TITLE: Nocturne
AUTHOR: Kilroy Wassier
DISCLAIMER: They're not mine, I swear.
SPOILERS: Up through "Shorties in Love."
RATING: T
CLASSIFICATION: Mystery/Drama/Suspense
SUMMARY: Max and Logan investigate the disappearance of a journalist.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the one whose words are truly as light and delicate as the first rays of morning sun on the pale, unfolding leaves of a tiny spring flower.
It was the dawn of a new day, but the sky was still as black as the soil of a productive Iowa farm, dark and cold and seductively clingy. It was as dark as this soil, and as rich -- not with minerals, but with promise. It was the witching hour, and those who knew better had locked themselves behind steel doors, closed the blinds and now sat huddled around flickering candles. Only fools and the very brave wandered the streets alone, and even they could tell that something was wrong. Something dark was stirring; something wicked was on its way. Pedestrians in heavy jackets avoided making eye contact, lest they spy something horrid, lest they exchange a glance with something brought up from hell and in doing so, damn themselves to an eternity of torture and fear.

The Clarke house lay dormant, waiting. Time had stripped it of its majestic image and it stood alone, now, the last reminder of a grander, gentler time, when displaced Southern belles whirled and Rhett Butler wannabes stood underneath gates of ivy and nudged each other's sides, making rude gestures at the aforementioned ladies. A grander time, indeed, and one that Post-Pulse Seattle had never seen. Clarke House alone testified to that period, that glorious era, and Clarke House had been abandoned. No one bothered to paint it once the original coatings began to peel, and no one bothered to water the flowers in the garden, nor weed out those dark brothers which sought to smother the life from their more aesthetically pleasing companions.

Indeed, on this particular night, as on all nights, Clarke House was empty. No footsteps hurried down the stairs, no glasses clinked in the kitchen, and no music came from the ballroom, such as it was. No servants prepared the next day's meal, no masters snored as they blessedly slept, no mistresses climbed quietly down the once-manicured trellises. The house was safe even from the dirty hands of thieving looters and their less scandalous peers, those damned squatters, for not even criminals would dare enter through those cursed doors. No one had dared enter Clarke House for as long as the oldest man among us can recall; even those who only crossed the rotting wood of the front porch ran fleeing from the estate, shivering and telling of a dark, dark feeling that grew from deep down in their moralistic bellies. They were, they were quick to explain, only going to knock on the door to see if the occupants of the house wanted to purchase some cookies to support a good cause, and after just a few seconds, they knew -- they just knew -- that the house was up to no good.

But on this particular night, unlike other nights, something was about to happen. The woods surrounding the house grew silent, as if those small animals residing within were holding their collective breath, balancing precariously on the edges of their metaphorical seats. The woods grew silent, as if the animals knew, as if that fabled sixth sense extended not only to earthquakes, but to incidences of pure evil as well.

In the distance, a ghostly galleon crashed upon cloudy seas.

All was silent.

In the distance, a belligerent fool shouted, "Shut up already! Shut up, damn it!" as if perhaps he thought he could stop the rising evil, freeze it in its path, or as if he was only unaware of his proximity to said evil. (At any rate, it didn't work.)

From within the house, a cat cried softly.

It was joined by one.

And then another.

And then... another.

Slowly, slowly, the front door of Clarke House opened, revealing to and unleashing upon the unsuspecting world the horror that lurks within the very soul of humanity, the darkness lying dormant, a hideous creation, a fate worse than death.

Something slithered out, and then the front door of Clarke House closed.

All was silent again.


Max Guevara, who took her surname not from the famed revolutionary figure as most people usually assumed, but from the lesser-known but equally important illustrator of children's books, the venerable Ms Susan, arrived at Logan Cale's penthouse in mid-afternoon, as rain streamed against the windows and bombarded the street below. She shook water from her hair and crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "You called," she informed him.

He looked away from his computer screen, reached for a file and handed it to her. "Yeah. I could use your help on something, if you're free."

"I'm always up for a round of B&E."

"How 'bout rescuing a missing journalist?" he asked. She frowned and opened the file folder, her eyes widening as she skimmed the first pages. She turned the next page, and then the next, and then looked up at him.

"The Cat-People of Bluecourtia?" she asked. "You're kidding."

He smiled tiredly, raising his eyebrows in agreement. "Unfortunately, no."

She slapped the folder shut and handed it back to him. "You're investigating a bad sci-fi feature?"

He sighed. "Sci-fi or not, a journalist is missing."

She nodded, speaking slowly as though talking to a very small child or someone with a history of mental instability. "And you think the cat people got her."

"Not necessarily. That's why I'm investigating," he said, ignoring her tone.

She smiled, sauntering over to his desk and leaning one hip against the edge. He tried not to notice the water dripping down her face and onto the pages strewn across his desk. Probably no one would mind if they were a bit water-stained, after all, and certainly the vision of dark-haired beauty before him was worth a few reprints. "Cat people. If I had that much free time..." She shrugged, looking down at him.

He put on his best strictly-business face and did his best to look stern. Were they any other couple, they'd be having a decent shag right about then, he thought. But no, no... due to the divine timing of his heroic action, any love between them was doomed to be purely intellectual, an exercise of the minds alone. "Is that a yes?"

She grinned. "I guess. What's in it for me?"

"Besides cat people?"

She raised an eyebrow and he resisted the urge to ask if she thought she'd find any long-lost relatives. "Dinner?" he offered instead.

"Deal." She glanced down at her watch. "I gotta get back before Normal blows a fuse or something."

"See you later?"

"After work." She nodded and he watched as she sauntered towards the door. He waited until he heard the door actually latch before returning to work; the last time she'd snuck up on him, he'd spilled coffee and ruined a perfectly good sweater. Not to mention how embarrassed he'd be if she caught him writing poetry again. He sighed. Not only were a great deal of his notes now waterlogged, he still hadn't come up with a good rhyme for "voluptuous."

A crime-fighter's job is never easy, he thought. Perhaps if he went with "curved," instead...


TBC