The cellar was good accommodation, all things considered.

The other tenants and even the landlady glared at him as he passed, no doubt waiting for the day that a common, unemployed vagrant like him could finally be evicted. The cellar was sort of the last scrape of the barrel, but it could have been worse.

It was cold, but they had blankets. The rats made good company, even if they tended to bite a little. They even had a window. It was obstructed by bars and cobwebs, only reaching street level. But it was a window nonetheless. A rare commodity in cellars.

He approved.

Ignoring the way his upstairs neighbours sneered at him as he descended the uneven stone steps, he rapped his knuckles on the moulding wooden door and walked in.

And there she sat.

Small, in a ragged skirt, hair cut short and with ridiculously cherub-like features. Smiling at him hopefully like she expected him to be able to make something of his life.

"How'd it go?" she asked, stirring the pot above the fire. The flames were weak and pathetic, so it looked like another four-hour wait for their stew tonight.

He pondered the ways he could let her down the lightest.

"Well, it was…unremarkable. They said they'd send a letter should I get the job…um…"

His smile withered under her scrutinising gaze. But rather than scold his vagueness, she sighed sadly and looked down at the pot. Which was somehow worse.

"Oh, dioso…"

The urge to break down crying gripped his chest suddenly. Steeling his resolve, he brushed the dirt from his jacket and tugged at his collar. He really wished he had more to fiddle with.

"Missing something from up there?" she asked, letting go of the spoon she was using to stir the dinner with and pulling out a small wrapped box from beside her lap. He tentatively accepted it as she held it out to him.

Inside was a bow tie. Red and pristine. Was she psychic, or was he just that easy to read?

"How…how much did this cost you?" he asked, feeling ashamed of himself. Look at him. A twenty-year old man, bowled over by the site of a simple piece of clothing. Just went to show much he was able to gather for his family.

"It doesn't matter" she smiled, tone light but signifying that he wasn't to probe further. He'd since learned to accept her answers. "I was saving it for your birthday, but I thought it would be nicer to present it to you now, whilst we still had a roof over our heads."

Despite everything, he still managed a smirk.

"Gee, thanks."

"Let's be honest, you really need to learn how to keep quiet" she grinned, "I mean, what happened with the last place you visited?"

"Oh, joy. Here we go."

"That's right. You go into that furniture shop, practically begging for employment, and you still make sure to irritate the owners before you leave. Why? Is your life incomplete without filling in some sort of aggravation quota?"

"I think it was more the fact I had absolutely no experience with woodwork."

"Mm-hm. And not because you insulted the man's beard?"

"…no."

"You're a fantastic liar" she sighed sarcastically. "Let's just hope our señorita pequeña down here doesn't inherit your massive mouth."

He patted her stomach. The bump wasn't yet obvious, but give it a few weeks and it would be.

"Hear that?" he theatrically shouted at what was soon to be a living, breathing child. "She's so sure you're going to be a girl. You're not even out of the womb yet and she's already dictating your life. Welcome to hell, niñita."

He was unable to escape arm-punching range in time. He pretended to be mortally wounded, she laughed and they both shared a moment's peace as the stew continued to boil. Before she could get back to what she was doing, he took her hands in his, kneeling down on the floor by her stool and looking her directly in her mismatched eyes.

"I'll find a job, diosa. I promise."

Victoria could fondly remember a week ago, when the library was one of her favourite places to be on a Sunday.

Come hell or high water, la Zapatería Rivera remained open six days a week (with Día de Muertos or the end of time being the natural exceptions), leaving the family only one day to do whatever they wanted on their own. Naturally, theatres, cinemas and the plaza were a no-go, so they'd often split up and find different ways to entertain themselves.

Rosita would often read trashy magazines or tend to her garden. Victoria internally shuddered at the thought of what the complete mess she'd have to tend to today.

Oscar and Felipe would say they tinkered with new inventions, though she'd often doubt whether any actual inventing was taking place, given the ceaseless noise from their bedroom. It was almost a game of theirs by now; see how loud they could make the bangs and clatters before Imelda came charging up the stairs, boot in hand and murder in her eyes.

The matriarch herself would sew, sit with Pepita or even just do leftover housework if she was bored enough. After all, if it were one thing Imelda Rivera didn't like, it was idleness. Julio would often try to pitch in as well, offering to wash dishes or fold the clothes. Victoria always got the feeling that even after seventy years of marriage to her daughter, he still remained desperate for the approval of his fearsome mother-in-law.

And Victoria herself, of course, gravitated to where the books were. The Central Library was just a few streets away from the main trolley station, making it easily accessible and meaning she had no excuse not to go. A gothic stone building consisting of five vast floors of shelves and silence. Perfect.

Or so she'd thought.

She'd arrived there once again today, looking for a good novel to bury her metaphorical nose in, but constantly found herself walking into the crime section. She was almost ashamed of herself upon realising her unconscious mistake.

The last thing I want is to be reminded of that self-satisfied lunatic.

But by that point, she'd all but sealed her fate. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find a book that both interested her and didn't in any way involve a detective or a grisly crime that needed solving. She was seriously ready to pull the plug on the idea and head home early – something which in forty years of being dead she'd never done once – when a second thought struck her.

Libraries, after all, held more than fictional paperbacks. There were archives and newspapers on some of the floors above, she remembered, both from the land of the living and the dead. Maybe she could look up this Doucet man and see what sort of history he had. If he'd had any major success, it would of course be mentioned in the news at some point.

