King stepped forward. “Doyle would have to add her to his approved list. The letter and picture would be part of that. I figure this could bring us closer to whoever she worked for.”

“Well, looks like we’re going to Walter Reed.” Hennessy grabbed his hat.

“Walt, since you’re heading that way—could you give me a lift? I have an appointment with Dr Hawthorne in about an hour.”

Hennessy laughed. “I can’t see why not.”

Next: Chapter 8: Gate Keepers

Chapter 2: The White Hart

Jack rode the coach into the yard of the White Hart, beside the inn’s brick and timber walls. A faded painting of an ivory deer swung above the arched gateway, creaking on its bracket. Wet horse, churned earth, damp straw, and fresh dung greeted him. Wood smoke and the greasy savour of bacon frying from the kitchen.

Renwick studied the sky. The pale March sun’s rays cleared the rooftops and painted them silver. “We’ve not made bad time, Jake.”

Jacob Wharton grabbed the door. Iron-banded wheels slewed an inch or so as the driver hauled on the reins. “Aye, sir, let’s hope the weather holds. Winter, and little promise of spring.”

The horses blew hard, flanks dark with sweat despite the March chill, their breath steaming. Sleet and rain turned the yard into a muddy rectangle of trampled earth and straw.

Isaiah Shaw, the driver, dropped from the high bench. On the left-hand side, Robert Kemp, his mate, stretched to the ground, hefting his heavy musket.

Wharton stepped out, boots sinking into the slurry.

Renwick followed. “Wait here, boys.”

Two ostlers in stained woollen jerkins and leather set to work. The older one touched his cap to Renwick. “Morning, sir. Fresh team ready—four bays, steady on the road.”

“Thank you. Be as quick as you can.”

A man approached. Broad across the chest, an apron tied over a wool waistcoat, grey hair cropped close under a hat. “Master Renwick, welcome to my humble inn once again.”

“Good day, Mr Hobson.” Renwick dug into his purse. Hobson gestured toward the taproom. “Ale for thirst, and victuals. Won’t take but a minute.”

Renwick fished for more coins. “For the change, and a round of bacon, with small beer.”

The outriders—Hale, Pike, Dray, and Mercer—kept station at the inn’s entrance, carrying newer English lock carbines: muskets with a three-foot barrel, shorter for ease of use in the saddle, and fired by flint striking steel. Renwick greeted Hale. The senior of the four soldiers tugged his wide-brimmed hat. Lean and stoic, his knuckles scarred white. “All’s well, sir.”

Renwick nodded. “There’ll be ale and bread.”

A short time passed, and a young serving girl stepped out from the taproom, carrying a tray with horn mugs and a wooden platter. Small beer, pale and mild, and fatty bacon sat atop grease-smeared loaves. She bobbed a quick curtsy as Wharton relieved her of the food and drink.

Renwick tapped the coach’s door. “Take the meat, boys.” He looked at Wharton. “Bread and dripping will do for us.”

Edmund eased down. Jack followed.

The chill air bit at once, sharper outside the fug of wool and leather. Jack felt it in his injured forearm first—a dull throb that flared when he flexed his fingers—silver’s poison. Humans complained about the cold. Jack’s wound showed him why.

He sighted their weary bays, unhitched from the Dominion’s dark blue coach, being led to waiting stalls, their heads low.

“Captain Renwick, what happens to our horses, sir?”

“They stay here and rest a while before they are harnessed up for another customer. Coaching inns make their living from the trade.” Renwick downed his ale. “Boys, ten miles covered, out of a couple hundred, so let’s not tarry, finish your breakfast and go make water. Two hours or more, before we stop again.”

Jack accepted his portion, and the bacon’s salt and smoke flooded Jack’s mouth, distracting him. It eased his constant rumbling hunger. He chewed the last mouthful, knowing the ache would return.

Edmund shoved past Jack. “You should piss, whether you want to or not.”

Jack stumbled, boots sliding in the mud. He did not fall. His cat-like reflexes kept him upright.

“Remember what Weyland says?” Edmund pitched his whisper low and fast, a rapid blur of sound that only Jack’s ears could untangle. He hitched his trousers open before the wall. “About children? How half of all those born alive are dead by ten years old. Benjamin—birthed and died the same day as you?” Edmund shifted cadence again, parroting Weyland. “Buried—Christopher, a never-weaned weakling.”

All the brothers could mimic voices and sounds with uncanny accuracy. Edmund and his best friend Walter used their talent to joke and tease. Jack would have rather travelled with William, but they did not get a say in these kinds of decisions. They fought more often with words than fists. After Robert died, their bickering grew uglier, with Jack enduring the worst of it. He stared at the wall, recognising the cruel game Edmund played all too well and waiting for him to make his point.

Dr Adler spoke from Edmund’s lips. “Nathaniel, the biggest of us, he fell over one day—dead. Natural causes. All three.” Edmund finished and tidied his trousers. He looked at Jack. “Apart from Robert. The Shuck killed him, snapped his neck, and her jaws cracked your thigh. You should be careful, Jack m’lad.” Edmund grinned without emotion. “You could die here in this mucky yard, among the shit and the piss. Gasping your last.”

“They say we are three-quarters grown.” Jack glanced at Edmund. “You’re right to be afraid. After all, if we grow twice as fast as men, how long will we live?” Jack mimicked Adler. “Hare or tortoise?” He buttoned his trousers. “It could be me, you, any of us.”

Edmund shook his head. “I’m not afraid! I’ve no game arm! Your leg healed aright, well at least for our kind, took but a day or two, but the poke Antony gave you—with the little silver knife—it pains you still? Face it—you are becoming weak like the stinkers!” His current name for ordinary humans, the ones who stank in ways the boys never did. “No, Jack rabbit, you’re next.”

Next: Chapter 3 — Safe House

There are two worlds.

The Wild World knows monsters through stories.

The Wrought World knows they exist.

Jack belongs to the secret one.

And its most important rule is simple:

Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, August 15th, 1945

Mercer drove Walt Hennessy’s 1941 Ford Super Deluxe four-door sedan. He accepted the keys, glad to be trusted. The senior detective relaxed in the passenger seat. He let out a yawn. “Sorry. Long night.” He stretched. “Driving half asleep, I might as well be drunk. Leastways, you know where we’re going.”

Mercer sweated. The previous evening’s celebratory drinking slipped through his pores. Still, he felt jazzed. The mystery surrounding Miss Schmidt deepened, drawing him in.

Mercer drove the Ford northwest, leaving Judiciary Square behind for Columbia Heights and Mrs Benson’s boarding house. He rolled the dice. “The business with Caruso?”

“Yeah. Big deal. It’ll be in the afternoon papers. Still, I guess the end of the war—that’s a bigger story, right?”

“For sure. I heard the Feds called the shots?”

Hennessy grinned like a man with a secret to share. “They did. We supplied some muscle, uniforms, and plain clothes for the raid.”

Mercer followed Massachusetts Avenue past Mount Vernon Square, where the pale public library stood. “Netted some real sharks. Where did it go down?”

“The Swan River Club. You know of it?”

“Can’t say I have. Some new hipped up joint?”

“No, not many people have. It’s out on Embassy Row.”

Mercer coughed. “Ah, that kind of place. A jazz dive is more my style.”

“Some big names are members.” Hennessy turned his face into the wind.

At Thomas Circle, Mercer headed north onto Fourteenth Street and fell in behind a clanging streetcar. Shops, apartment houses, and celebration flags slid past until the Tivoli’s marquee appeared ahead at Park Road.

A lighter clicked. Hennessy lit another Chesterfield.

