It started, as many regrettable things do, with a corpse.
Harrow Street had seen its fair share of trouble. old buildings tended to remember the screams. but the thing found inside Room No. 19 was too grotesque even for local gossip.
A tenant had been reduced to a sticky red smear, bones curled outward like flower petals, as if something had exploded from within.
On the floor. a candlestick.
Ordinary. Except it glowed faintly and felt weird when touched.
The Hexguard detectives exchanged glances, none of them brave enough to speak the obvious.
Another one of his objects.
And once again, the markings etched into the base bore the telltale curling script and patent of a familiar source.
The Curator.
...
Meanwhile, at Hexguard Headquarters,
Detective Elira Voss set the file down with deliberate care.
"All five objects," she said. "All traced to one place. One man."
"Lowbridge right?" asked her partner, Marlow.
She nodded. "Same dealer every time. Real name Dorian Grave. Calls himself The Curator. Or, more irritatingly, just Curator."
Marlow leaned back in his chair. "You think he's behind it all?"
"I think he's not what he appears to be. Either he's making these items... or he's dabbling in things we don't understand."
"Which one worries you more?"
She didn't answer. No she couldn't.
At Dorian's Curiosities.
Dorian had just finished gluing a fake gemstone onto a cracked hand mirror when the door creaked open.
Ting.
He froze.
That wasn't a customer's walk. Too silent. Too... Careful.
When he looked up and saw the Hexguard coat. dark blue, high collar, marked with the brass authority. he nearly choked on his tea.
Oh gods. The police. The actual police.
His heart dropped straight into his boots, but he kept his face neutral. Aloof. That's what intimidating people did, right?
She stepped into the shop like she already knew the layout. Her eyes scanned everything. No, not everything. But evidence.
Dorian straightened his back, folded his arms, and fixed her with a look he hoped screamed ancient menace, but which felt more like stiff tax accountant.
"You're not here for just items I assume?," he said flatly.
Detective Elira Voss didn't flinch. "Detective Voss. Hexguard."
Welp... I knew this was coming anyway.
Still, he inclined his head with a slow, condescending nod. "Charmed."
"You've sold five objects linked to civilian casualties in the past month."
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "That's a coincidence. I sell hundreds of items. Thousands even."
"You don't keep records?"
"Of course not. That would be... organized."
Her eyes narrowed. Dorian could see her fingers twitch slightly toward her coat. She's armed. She thinks I'm dangerous. That's good. That's bad. But mostly bad.
He had to tip the scale.
Slowly, he turned, as if bored, and picked up one of the revolvers on the counter. One of those revolvers.
Hand-painted. Scratched with fake runes that he claimed came from an ancient monastery.
"Let me guess," he said coolly, "You're here to confiscate my merchandise? Warn me? Or perhaps... buy?"
Elira's jaw tightened. "Where did you get this?"
He placed the revolver gently in her hands. "That," he said, "is the Seeker's Mercy. Made by the cult of mercy. Though... it's now been discontinued ever since it's downful. Nevertheless It's said to strike with immense force at those with evil in their hearts, and halt completely at the pure."
Her brows lifted, skeptically. "How does that work?"
It doesn't. That's the point.
"It listens," he said, lying through his teeth. "It knows."
She tested the grip. "You honestly believe it can judge morality? Can you back it up?"
"Go ahead and shoot me."
(Getting bolder?)
After a long silence, she reached for her coin pouch.
Outside the Shop,
"You bought something from him?" Marlow asked.
"It was... worth testing," Elira muttered.
"You looked like you were ready to wet yourself."
"I was ready," she snapped. "There's a difference. And... did you not feel that?"
"What?"
"The room. The way he watched us."
Marlow frowned. "Honestly, I thought he looked more like he was going to pass out."
Three Hours Later they were called for a robbery nearby.
Smoke billowed from the broken windows of the small financial hall. A creature crouched on the marble steps, covered in fur, shifting with sickening pops and squelches.
"Shapeshifter," someone shouted.
"Third time this week," someone else muttered.
Elira stepped forward, her new revolver at the ready.
"Stay back," the others warned. "Silver's not working!"
The shapeshifter turned on them. Fast. Wild.
She raised the revolver.
If this doesn't work, I'm going to kill that bastard.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun erupted like a thunderclap. The creature screamed. briefly. Then its chest caved in and it dropped dead, twitching once.
Silence.
Elira stood frozen, gun smoking in her hand.
Marlow stepped beside her. "That wasn't... normal."
She stared down at the gun. "No. It wasn't."
Later That Night.
She sat on the floor, revolver beside her. The reports were piling up. The autopsy had confirmed the thing shouldn't have died that easily. Other Hexguard were calling it dumb luck.
She wasn't so sure.
"It won't shoot the pure," the Curator had said.
She lifted the handgun. Slowly. Pointed it at her own chest.
Waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Click.
She blinked.
It jammed.
She gasped, feeling relieved off the situation.
And somehow... that scared her even more.
"I... I need to report this."
...
- Hexguard Internal Bulletin: CLASSIFIED, Curator Now Considered High Risk -
Subject: Dorian Grave "The Curator."
Level A+ : Do not approach alone.
Believed to possess dangerous items of both magical and unknown origin. Extreme charisma, potentially deceptive in nature.
Capable of manipulating or constructing "pseudo-magical" artifacts. Treat all items as lethal until proven otherwise.
...
Three Weeks Earlier,
Dorian stood in a pawnshop off Broken Barrel Lane, holding an old revolver.
"Does it work?" he asked.
"Sorta," the clerk said. "It jams. Sometimes."
"I can work with that," Dorian muttered.
He bought ten. Painted them black. Etched nonsense on the sides with a knife. Said words like "Seeker" and "Truth" as he worked, just for effect.
He'd meant to sell them as ornaments.
But now? Maybe he should get more creative.
Present Day, Dorian's Flat, Above the Shop.
Dorian sat hunched over a chipped table, surrounded by ten more revolvers. He was painting nonsense runes onto one with a pen dipped in ink.
A newspaper sat nearby, headline blazing.
"Hexguard Officer Elira Voss Stops Shapeshifter."
Dorian stared at it.
Then at the gun in his hands.
Then back at the paper.
Once more at the gun in his hands.
He aimed it at his teacup. Pulled the trigger.
Click.
Jammed.
"Of course."
He collapsed into a chair and rubbed his face.
And yet...
A slow grin crept onto his face.
He poured himself a drink. Cheap brandy. Maybe poison, who cared?
"To the Hexguard," he said, raising his glass.
Blissfully thinking for the upcoming days.