(COMMISSION) THE GAME MAP: GOOD OPENING

“Long Tuesday.”

“Usually is,” the doorman dryly replied. 

Seconds later, the distinctive green door opened, and Nathan was ushered into the speakeasy with a casual nod. 

“A coin for your trouble,” he said, flicking a bronze piece at the doorman. On its own, it wasn't worth much, and in most places—despite the supernatural community insisting on coin whenever they could get away with it—the dollar was still king. But, if he was being honest, it was less a tip and more of a bribe, just in case. 

He was meeting Lady Danae, a Sidhe, and a quick getaway might be all that stood between him and worse than death. 

Besides, Nathan had been in the doorman’s place once upon a time, before he was more or less forced into his current line of work, and he knew just how far a single bronze coin could stretch. 

The doorman sent him another nod. “She's in the VIP section.”

“Company?”

“Not tonight.”

Satisfied, Nathan walked through the foyer and entered the speakeasy proper. Warmth hit him first, then cigarette smoke, spilt liquor, heavy perfume, damp wool, and finally the smell of far too many people packed into too little space.

The speakeasy seemed light on patrons tonight. On second glance, he realised most of them were clustered at the tables around the stage, listening to the jazz band. They didn’t seem to be talking much. Most folk still preferred their own company, and he couldn’t say he blamed them. It was usually the sensible thing to do. 

Speakeasies complicated that. Even today you could see it: a witch arguing loudly with a rather disgruntled wizard, a Lord applauding the jazz band, and a brownie weaving through the tables with a tray balanced on one hand.

Of course, that wasn't the same thing as everyone getting along. 

A lone ghost kept an entire corner to himself. It could be because he kept muttering, periodically glancing about furtively without quite meeting anyone’s eyes. More likely it was because free ghosts were… well, let’s just say you couldn't be too sure that they weren’t one bad reminder away from acting on whatever torments, ironically, haunted them. Best not to chance it. 

Most likely it was both.

For a moment, Nathan stood in place and breathed it all in, even as he smoothly slipped past a giggly woman and her sloshing drink. Places like this had always been bad for his judgement, which was exactly why he was hoping to be done with what he had to do immediately. 

Taking the tiny staircase marked “private” two steps at a time, he quickly found himself in the VIP section. 

"Hey!"

As far as greetings went, it was honestly terrible. The Sidhe, a slender thing with a heavily made-up face and a clearly fake beauty mark just below and to the side of her lips, made her displeasure known with the glare sent his way. Thankfully, she was quick to smooth her expression into polite indifference. It made questioning easier if the witness pretended not to hate him on sight. 

"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice, Lady Danae,” Nathan said with a sigh, taking the seat across from her without waiting for permission. The glare returned as expected, this time much stronger and lasting far longer. Ignoring it, he absently played with the ring on his left hand. 

The action drew the Lady’s gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but her attention remained fixed on the ring for a second longer than was appropriate before returning to his face. For the life of him, Nathan couldn’t imagine what had caught her interest.

“But I’m sure a Lady like you is busy,” he continued, “so I won’t waste your time. Please,” Nathan forced himself, with unusual difficulty, to be polite past the driving impatience that had dogged him since waking up that morning. It wasn’t like him, but he’d stopped trying to make sense of it hours ago. “Tell me what you can about Edmund Wycliffe’s death.”

Mr. Wycliffe was someone Nathan wouldn’t have cared about if the industrialist hadn't recently contracted a severe case of death. Brutally so, Nathan might add. The man had been ridden with dark curses, enough that Nathan could smell the wrongness that had tainted the air. As the city’s most accessible authority on such matters, Lady Danae was his only real source of information. 

The Sidhe may not wield the kind of magic that had taken Mr. Wycliffe, but they had access to many who would. And plenty of reason to wish Mr. Wycliffe, unofficial treasurer for the Society for the Preservation of Human Society, all the harm in the world. Any misstep on her part would invite exactly the sort of scrutiny she had no desire to draw. Even if it were from lowly humans.

“Nathan… Blackworth, was it?” Lady Danae asked in a breathy whisper, her nose slightly upturned towards him. 

“Blackwood,” he corrected, a touch miffed. It was a dangerous game he was playing, acknowledging the petty action, but he had long since made a habit of such. 

“Yes, quite.” She waved a hand as one would to an errant fly, almost as if she was dismissing his acknowledgement, which was no less aggravating. “As I've told the other journalists, any information I can provide has already been provided to the…,” her eyes narrowed as they flicked down to the ring again, “appropriate authorities.”

Information that had certainly muddled the waters, Nathan knew. She’d filled the investigators’ notebooks with obscure magical trivia, corrected their terminology whenever they stumbled over it, and somehow managed to answer every question without once giving them anything they could actually use. It was impressive, in a deeply infuriating sort of way.

What she had given away might not have been much, but it had been more than enough for Nathan to piece together the gist of it. 

Mr. Wycliffe was one of the prominent figures behind the most public and open society in New York City to clash with the resident Sidhe, and if what the Lady said was true—she was a Sidhe, and therefore almost certainly manipulating everyone somehow, but to Nathan’s knowledge, she rarely actually lied—then his killer must be one of the many humans he had living with him, employed or not. Hardly something a Lady could be blamed for. 

“Be that as it may”—had a minute or so in her presence already corrupted his manner of speech?—“I believe you know far more than you are letting on.”

At that moment, one of the servers approached the table, smoothly sidestepping a jovial red-faced patron stumbling into her way. The drunken man’s scraggly beard made Nathan immediately think of a dwarf, but for all Nathan knew he might just have been a particularly hairy Scot. 

“What will the Lady and the gentleman be having tonight?” A notepad was in one hand as the server, a rather mousy-looking brownie, asked, her other hand on her waist. “I recommend the House Special.”