Mercer glanced over. “So, is this case connected?”

“I don’t know.” Hennessy exhaled smoke out the window. “It’s a long story. The woman in the morgue took a tumble off a third-floor balcony at Walter Reed.”

“Oh. I remember. Read about it in the papers—the blind guy.” Mercer tapped the wheel. “He served as an agent, right? Is that a coincidence?” He joined the dots—applied Mercer’s law—more about what the newspapers did not say. “Is that why the Feds are involved?”

“You bet they are. Army CID, OSS, and yours truly. A tangled web.”

“And King’s involvement?”

“He’s the reason we found out about the vice ring in the Swan Club’s basement. Girls came across state lines, down from Montreal. Some of them, anyway.”

“That makes it a federal case—and the blind guy—he tipped you off.”

“That’s the short story. He says he got lost while visiting the club. That he overheard it all.”

Mercer’s questions multiplied, but they would have to wait as he pulled up in front of Azalea Court Boarding House.

Mrs Benson welcomed him. She gave Hennessy a withering stare, and he removed his hat and extinguished his cigarette.

“This is Detective Hennessy, Mrs Benson. He has joined me because we may have located Miss Schmidt.”

Benson invited them into the parlour. A settee and chairs, with bright azaleas as a pattern, greeted them.

Hennessy held the photo in a manila folder. “Mrs Benson, I must ask you to take a look at this photograph. Can you please tell us if you recognise her? I have to warn you this is a mortuary image.”

“Oh my.” Mrs Benson pressed a hand to her mouth. Her chest heaved. She stiffened. “Then it’s bad news?”

“I’m afraid it looks that way.” Hennessy opened the folder.

Benson held the picture at arm’s length. She shook her head, frowned, and retrieved a pair of reading glasses from a side table, next to a copy of The Song of Bernadette. She took a second, longer look. “Yes, this is Miss Schmidt.” She handed it back.

Hennessy nodded. “You’re quite sure?”

“I am. I may need a little help to see the small print, and I admit the darker hair threw me at first—she always wore it fair when she lived here—but I pride myself on remembering faces and names.”

“A necessary skill in your business.” Hennessy closed the folder. “Thank you, Mrs Benson. You have been very helpful.”

Mercer thanked Mrs Benson, too, and promised to keep her informed. “We can’t discuss the details of the case at the moment, but we can assure you we’re not looking for anyone in connection with her death.”

“You mean she…”

“Yes, that’s one thing we know for sure: she took her own life.”

Mrs Benson shook her head, mouthing a quiet prayer.

The two men left. Mercer drove again and threaded the car back to Headquarters.

“What next?”

“For me, sleep.” Hennessy lit a Chesterfield. “Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Arthur R. King.”

Next: Chapter 7: King, Arthur R.

Chapter 1 — Farewell

Blackthorn House, Buckinghamshire

Thursday, 13th March 1644

Jack’s young face gazed at Dr Adler. The older grey-bearded man stood atop three steps, framed by his home’s imposing front door. “My special boys, my twenty-third generation. Remember your limits. With these two hands I delivered a dozen like you. Now only eight of you remain. Today, Edmund and Jack travel across this war-torn land—to join their older kin in far-away Wales.”

Ten days Jack’s senior—Edmund loitered at arm’s length. Raised together as brothers, they shared a common history, but not friendship.

Adler gestured to them. “To the Wild World’s eyes you are youths—twelve years old or thereabouts: children twice your true age. They cannot know that in so many ways you are stronger than full-grown men.” Adler leaned forward, his face grim. “Yet in others, you are little better than babes.”

Adler gave much the same speech in mid-January, when the eldest boys, Antony and Marcus, left Blackthorn House—followed in February by the tallest: Samuel and Jack’s friend, William.

Different words, same message. “At the end of the month, we will say farewell to Thomas and Walter.”

Jack’s remaining brothers, younger by a matter of weeks, stood with Jonathan Weyland, Adler’s assistant, a tall, thin man, and Blackthorn’s chief midwife, Mary Roke.

The previous evening, a deep blue-black coach, sleek as a beetle’s back, arrived at the manor: a half-dozen men and eight mounts fed and rested overnight. Now, with the dawn pressing, they readied to leave. Two rode atop, a driver and his mate—armed with a heavy musket. With them, a guard of four outriders sat on horseback, with swords and cavalry guns. All dressed in the same dark bluish liveries, wearing long cloaks and broad-brimmed hats.

Adler—a doctor of natural philosophy and a servant of a far older occult power—stiffened. “Those raised together are called brethren, but you are much more. The blood of twelve—the three kings and nine princes—sets you apart. You are brothers, not because you share parents, but because their gift changed your very fashioning in your mothers’ wombs. They made you what you are. They gave you this life, and they can take it away.”

Captain John Renwick strode toward them, crossing from the gateway that marked the perimeter of the courtyard. “The men are ready, sir.”

Two pairs of horses now rattled iron-banded wheels and shod hooves across the cobbles to where Jack and Edmund waited.

Adler waved his hand. “Go, boys, and mark me—retain your loyalty to the Dominion’s ancient traditions and so preserve your rights.”

Mary Roke broke rank. She hesitated before hugging the elder boy, Edmund. He did not reciprocate, standing stiff and expressionless. The burly midwife next embraced Jack. She held him longer, a heartbeat, then two. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He squeezed her back because it seemed the right thing to do.

His mother, Joan, named him after his father, John, and so they called him Jack. He recalled her words as a newborn baby, and a dead one at that.

Mary Roke laid him by the fire. He remembered everything and understood very little.

Stillborn that day, he died for seven minutes. Tears of mourning turned to joy.

When she let go, to his surprise, a pang of sadness gripped him. Jack now understood what the word lonely meant.

Dr Adler raised his hand. “God bless you all.”

Captain Renwick doffed his hat and kissed his wife, Lady Frances, goodbye. He, a stern-faced man with a silver fleck in his dark hair and a scar on his left cheek—a sword’s kiss—she, blonde-haired and fair-skinned. Pretty in ways Jack could not understand, yet, in a childish way, appreciated. She pressed something golden into her husband’s hand, and they embraced again. He thrust it into the pocket of his deep blue frock coat: a ritual.

Renwick opened the carriage door. He bade Edmund and Jack enter before climbing inside. A gruff guardsman and Renwick’s Steadman, his second in command, Jacob Wharton, joined them.

The boys took the rear-facing seats, with the adults opposite—looking forward. Their small caravan rolled northwards.

Edmund sat with his arms crossed, stony-faced. Jack gazed out of the coach. Blackthorn House retreated into the distance. The Manor: bounded by a great walled garden, an estate of fields, woods, and a village. For six years, his world.

Jack felt a painful spasm just above his wrist, and he rubbed the arm to ease it.

Edmund noticed.

Wharton rested a hand on the window’s edge. Fields drifted by. “Beaconsfield, for the first horse change again, sir?” From the north, his accent softened, but not lost.

“Aye, then the White Hart. Landlord keeps his word, and his horses fed, which is more than you can say for half the houses on Watling Street.” Renwick glanced at Jack and Edmund. “Boys, this journey will take you across England and into Wales. War rages. Parliament resists the King.”

Edmund unfolded his arms, but not his sullen expression. “Why should we fear men, sir? The Wild World can’t touch us, can it?”

Renwick smiled. Jack did not understand why the captain found Edmund funny.

The captain straightened. “Banditry abounds—deserters from both sides.”

Edmund made fists.

“You are strong, Edmund, and fast.” Renwick drew his pistol. “However, sixteen weeks and a day since that night in Ten-Acre Wood, when you all ran amok, and your brother Robert died, but for that murder—you would number nine.”

Edmund stiffened. “Men are not monsters, sir, not like that dog.”

Renwick shook his head. “I drove the Black Shuck away with lead,” Renwick said. “Silvered shot—well placed to the heart—would have killed it.”

“Why didn’t you, sir?”

Jack saw Renwick’s brows narrow.

“Because I ran to your aid with what lay to hand! Lucky I did, or Jack here would likely be dead, too. William mayhap, too. Like Dr Adler said: remember your limits.”

Roads crossed at Amersham. Out the window, a creaking gibbet stood against the grey sky, where the decaying flesh of a highwayman hung, picked at by a parliament of crows.

The captain gestured with his weapon, pointing the barrel toward the cage. “They hang thieves at crossroads for the birds—the Wild World’s justice.” He leaned forward. “Bandits come with a gun and sharp steel. You are twice as fast as a man, and stronger than many, but even our masters—the lords of the night—are not faster than a bullet.”

Renwick watched their faces, while the coach’s rhythmic creak filled the silence. “Could you both fight six desperate, battle-hardened and well-armed soldiers?”

Edmund’s stare widened, as if wanting to deny Renwick. “No, sir, I—we could not.” He let his fists unbunch. “At least not yet.”

Jack said nothing. He listened to the hoofbeats of their escort. The pulse of the two guardsmen opposite. Calm and steady—confident. This would be their third trip to North Wales in as many months. The Dominion protected its own amid this civil war.

Renwick returned his gun to his belt. “That’s why you are being sent to Caer Bryn Glas to test and try you as you grow. You must learn to face the dangers of both worlds and survive.”

Next: Chapter 2: The White Hart

The Chimera Cycle — Book One

Part One: Dead in the Water

By C.J. Charles

Lost Boy Jack: Part One — Dead in the Water

March 1644.

For six years, Blackthorn House—Jack’s entire life.

A safe house in a secret and ordered existence the Dominion calls their Wrought World.

Now everything is changing.

Jack and his brothers must leave the only home they have known and travel in pairs across a country torn apart by civil war. Their destination lies in North Wales, where the surviving boys of Blackthorn will continue their education at Caer Bryn Glas.

Captain John Renwick has one warning for them: remember your limits.

Jack may look twelve, but he is not yet six. He possesses strength, speed and senses beyond those of ordinary men, yet understands little about people and their strange ways. All beyond Blackthorn’s walls is a mystery.

The Dominion calls this the Wild World.

And Jack is about to discover just how dangerous a place it can be.

Table of Contents

The opening five chapters of Lost Boy Jack are being serialised here on Substack in the run-up to the book’s launch. Published chapters will be linked below as they appear.

1. Chapter 1: Farewell

2. Chapter 2: The White Hart

3. Chapter 3: Safe House

4. Chapter 4: Diversions

5. Chapter 5: The River Severn

Mercer’s Apartment, Fifth Street NW, Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, August 15th, 1945, 6:55 a.m.

The alarm clock rattled on the bedside table.

Sam Mercer opened an eye, found daylight, and slapped the bell silent—his head continued ringing.

He lay still, one arm across his face, listening to the sound of a broom scraping broken glass off the pavement. It disappeared as a truck, its engine grumbling, rumbled past.

Someone shouted beneath his window. “Victory!”

Mercer remembered enough to regret the rest. Celebrations started with a beer or two with cops from the precinct. Paper drifted from windows, horns blared, and everywhere D.C.’s voice announced the same news—the end of the war. He remembered crowds on Pennsylvania Avenue. Strangers embraced. Women kissed policemen. Sailors climbed things never intended to act like rigging. He recalled sharing a bottle of rye with a soldier who talked about surviving Okinawa.

His stomach rolled.

Mercer lay still and waited for the room to steady. He needed cold water and aspirin.

Too bright sunlight found a way through the blinds, lighting his jacket, discarded and crumpled over the sofa. He coughed and rose. Spotted a lone shoe upside down under his armchair. The other nowhere to be seen.

Mercer entered the bathroom and opened the faucet, not waiting for it to run warm. Instead, he splashed cold water on his face and rubbed himself down with his flannel. In time it ran hot enough for him to shave.

The telephone trilled.

Mercer hovered over the basin, half his chin covered in lather.

It rang on—an insistent sound he could not ignore. He strode into the sitting room and caught it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Detective Mercer?” The voice carried clipped impatience.

“I think so. This is?”

“Headquarters. Detective Sergeant Mallory wants you to come over.”

Mercer pressed his fingers against his brow. “When?”

“Just one moment. Hold the line, please.”

A click.

“Mercer, this is Mallory. You worked the Schmidt enquiry… Azalea Court?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I expect to hear back from the NYPD and OSS any day. You know how—”

“Headquarters received an answer from the OSS yesterday afternoon. Saw it first thing this morning. New York replied late on Monday. Buried in some in-tray—I chased that down.”

“I—”

“I’m sending a car to pick you up, so be ready.”

The line went dead.

Mercer returned the receiver to its cradle. He finished shaving. Found his pants and stepped into them.

He spied his lost footwear hiding beneath the telephone table while buttoning a clean shirt.

A heavy knock at the door. The patrolman.

Mercer coughed. “Just coming.”

He tied his shoes, grabbed a tie and his jacket, checked his frowning face in the mirror, and ran his fingers through damp hair as he left.

“Things have gotten serious, Sam.”

He wondered how and why.

Outside, the city looked like the morning after a parade held without planning or permission. His driver, a uniformed patrolman Mercer recognised as Leonard Price—grey shirt, black tie tight. His numbered shield reflected the sun beneath the polished brim of his cap. He gestured to a dark scout car: a Ford Deluxe that, after four years of service, appeared ragged around the edges.

“Lenny, isn’t it?”

“Good memory, sir. Yes.”

Mercer swung through the passenger door, tossed his coat on the back seat, and Price pulled away. Mercer knotted his necktie.

Paper streamers fluttered, caught on telephone wires. Flags hung from windows. Broken bottles glittered in gutters beside torn newspapers and abandoned party hats. Street cleaners worked around sleeping servicemen sprawled on benches and patches of grass.

Price eased the car along. “Headquarters is buzzing.”

“About?”

“Some big shakedown last night. Feds involved. Bigwigs caught up with mobsters, from what I heard.”

“Where?”

Price shook his head. “Some private club. They’ve got Vinny the Banker.”

Mercer whistled. “Caruso?” He frowned.

At the corner, a newsboy held a fresh bundle under one arm.

“Times-Herald! Special edition! Japan surrenders! War is over!”

Price drove to Indiana Avenue. At Judiciary Square, he parked the Ford in a police space at the kerb outside. Across the street, the courthouse rose beyond the square’s trees and clipped lawns.

The modern Deco building wore better than the 1941 scout car. Still, four years of wartime use made it feel familiar, even dull in places. Inside, a wooden bench stood against the wall under a peeling war-bond poster. A long oak booking counter divided the public entrance from the working station. Behind it, headquarters hummed with the usual telephones, typewriters, and tobacco smoke. A corridor led to the Detective Sergeant’s office. Alongside Mallory waited another man: broad-shouldered, in a damp shirt, thin, dark hair cropped close. A Chesterfield burned between his fingers.

Mallory waved to Mercer. “Tenth Precinct’s Samuel Mercer. You know Detective Walter Hennessy.”

Hennessy gave him a tired nod. He stifled a yawn and downed the last of a mug of coffee. “It’s been a long night already. Cigarette, Sam?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Mercer’s attention strayed to Mallory’s desk. Five photographs.