The “House Special” was the less-than-ideal booze that drew many of the lower Fae to the establishment, despite its posh decor and high prices. And as much as Nathan was willing to taste it, he had a job to do, and a clear head was very much needed. 

Hoping he wouldn't regret it, he shook his head, a motion mirrored seconds later by Lady Danae. 

“But bring us a glass of water. Chilled,” the Lady said. When confronted with Nathan’s raised brow, she added, “You may want it.”

Nathan made to argue, but the Lady raised a finger, effectively shutting him up faster than he could question the instinct. 

“Trust me.” Her voice had taken a lilt soft enough that if he didn't know any better, he would have mistaken it for concern. But surely not… right?

Shaking his head to banish the thought, he moved his gaze away from the now retreating server back to Lady Danae. 

“We have dawdled long enough as it is,” he said, ignoring the odd word usage that had slipped through again. Best not to trouble himself with the oddities. For all he knew, he was absorbing the Sidhe’s passive weirdness just by existing in her space. “Tell me what you know.”

After a moment’s pause, Nathan heard himself add a “Please.” The raw desperation leaking through in his voice surprised him. 

Lady Danae stared at him for what felt like an eternity as he sat rooted to his seat, unable to tear his gaze away. A small part of him wondered just what she was searching for, while the other larger, more knowledgeable part knew it didn't matter. Or rather, it mattered, but there was nothing he could do. Thankfully, whatever the Lady thought she had found in his eyes was enough to satisfy her because she nodded and leaned the barest of inches forward, steepled hands propping up her chin. 

“A favour for a favour then, to be paid back in the future,” she said, and before he could deny the offer, she continued unabashedly. “As the investigators have already established, poor little Edmund’s death was an inside job.”

The manner in which she had spoken it, as if she undoubtedly knew more than she had let on, sent Nathan’s eyes widening, his annoyance forgotten in the wake of the surge of anger that welled up within him. 

“Who?” 

It was less of a question and more of a demand, spoken with such force that Lady Danae’s eyes also widened. But unlike what he expected, she didn't immediately turn him into a donkey. Instead, she leaned even more forward, something shimmering behind her eyes for the briefest instant. 

Immediately, a chill raced up his spine. It didn’t feel like fear so much as if something inside him had stirred in response to her magic. Just what was she playing at?

“The child.” 

Reading the unspoken question in the twitch of his lips to the side, she continued: “The newly adopted child.” Her tone was conspiratorial, filled with a hint of disgust. “One of many, if I'm to understand.”

This time, he was the one to lean forward. “Why did he need many children?”

A wave of her hand was all it took for her to dismiss the question, even as she said, “Your way of life and thinking might still be alien to my kind, but I know you humans aren't as stupid as appearances suggest. Figure it out.”

And it took a minute or two, but Nathan eventually did. 

Mr. Wycliffe had never seemed content with borrowing scraps of power from rituals and relics like typical witches and wizards. No, he had always struck Nathan as the sort of man who looked at the Lords and Ladies and saw something to surpass rather than admire or fear. If he’d adopted child after child, it hadn’t been because he suddenly discovered a charitable streak.

Occult experimentation was the most likely reason. 

No wonder Lady Danae had been tight-lipped to the human authorities. A case as volatile and deeply illegal as this would only bring more harm than good to those involved. And with that in mind, all Nathan had to do was to wash his hands off the case, consequences be damned. 

Sure, that would leave him a little tight of funds for a while. But it was a small price to pay for his survival. A child or not, anyone who could snuff out someone as adept at magic as Mr. Wycliffe was certainly no slouch. A damn good investigative journalist he might be, but spell-slinging badass he was not. 

The Lady suddenly leaned back into her seat, her expression settling once more into the polite indifference she had worn earlier. But there was a noticeable hint of smugness in the slight upturn of her lips, as if she knew something he didn't. 

Despite the warning bells ringing in his head, he was more than willing to chalk it all up to more Elven bullshit and call it a day.

Already, he regretted not ordering a House Special. He would definitely come back and finally try it out. Maybe it would move his growing headache into the next morning, or even better, help him forget this potential disaster. The speakeasy’s password wouldn't change until next week at the earliest. More than enough time to come back and drown his mistakes.

With that in mind, Nathan made to stand when Lady Danae’s hand clamped down on his own, trapping him at the table. He turned to look at her, more than a little alarmed, especially since some part of him had forgotten that, for all her appearance and behaviour might suggest otherwise, as a Sidhe she was near the pinnacle of human strength. She didn't need magic to knock him off. 

Calming his racing heart, he forced himself to meet her gaze again. The courage came from somewhere, arriving so suddenly that it should have worried him. Instead, he accepted it without complaint.

“Is… is there a problem?” he asked, proud of himself that he only stuttered once. It was a feat many war veterans couldn't have hoped to replicate. 

“When you inevitably get to the bottom of this case, come find me.”

Simple words, yet their implications were anything but. And he couldn't help it; he had to ask. He had to know. 

“Why do you think I’ll involve myself further?” he all but shouted. “This is beyond me.”

Lady Danae didn't answer, and for a second, he wondered if she ever would. But then, to his surprise, she opened her mouth and did just that. 

“Maybe.” The uncomfortable shimmer was back in her eyes. “But I can recognise that obsession anywhere.”

And immediately, he wished he hadn’t given in to that need to know. He’d only walked away with more questions than answers and a heaping dose of foreboding.

Nathan could almost hear laughter follow him out of the building, but the Lady was quiet, so surely he was only imagining it. 

…right?

This story was commissioned by Criminal Spirits TTRPG, whose crowdfunding campaign launches in September 2026. If you’d like to support the project, you can check it out on GloriousFate.com.

And if you’re looking for a writer for your own project, feel free to send me a PM.