Mallory used his forefinger to point to the first: a copy of credentials naming Greta Hoffman as an agent.

“We forwarded this to the Office of Strategic Services so they could check it against their records.” Beside it sat her enlarged passport image. Mallory pointed. “We sent this to both OSS and NYPD.” He glanced at Mercer. “You are sure this is your missing lodger?”

“Her landlady confirmed the passport’s a good likeness.”

Mercer recognised the third—a duplicate of the tobacco tin find: two young women.

Mallory tapped this. “A clear familial resemblance—either could be a younger version of our Miss Schmidt.”

The fourth image sat on top of the fifth. A dead woman whom Mercer did not recognise. Dark hair on a morgue pillow, eyes closed, bruising at her jaw. He paused, reconsidering, then understanding.

Hennessy pointed at the cadaver’s headshot. “Don’t let the brunette bonnet distract you. This lady’s a natural blonde.”

Mercer nodded. “I see the resemblance.”

Hennessy moved the image aside, revealing the last picture. A close-up of an armpit. “This is an SS tattoo. It’s her blood group.”

Mercer swallowed. “She’s a Nazi?”

Mallory reached for a manila folder. “That’s why the Feds, Military CID, and OSS are all over this.” He opened the file. “This is the reply from New York. The short story is Evelyn Shaw has been in California since February last year. Her employer has confirmed this.” He tapped the paper. “However, before leaving for Los Angeles, Shaw made a police report. The theft of a bag, snatched at Grand Central Station, inside—her driver’s licence and birth certificate.”

Mallory pointed at the page. “Shaw’s height, weight, and colouring are close enough to Schmidt’s. Shaw’s family told NYPD that this”—he tapped the passport picture—“is not Evelyn.”

Mercer checked his notebook. “The rent receipt I found in Schmidt’s room is from later in 1944… June.”

“That suggests our Jane Doe, or Jana Ricke…” Hennessy smirked at his own joke, which Mercer guessed at. He knew Jana to be a German version of Jane. Hennessy lit another Chesterfield. “Must have worn Evelyn Shaw’s identity last year, for a time, while in New York.”

“Switching to Schmidt when she came to Washington?” Mercer flicked a page back. “She first lodged with Mrs Benson on June seventeenth.”

Mallory glanced at Hennessy. “You still want to do this, Walt?” Mallory tapped the morgue shot. “She isn’t going anywhere, and you’ve done enough in the last twenty-four hours.”

Hennessy shook his head. “I’m on my second wind. Besides, now I am curious.”

Mallory relaxed in his seat. “Mercer, introduce Hennessy to Mrs Benson. Show her the dead woman’s picture. Ask her if this is Liesel Schmidt.”

Next: Chapter 6: Confirmation

7th Street NW, Washington, D.C.

Monday, August 6th, 1945, 7:20 PM

Mercer hopped off the streetcar at the corner. It rumbled on south.

Seven blocks of shops stretched beneath the low evening sun. A radio played through an open door: Louis Jordan’s Caldonia. Mercer couldn’t help but whistle to the jazz riff. A man in an apron pushed crates on a stack truck along the sidewalk. Somewhere out of sight, a woman called down to a child in the street.

Mercer walked past the pawnshop at 1023. A lamp remained lit behind its barred window, casting a dull shine across watches, cameras, and rings displayed on faded velvet. Out of habit, he glanced up at the first floor. The windows of Weiss Financial Services – Loans & Investments. The name in gilded paint on the glass. It described one of Weiss’s legitimate enterprises. Others slipped into the shadows, stepped outside the law, and some broke it.

The delicatessen next door welcomed him with the smells of onions, bread, and meat. Mercer’s stomach tightened as the doorbell chimed above him. He walked inside.

The narrow room ran deep, with a counter and stools along one wall and tables against the other. Pickles floated in tall jars. Loaves of rye rested beneath white cloth, and an urn hissed at the far end.

Late enough for the after-work supper rush to be over. Two men occupied a stool apiece, shoulders bent over bowls of soup. A family filled the table nearest the window. At the rear, Solomon Weiss sat alone with coffee and the evening paper.

Mercer reached the counter. “Hey, Morrie.”

“What can I get you, Sam?”

“The usual.”

“Corned beef on rye, mustard, and two pickles. Cup of joe—coming up.”

Morris Feld knew Mercer’s preferences: tasty, inexpensive, filling.

Mercer carried his supper to the back. Weiss moved the newspaper without invitation or complaint.

“Detective Mercer.”

“Mr Weiss.”

Weiss’s businesses thrived because he understood things other men did not. That made him a useful friend to have. They both kept their own confidences and loyalties, but shared mutually advantageous information on occasion.

Mercer sat. Sandwich in both hands, he ate without thought of conversation, sating his hunger.

Weiss watched him over the rim of his cup.

“Long day, I can tell.”

A ceiling fan turned above them. It stirred the smells from the kitchen and pushed Weiss’s cigar smoke toward the front of the room.

One half of his supper down, Mercer drank his coffee. It cut through the mustard.

Weiss sipped his, eyes waiting.

Sam dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “In the spring, you picked up an interest in Delacroix Textiles, as I remember?”

Weiss leaned back. “I bought the business. Why? Are you looking to invest?”

Mercer grinned. “Nah, just some advice.”

“About?”

Mercer paused, debating how to ask, then went straight to the point. “A case I have. It involves women’s clothing.”

Weiss sipped his coffee.

“I figure you for the kind of guy who doesn’t go into a venture blind. Either you took the time to learn about the rag trade, or you know someone who does.”

Mercer opened his notebook to the list of labels. He pushed it across, keeping hold, while taking another bite of his supper.

Weiss placed a finger on the page. “Several New York stores I recognise. Bonwit Teller are known for quality. Lord & Taylor are desirable. Joy Thorpe, if I recall, is a smaller prestige seller.”

“So what, if anything, does this tell you?”

“This laundry list… it… suggests means. Nothing that shouts serious wealth. Good taste, perhaps. Do they have you chasing con artists again? Should I expect them to call?”

Mercer shrugged. “I do seem to get those cases—or do they find me? No, but if a woman called Liesel Schmidt, or Greta Hoffman, or Evelyn Shaw does… or did? Then tell me.”

“One deed leads to another, the rabbis say. A man does something well once, and the world makes it his profession. No, I don’t know those names.” He removed a notebook from his pocket and wrote them down—his way of saying he would ask around. Weiss leaned forward. “I remain grateful. A tribe does not survive by allowing a rotten apple to spoil the barrel. Someone who preys upon their own people deserves no protection.”

Mercer swallowed. His chest tightened. He tapped his sternum with his fist—a habit. Whether it prevented him from coughing, even wheezing, he did not know. Like the gum, it helped. Not with the sandwiches, but the memories.

Weiss reached for his hat. “Some experiences leave marks on the soul, the body, and the mind.” He stood. “You are sorry you did not go abroad to fight a war. I think Washington”—Weiss gestured around him—“is rather glad they asked you to stay, Detective Mercer. I wish you luck in your… investigation.”

Next: Chapter 5: Jana Ricke

Friends and fellow travellers, here’s a tease for a book. If you like it, let me know.

‘Celebrate the End of the Worlds’

Hal Eden planned a party. He hoped it would be a blast. Hal sent the invite scrips; he titled them thus—because, with the news channels full of reports on Eschaton Station dropping off-grid, it seemed appropriately punk. Which, of course, any celebration in the Grand Burbs of Newton Central could not be, which made it ironic.

He recognised an opportunity to say a sarcastic goodbye. The Burbs differed from the Great Metropolitan of the Hub: the Galactic Capital, with its endless glass—caves and shards piercing the ground and sky. Rather old-fashioned organic steel; quaint, almost gentrified.

Hal looked at his screen. Images displayed in his line of sight. Contact lenses proved a soft form of cybernetics. The feed remained consistent, vague. No reports as to why a key fort in the rim no longer broadcasted or responded to hails. Hal understood the math. “…it doesn’t make sense. A fast-moving recon drone could have been in and out and bounced back to the next relay hub. Why no data?” A question repeated across the social networks countless times over. The same fundamental question—why?

The encoded scrip from Hal’s father confirmed that the lack of news about Eschaton mattered.

“The Storm. 11:00—Dad.”

Code and timing for orbital pickup. Late enough tomorrow morning to allow for tonight. Hal’s contact lenses acted as a neural link. He consulted the logs, and the numbers made sense; the nearest family transport needed to reroute to Newton. Hop in the car, make orbit and dock and time-jump home.

He hoped for another false alarm. Natural disasters happened. The code suggested something else.

Hal set about setting the mood for his farewell bash, walking and talking—taking stock. “Zachary,” he spoke to the home’s resident Artificial Intelligence, “filter music for a party, and season with some pop, but not too much.

“And add filters based on the known likes of who walks through the door, but weight using my personal preferences.”

Hal stopped by the kitchen. The house sprawled in an open-plan fashion, wrapped around a central atrium garden with a flowering, fruiting tree. A hybrid plant with a lofty trunk and branches integrated into the space. Bioluminescent leaves and flowers, rainbow colours by user choice.

Individual rooms stood open or closed or disappeared, delineated by fabric glass. Walls that folded out or away, opaque or translucent as required.

Outside, enjoying the usual local weather-controlled atmosphere, welcomed in or kept out by domestic shielding.

As the forecast rain hit the energy field that made up the house’s main roof, Hal, for once, reflected on this staple technology in the civilised worlds.

For a moment, the thought of the coming darkness almost overwhelmed him. He made a note, recorded for posterity. “Our invisible protector, ubiquitous and universal; the signature of the times – the shield age. I’ll miss you when I’m gone.”

“Sir?” Zachary asked. His voice came via ‘ear-wigs’: soft-cybernetics, worn technology, seated in the ear canal, much like contact lenses in the eye. Augmenting baseline human senses. Hal, given his family business, often reflected on the mystery of ancient proto-technological concepts. Albeit much refined. Installed in infancy, and in theory, never removed or replaced, growing and self-maintaining with the user.

The program’s disembodied voice carried a rich warmth, designed, of course, to elicit feelings of confidence, but for him, Zachary remained part of the furniture.

“Thinking aloud,” Hal said. “Going to write that autobiography. Someday soon.”

“Your Grandfather didn’t do that until his forties.”

Hal snorted. “He also said Colonials are born middle-aged, and then regress.”

Hal’s social standing as a Colonial, a frontiersman family from the rim—the edge of known space—engendered polarising reactions among the genteel.

“Sir, you are, by the standards even of this quaint and provincial settlement, an undomesticated barbarian.” Zachary emerged in robot form, the consciousness’s vehicle. A platinum cylinder on gilded spindle legs, with a pair of arms, an approximation of the human body pattern, at best. An antique by any standard. “Or at least the Hub would say so.”

“Hmm. You remind me now? For why? I promise Zach, the last thing I’m going to discuss is how my family made its money.”

“Credits, sir, are a language that the Burbs understand.”

“But never talk about.”

“No, sir, the residents of Newton let conspicuous consumption do the talking for them. They hope it will bring them closer to the Galactic centre—the Grand Old Houses of the Hub.”

Hal laughed. “Ah, but nothing will. Those are worlds humans are born into.”

“True, young Master Hal, have you thought about the mood lights?”

Alex rummaged through the old, mismatched furniture in his family home’s living room. A long, rectangular room at dusk, filling with lengthening shadows. The TV flickered in the background, filling the space with noise.

“Come on, where is it?” Alex muttered, struggling to lower the TV volume while navigating the cluttered room. Chairs and a worn couch lined the walls, leaving little space to move.

As he searched, he recalled his father’s words: “Only the blade can save us. It will be where you least expect it, in a place of sanctification and reflection.”

Growing frustrated, Alex exhausted all options. Then he remembered one unsearched place. He pushed open the door to a tiny bathroom. Little more than a cubicle with a sink and a mirror. The walls, decorated in a rough-textured white render, contrasted with the bright artificial light.

He sighed and looked at his own reflection. “I guess some things aren’t meant to be found.”

Alex killed the lamp and made to leave when he caught a flash of unexplained light in the darkness.

“No way!” Alex exclaimed, spotting his family’s old tooth-knife hidden behind the sink. Kneeling, he used his phone as a torch. The unique shape came into view. An unusual design: a triangular blade with just two serrations on one side and three on the other. The missing serration gave it a subtle, asymmetrical appearance.

Somehow, in the darkness, in this moment, his father felt very present in this unlit closet of a room.

Then perfume.

From behind, a voice echoed from the living room. The suddenness caused him to jump.

“Have you found what you’re looking for, Alex? You’ve been running around all day.”

Startled, Alex shifted to see his roommate, Jamie, leaning against the doorway. “Yeah, it’s my dad’s... It’s supposed to protect us.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Protect... Your dad? But isn’t he...”

“Both dead and not dead,” Alex finished her sentence. “It’s hard to explain. This blade is part of something bigger, something...”

“Beyond my understanding?” Jamie stepped closer, examining the blade. “Okay, it looks ancient. I grant you, and that missing serration—why?”

Alex waved the fingers of his hand. “Five notches, five fingers, a knife in the palm to lend a hand.” Alex recited the lines he learned as a child. “Dad said it saved our family more than once.”

Jamie nodded. “So, now, it’s your turn? To do what? What does... salvation look like?”

Alex gestured wide. “Look around you. Look at this town, hell, the whole damn country. Nobody trusts anybody anymore. Lies have turned friends against each other, torn families apart. The whole thing is coming apart at the seams. And somewhere in all this there’s—”

“Darkness? I’ve felt something pulling at us. Something I—”

“Can’t explain?”

Jamie nodded. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you believe, Alex, I’m here for you.”

Alex held the tooth-knife in the living room’s light, its form slicing through an elongated shadow growing against the wall. The full realisation struck Alex with the force of a physical blow. “You see that?”

“I do,” Jamie said. “The blade, it’s cutting the gloom... how is that possible?”

Alex turned to Jamie. “There’s something more to the darkness, something feeding on our fears, magnifying them.”

Jamie stared at the broken shadow. “And that knife interrupted it—but how?”

Alex turned the knife in his hand. “Five notches, five fingers, a knife in the palm to lend a hand.”

Jamie studied the severed shadow. “A blade that cuts to bring people together.” She laughed. “That’s a paradox.”

Alex looked at the tooth-knife. “The Blade of Paradox.”

Tenth Precinct, Metro Police Department, Washington, D.C.

Monday, August 6th, 1945, 6.55 PM

Mercer climbed the station steps, evening daylight reflecting on the brick. Heat lingered, trapped in the ruddy walls, and followed him through the arched entrance. Inside, a high ceiling and swirling tobacco smoke. It echoed with telephones and typewriters. He crossed the tiled floor to the raised desk at the front of the room, occupied by Sergeant Ray Cole. His sleeves rolled above his elbows, a cigarette burning between Cole’s fingers. Mercer set his case down. Cole glanced up and placed the property book next to it. Mercer entered the items and signed off the list.

A radio muttered. Above him, a pair of electric fans whirred at opposite ends of the room, stirring warm air and fumes, as open windows did their little best.

Mercer coughed into his fist. Once, then again. A tightness in his chest, faint but familiar. He reached into his pocket, found a packet of gum, and freed a stick from its paper.

No cure, just a distraction. The mint changed the taste of the lived-in air. He crossed to his desk.

The detective at the next spot over glanced across. Jimmy Myers waved. “Find anything?”

“No smoking gun. Some personal items hidden under a loose board.”

Myers returned to his typewriter. “People don’t hide things for no reason.”

Mercer’s place: one chair, an overflowing in-tray, and a drawer that stuck in damp weather. A wire trash basket held crumpled paper, wrappers, and spent gum. He opened his notebook.

Mrs Benson’s initial call came in on August 1st—reporting Miss Schmidt absent. Rent paid until the end of July. On the 4th, Saturday, she telephoned the precinct a second time—clothes, luggage, and personal possessions left behind, and the rub, nearly five hundred dollars in cash.

Then the names.

Liesel Schmidt.

Greta Hoffman.

Evelyn Shaw.

He read the inventory from Benson’s boxes. A New York driver’s licence and Social Security card in Shaw’s name. Electricity bill. Rent receipt. One Manhattan address. He tapped the pencil against the page.

A Bonwit Teller bag. Department-store labels stitched into several dresses, coats, and blouses. Mercer did not pretend to know much about ladies’ clothes. He would have to ask, noting: expensive?

He wrote: Proof of identity. ~$500. Getaway money? He paused and added: Left behind. Then underlined it.

He used his gum wrapper as a bookmark and returned to Cole. “Sarge, I have a request for NYPD. Manhattan.” He proffered the details, finger on the spot.

Cole read the page. “Background checks?”

“Sure—need to know about these names. Are any on record?”

“If she moved here—from there, it’s for a reason—you think it might be a con?”

Mercer nodded. “Or she’s putting one behind her. Something went down in New York, and she came here to escape the heat. Changing her name and locations works either way.”

Cole pulled a message form from beneath the desk. “Which is the alias?”

Mercer took the gum from his mouth, folded it into its wrapper, and added it to the ashtray. “There’s more Shaw than Schmidt, but I can’t be sure.” He borrowed Cole’s pen and printed the details.

Cole signed and placed the bundle with the messages bound for Headquarters.

“Let’s see if they have anything on this broad.”

Next: Chapter 4: Delicate Work

Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C.

Azalea Court Boarding House

Monday, August 6th, 1945

Sam Mercer returned the brown envelope to Marian Keene, containing her letter of appointment to the Bureau of Naval Personnel and reporting instructions. “Thank you. Your cooperation is most appreciated, and again I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

She shrugged, her lips curved. “It’s really fine, detective—glad to help. I haven’t even unpacked—I only started today.”

A slight woman in a cotton dress, her dark hair pinned back. A mark on her nose suggested she wore spectacles for work.

Mercer glanced at his watch. The hour hand closed in on six in the evening. His stomach rumbled. He skipped breakfast and forgot lunch. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Besides Mercer’s property case, the room held two suitcases, a hatbox, and a portable typewriter—things belonging to Keene, that he could and must ignore. That left the permanent furniture and fittings to check.

“I’m just going to have a look around.” He paused. “Police work is a lot like housekeeping. Well, most of the time.”

Mercer did not lie. The rest involved flying fists and lead. Keene watched, her eyes following him, not out of malice but interest.

He pulled the drawers first: the dresser, then the matching dressing table. All emptied by Benson, but he removed them and checked the undersides. Nothing pinned or taped out of sight. Inside the matched wardrobe, he breathed in mothballs. His pocket flashlight searched the corners and the back of the fitted shelves on the right.

From across the hall, a radio played. A bright commercial jingle snapped to a close, replaced by a news bulletin. Someone turned the volume up a notch.

“…Hiroshima, an important Japanese Army base.”

A chair and a table stood by the window. Mercer looked under both and found nothing.

The announcer’s voice continued reading the White House statement. “…It is an atomic bomb. It is a harnessing of the basic power of the universe.”

Mercer lifted the mattress and the wire frame, exposing the floor, bare but for a fine covering of dust—a word that once described the infinitesimal. Then they split the atom. Mercer resolved to give up. He shifted his weight, lowering the bed into place, but something caught his attention—more movement than noise. Mercer shone the light on the spot where his polished and oft-repaired shoe sat—a loose floorboard.

He reached into his pants pocket for his penknife and used the blade to lift it. Fine scratches showed. Somebody else before him must have done something similar.

A short length of wood, a foot or so long, popped out. A pipe with a joint explained why. Next to it lay a tobacco tin.

“A hiding place?” Keene asked.

Mercer spread a sheet of clean wrapping paper from his property case across the bed. “So it seems.”

He put pencil to notebook and noted the time and place, then sketched the loose board’s location.

Using his handkerchief, he lifted the metal box from the space, set it down, and popped the lid with the tip of his penknife.

He tilted the contents onto the paper.

Then he listed each item in order—a New York driver’s licence. The title read Evelyn Shaw. Twice now. Mercer’s Law of Coincidences: One happens. Two deserve attention. Three probably aren’t. A Social Security card, too. An electricity bill and a rent receipt from a Manhattan address for Shaw. Her real name?

A small cardboard wallet held a photograph. A pair of teenage girls, very much alike, an older and younger sister. Which of them might now call herself Schmidt, Hoffman, or Shaw? He frowned, certain only one of them did.

The last item lay beneath: a gold locket—dainty and plain. He picked it up with his handkerchief, just in case, and used the tip of his penknife to flick the picture box open.

Two images under glass on either side: a baby and a girl of perhaps four or five. Mercer’s pencil scratched again: The same person, or siblings? He added a note: Mrs Benson and Miss Keene both witnessed the discovery.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs Benson asked.

“Yes. I just have to make sure I log what I’ve found in case it proves important later. It often doesn’t, but…”

“Good housekeeping?” Keene said.

He slipped each item into separate manila envelopes and wrapped the tin in clean paper, placing these into his property case. “Indeed. Thank you both, again.” He collected his hat and bid his goodbyes.

Next — Chapter 3: Purpose

The Chimera Cycle Book One

Lost Boy Jack: Part One — Dead in the Water

Jack has never belonged.

Born into a secret world and raised apart from ordinary humanity, six-year-old Jack looks twice his age and possesses abilities he barely understands.

Then disaster casts him alone into war-torn England.

Far from Blackthorn House and everything he knows, Jack enters the Wild World for the first time. Its people offer kindness, suspicion and danger in equal measure. Hunger grows. Instinct takes over. And every glimpse of what Jack can truly do risks exposing him.

While the Dominion searches for its missing child, Jack must survive a world that has no idea what it has found.

Tenth Precinct Station, 750 Park Road NW, Washington, D.C.

Monday, August 6th, 1945

Detective Sam Mercer set his tan fedora over his mop of brown hair. The barber’s shop would have to wait. With neither the change to spare nor much time, he draped his jacket over one arm and left the Washington Metropolitan Police Department’s Tenth Precinct. The seasonal heat demanded it. The close air carried the fumes of motor traffic and hot pavement.

From the station, Mercer followed Park Road toward Fourteenth Street. Apartment houses rose above shaded pavements. He passed a pharmacy, a grocer’s striped awning, and women carrying parcels against their hips—a different world. A newsboy shouted, his voice hoarse. “Extr’eee! Read-all-about-it! Super bomb smashes Japs.”

Mercer flipped a nickel to the lad, waved off the change, and absorbed the Times-Herald headline.

NEW ATOMIC BOMB TURNED LOOSE ON JAPAN.

‘Equal to 20,000 Tons of TNT’, said the subhead.

Mercer let out a quiet whistle. Hiroshima Hit. Army Base Target for Single Super-Weapon.

He struggled with the numbers. Not the math—a B-17 flew with around twenty-five hundred pounds of explosives, most of the time. Translated into a conventional raid, that made for ten thousand heavy bombers, each carrying maybe half a dozen regular bombs.

All that power carried by one weapon on a single plane.

On a crowded D.C. sidewalk, standing in his neat civilian suit, Mercer felt a sudden, cold shudder—a quiet mixture of dread and awe.

Ahead, the Tivoli filled the corner—pale tan stucco, red tiles, and those big arched windows. A poster for the new Bogart picture, Conflict, hung on the wall. Mercer stepped into the cinema’s air-conditioned lobby. He took a breath, removed his hat, and wiped his brow. To call a murder, conflict, seemed narrow when a single weapon could level a city.

Azalea Court lay beyond the noise of the main thoroughfare, on a narrower street where brick houses sat shoulder to shoulder behind shallow steps. Open double-hung sashes greeted the summer air, flowery drapes tugging in the breeze. Mrs Benson’s Boarding House prepared Mercer for its proprietor—an older woman in a dress cut from the same cheerful pattern, which tented her matronly figure.

She welcomed him inside. Mercer noted the communal telephone; the common parlour stood empty. The rest of the property appeared divided into rental rooms. The hallway ended in a door marked private.

“It’s good of you to come, young man.”

Mrs Benson did not mean that. Her posture and tone said otherwise—a woman waiting for attention to her demands. Mercer, as a junior detective, would turn thirty next year. In truth, he felt time passing him by.

He flicked open his notebook and read his spidery handwriting. “You called on the first of the month?”

“Yes. I became concerned.”

Mrs Benson gave a tired shrug. “Miss Schmidt told me her work sometimes would take her out of town, that her employer required her to travel. She often worked late. So many girls do these days. Keeping odd hours.”

Mercer heard the tone shift from frustration to disapproval, the sigh from annoyance to resignation. He checked his notes.

“You did not see her during July?”

Benson stiffened. “She paid for the entire month. Besides, she told me on the Fourth that she might not be back and that I should not worry. At the time, I understood that meant a night or two away. Later I thought I perhaps misunderstood—misheard her. It isn’t my place to pry.”

“You concluded this must be a longer trip?”

“Yes. I admit after a couple of weeks I did begin to wonder, but…” Mrs Benson paused, as if embarrassed, or at least uncertain what to say.

“Miss Schmidt being paid until the month-end?”

She nodded. Mercer added a note with his pencil. “You told Sergeant Cole at the Tenth Precinct that you expected her to return?”

“Yes. Miss Schmidt kept herself and her room tidy.”

“You called on Saturday, however?”

Benson flushed, and not from the heat. “I have a business to run. I can’t let a bed stand empty. Someone came looking for accommodation.”

“And you boxed up Miss Schmidt’s belongings?”

“Of course, and I would have held on to them, just in case she returned—well, for a while at least. I don’t make a habit of prying. You understand. I found the… documents and things.”

Mercer read his notes again. “Can I see them?”

“This way, young man.”

Mrs Benson walked to the end of the hall. Mercer followed. Inside lay a kitchen and sitting room—the servants’ pantry in the house’s grander days.

She gestured to a cardboard box in one corner. “Those are her belongings, clothes, and two suitcases. So many outfits—I packed them too. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“That she went on a trip without her luggage?” Mercer understood her point.

Benson picked up another bag. “She left this, and I almost always saw her with it.” She placed the large leather purse on the table. “I put… everything I mentioned to the desk sergeant in here.”

Mercer glanced inside. The label read Bonwit Teller, New York. Besides the usual collection of items he recognised—a hairbrush, a powder compact, and a nail-care set—he noticed a brown paper bag folded over. He withdrew it. Money, large bills. Mercer counted around five hundred dollars: over two months’ wages for a junior detective. It did not look like the kind of dough a bank would deal out to a customer withdrawing funds. Too well used.

Still, not a sum to abandon without a good reason. He appreciated Mrs Benson’s concern, and why Ray Cole chose to pass the case to him. He added moral character to her qualities.

She stared with an animated expression.

He opened a second paper-bagged bundle—a soft green cover—a U.S. passport. A gold eagle spread its wings. Liesel Schmidt. A black-and-white photograph and a written physical description: blonde hair and blue eyes. With it, a District of Columbia operator’s permit for a motor vehicle, issued to Evelyn Shaw of Connecticut Avenue. The typed details matched Miss Schmidt’s, but for the name.

He showed the picture to Mrs Benson. “Is this her? Your tenant?”

“Oh, yes. It is a reasonable likeness. Not always so, not with those tiny photographs, but that’s her alright. I’m good with faces, I have to be, in my business.”

“May I have a glass of water, please?” Mercer asked—not only because the heat made him thirsty, but because helping him in this simple way distracted her while he worked.

Inside a wallet, Mercer found a cardstock identification marked Office of Strategic Services, Greta Hoffman. It bore an embossed U.S. seal. A small metal pin engraved with OSS. He frowned; this felt off. He needed to check, but his gut said forgery—made to impress and trying too hard.

Mercer’s law of the grift: when something looks too good to be true, it’s almost always a con.

He copied the details: three names, all supported by official-looking documents.

Mrs Benson returned with a glass of water. Mercer thanked her and took a gulp.

“Do you think she’s really a spy?” Her eyes flickered to the headline in Mercer’s paper.

Mercer set the tumbler down. “We’re still at war, and this is D.C.”

“But you couldn’t tell me?”

Mercer grinned. “We’ll have every reason to search her room. I am sorry—I’m sure that’s inconvenient for you and your new tenant—but if you found these things in plain sight, I have my doubts we will discover a hidden transmitter under the bed.”

“I came across the paper bags in a drawer.” Mrs Benson paused. “Under her smalls.”

Mercer looked at the money and the documents again. “There’s another, more mundane explanation. I’ll need to find out where she worked and make a few calls, but I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Con artists, grifters—they use fake identities, pretend to be people they aren’t, as many costumes as they can. The cash looks tired too. Been through lots of hands.”

“Dirty money?”

“In a literal sense, and no doubt in the metaphorical one too.” Mercer smiled. “You did the right thing to call.”

Next — Chapter 2: Hidden

A Spectral Detective mystery

By C.J. Charles

Mercer’s Law

Washington, D.C., August 1945.

The war is ending, but Detective Sam Mercer has a mystery on his hands.

A woman has disappeared from a Columbia Heights boarding house, leaving behind her clothes, her luggage, a substantial amount of cash—and documents bearing more than one name.

Mercer has dealt with grifters before. False identities, forged papers and invented lives are nothing new. As the Baird said, …the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players.

Mercer’s routine missing-person case unravels. The War might be as good as over, but dark forces are still fighting.

Pulled into line by veteran detective Walter Hennessy, Mercer meets a former OSS operative Arthur King, blinded on a mission earlier in that year.

Mercer has a law about coincidences:

One happens. Two deserve attention. Three probably aren’t.

Table of Contents

Mercer’s Law is being serialised here on Substack. Published chapters will be linked below as they appear. Bookmark this page to follow the story.

1. Chapter 1: Patterns

2. Chapter 2: Hidden

3. Chapter 3: Purpose

4. Chapter 4: Delicate Work

5. Chapter 5: Jana Ricke

6. Chapter 6: Confirmation

7. Chapter 7: King, Arthur R.

8. Chapter 8: Gate Keepers

9. Chapter 9: Accident

10. Chapter 10: Emergency

11. Chapter 11: Revelations

12. Chapter 12: Falling Dominoes

Mercer’s Law exists within The Spectral Detective series, following the strange cases, and stranger conspiracies and unexplained mysteries that only Arthur R. King can unravel using his unique Extra Spectral Perception, helping and helped by those drawn into his orbit.

A.R King and Associates’ story continues in the forthcoming novel, The Iron Circle: Part One — Ghost Line.

Follow the adventure: post-war investigations lead King and company deeper into a world where espionage, history and the supernatural refuse to stay neatly separated.

Read King in the Dark, either as e-books or as a collected print edition.

Dawn and the villagers of Elden began their annual pilgrimage. Rowan mounted his horse and joined the group heading for the high ground.

He rode alongside Ivy, a spirited girl from the valley. Her mount matched his pace along the well-trodden path. “The rain has eased—at least.”

“See that over there?” Rowan pointed towards a clearing where the remnants of an old house lay scattered. “My father tore it down. Said it spoiled the view.”

Ivy squinted at the pile of stones and slate. “Seems a shame to lose a home.“

Rowan shrugged. “His way. The land always came first.“

Their route wound down through the valley.

Heather and Thyme, two sisters known for herbal remedies, joined them on foot. They wore purple, like their namesakes’ flowers. The third sister, Sage, a quiet soul with a love for the soil, fell into step beside them, dressed in a pale green cloak. She carried a staff and gestured to Rowan. “The path we walk is dry now. In the past, a river ran here. Downriver, the Clan Fergus in olden times harnessed its flow for a mill.”

Rowan grasped her implication. He understood how his family shaped the valley and hills around them. “Grandfather’s dam does much, but it’s changed the countryside.”

A weathered gate and a makeshift stile led to the meadowland. Ivy paused, the open field stretching before them; the distant stone circle stood tall against the horizon.

Heather pointed to the stones. “They have witnessed countless seasons.”

Thyme also gestured there. “This is where our journey finds its purpose.”

A deep rumble echoed through the valley, drawing their attention to the dammed river upstream. “That doesn’t sound good,“ Rowan muttered. The old dam groaned under the weight of water.

Ivy frowned. “The rains have been heavy this spring.”

A figure emerged from the trees. “You won’t find what you’re seeking today, Elden folk. For too long you have prospered by taking what is ours.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed. “How dare you! Fergus son of Bane—this place is a sacred space of unity. It’s not the time to bring up old conflicts.“

Fergus frowned. “Old for you, for us a mill crumbles, no stream to drive the wheel. Your grandfather’s dam is done. Water shall be your judge.“

Rowan stiffened in his saddle. “Yours received coin, and agreed that price for the river.”

Fergus shook his fist. “That does not help me, and mine. Opening the sluices, now that will!”

“That’ll flood the meadow.“ Thyme looked to Rowan.

Heather held a hand to her mouth. “Destroy the market—and the stones.“

“We can’t let him unseat them,“ Sage said.

Rowan nodded. “At our forefathers’ temple, we’ll stand our ground. Bring everything inside. Elden’s unity is stronger than Fergus’s spite.“

As they hurried across the stile, the dam’s gates creaked open, sending water rushing towards the lower valley. The group reached the stone circle in time. The adults formed a human chain, their linked hands a testament to their resolve. From the youngest to the oldest among them, all gathered within the ring.

The flood swelled around them, but they remained firm. A different wave burst from the monoliths, energy repelling the surge. The waters parted and receded.

In the aftermath, Rowan spoke up. “Today, we stood against more than water. Choices made in the past threatened our future. Yet, our faith, our shared purpose, have found a way.” He gestured to the ancient pillars. “These stones have borne witness to countless generations of Elden folk who’ve toiled, celebrated and endured together, as we have this day. Let Fergus’s spite be damned. As long as we stand united under God, bitterness can’t diminish our spirit.“ The villagers cheered with one voice as the silent guardians of stone witnessed all.

Content note: This story is darker and deals with adult themes, including infidelity, violence, and disturbing family secrets.

Vince, a well-dressed man in his fifties, sat on a brown leather sofa, lost in shadow. A single lamp lit the oak-panelled room. His fingers danced over a grey reel-to-reel tape player, a beautiful thing but a relic from a bygone era, and it cost a small fortune when new. Vince enjoyed an abundance of money, but, as with so many things in his possession, he bought this with another currency: intimidation.

The audio system hummed as Vince sifted through reels, selecting the next track to play.

The soft strains of jazz filled the room, recorded live in Vince’s club, music of a particular time and place. Captured on tape.

Minutes passed, and the recording reached its end.

Vince’s wife, Marlene, entered. Her expression mixed anger and frustration. “Vince, we need to talk about Christina and Tony,” she said, her voice tight with emotion.

Vince glanced up, his expression nonchalant. “What about them?” He began changing the reel again, opening another book-sized box.

Marlene’s hands clenched into fists. “I know about the affair. About your bastard?”

Vince shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Why yous raking over old dirt?”

Marlene stood watching the tape wheels turn. She turned and stared at her husband, trying to get her words out and swallowing her rage.

“They’re seeing each other, Vince. Your daughter and... and your son with... that woman.”

Vince shrugged, continuing to wind the tape onto the receiving reel. “So? What they don’t know, ain’t hurting nobody?”

“Don’t you care?” Marlene’s voice rose in disbelief. “This is wrong on so many levels. The infidelity, the lies, and now this!”

Vince paused, his eyes cold. “Why should I care, Marlene? When have I ever cared—when have you ever cared?”

Marlene looked abashed.

Vince continued. “As long as a new Cadillac sat on the drive, and you farted against silk and a mink coat in the winter, when did you ever care?”

Marlene exhaled, and her mouth opened. Vince, a man entangled in a life of crime and deceit. Her life beside him with her eyes and ears closed. Blood in the shadows. Days and nights alone, in this fine house with finer things. She accepted this because deep down she liked it.

“You can’t...” Marlene said, her voice breaking. “What if... The shame, Vince, what about the children?”

Vince played the tape, his demeanour unchanging. “Let it be, Marlene.”

“But they’re siblings, Vince!” Marlene’s voice cracked with desperation.

He stood to face her, his gaze steel. “Truth is a luxury we can’t afford. That woman didn’t run away, Marlene, leaving Tony with his Nonnie, if you get my drift. Some things are better left—buried.”

Vince laughed and sat down again, saying, “But you go, ask Father Antonio about that Sara and Abraham. How about their boy Isaac?”

Marlene stared at her husband. Vince sat in silence. His face set like flint. It didn’t mean a thing. His silent laughter sounded all the louder for it, laughing at her, her religion, her life. “Vince, you’re a psychopath. I see it now and, deep down... I’ve always known it.”

The jazz music played on. Vince’s attention stayed with the reel-to-reel player, not her—on the past, not the present. Marlene left the room.

Vince’s choices created a world where his lies mattered more than truth. Where Christina’s and Tony’s happiness didn’t matter at all.

Marlene’s gun, a pearl-handled Derringer, shot Vince in the back of the head twice, at point-blank range, just to be sure.

The music ended, but the reel-to-reel tape player kept going; silence except for the loose end of the completed tape flapping, the wheel turning without ceasing.