Smiling politely to an old couple as she strode up the stairs and bathed in the light streaming through a stained-glass window, she looked over to one of the computers by the wall. She only had a tenuous grip on the things herself; knowing how a mouse and keyboard worked but never more than that. Thankfully, an information sheet for those who'd been dead for a significantly long amount of time was provided above and she searched up the man's name with little real trouble.

The computer made a muffled ping sound and a reference code came up for one article. Just one, from the land of the living.

Oh well, it's better than nothing.

Moving deeper into the expanses of the shelves, she noticed the noise levels get even quieter than before and the light levels getting dimmer as the papers in front of her got older. An obvious technique to avoid damage to the aging paper, even if it resulted in some of the low-level bulbs giving off a barely-audible but nonetheless grating hum in the silence.

There it is.

Pulling out a single plastic pocket from a row of thousands, if not millions, she examined the newspaper underneath. Below the pink slip on the front threatening fines in the event of damage, was a picture of a young man with wide eyes and an equally wide smile.

There was no mistaking it. It was him.

She dwelled on the image for a while, standing there in that empty area. She'd initially assumed it was just a candid shot that he'd had little time to prepare for, but further examination of his face made it look less embarrassing and a lot more disturbing.

The smile was still wide, impossibly so. It almost looked as if the corners of his mouth were going to tear under the pressure. The rims of his eyes were black in a way that couldn't just be shadow, accompanied by dark veins that were only just visible. Victoria got the impression that the man was wanting to scream, but was terrified of doing so.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN SMALL TOWN CENTRE, the headline read.

Residents of the idle village of Emiliano Zapata were horrified this morning when they left their homes to discover a dead body in their main street.

The body, believed to be 28-year old man Anton Doucet, was first spotted by merchants setting up for market day. At the moment, very little is known regarding why Doucet was killed, but police are certain as to how: a cut throat, not too deep, but deep enough to result in the man bleeding out.

Well, she'd been close on her guess as to how old he'd been on death. Only two to three years off. Victoria felt vaguely ill, but forced herself to keep reading.

Evidence first pointed to suicide, but this theory was challenged due to the randomness of the place where the attempt supposedly occurred. No resident believes the man to be a local, and as a result, the new working theory is that he was a traveller passing through the town who was possibly robbed and killed.

Police have promised to give more information as the case develops.

And that was it. The rest of the front page just discussed local scandals, the latest recipes and other such garbage.

"Anything interesting?"

Victoria gave an undignified eep and nearly tore the newspaper in half.

"How long have you been standing behind me?" she hissed as loudly as she could in her current environment, spinning around.

Anton, it seemed, had not yet mastered the subtle art of an indoor voice.

"Long enough." He eyed up the paper. "I see I've left an impression on you. Found anything juicy?"

She coughed and spluttered for a second, trying to recover from the shock. He just chuckled.

"So…this is definitely you?" she asked, pointing to the picture.

"Yup."

"I…um…" She found herself unusually short on words.

"You can ask" he stated, sounding vaguely amused.

"Okay. Was it a suicide, or a robbery?"

"Suicide."

"Oh" she managed, unsure of how to continue. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged, but didn't say anything else, causing her to believe it was high time she steered the conversation out of these dangerous waters.

"More to the point, what are you doing here?" She forced the authority to return to her voice; it sounded jarring and horrible. Once again, however, Anton didn't seem in the least bit perturbed.

Her thoughts ground to a halt. Anton? Since when had they been on first-name terms?

"Research" he responded simply, turning to the shelves as if what he was looking for would jump in front of him.

Victoria couldn't help but chuckle. He tilted his head towards her as he'd done the other day, a questioning look to his grin.

"Sorry" she said, covering her mouth. "That was startlingly rude of me."

She coughed in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

"You just don't strike me as the type to do research, is all."

"Why ever not? I am a detective. What else could you possibly call the bedrock of a successful investigation?"

"From the way I've seen you act? Punching people."

"Punching people is fun, but you've naturally got to make sure they're the guilty party first. Which is where the research comes in."

She'd never have expected him to be able to process such a logical concept.

"Indeed" she agreed. Her book-picking ability had failed her and the newspaper had told her all it would ever tell, so she decided to focus on him for entertainment. "What are you looking into, may I ask?"

He pulled his own stack of newspapers from under his arm, motioning for her to follow him to a table by the wall. He unceremoniously dumped them on it, creating an echoing thud that made her cringe as it reverberated off the otherwise silent walls. Once she was happy that none of the library staff were going to leap out from behind the nearest pillar and fine them, she helped him spread them out and examined the front covers.

WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN BACK ALLEY, one screamed at her.

SECOND VICTIM KILLED BY MACHETE ATTACKER, shouted a second.

POLICE NAME KILLER "THE INVISIBLE MAN"

"INVISIBLE MAN" STRIKES AGAIN

There were dozens of them. Not a single one was related to something different.

"The "Invisible Man"?" she questioned, looking to him.

"Serial killer" he responded, talking as if they were focused on cute puppy alebrijes rather than brutal murder. "Never caught. Attack wounds on the victims always suggested he wielded a machete of sorts. Witnesses to his attacks - well, at least the ones that weren't murdered themselves – could never describe him, as he supposedly wore dark, nondescript clothes and covered his face."

He turned to look at her.

"Sound familiar?"

The figure from that night in the garden immediately sprung to her mind. If Victoria had a physical heart, chances were it would have leapt in her throat.

"What, that was – that was him?"

Anton started piling the papers back up again, shaking his head and allowing her to breathe a slight sigh of relief.

"No, I don't think so. He was much too short, for starters. The only distinguishable thing about him was his rather tall height. Also, the weapon was completely wrong, if you remember. A crowbar? Really? A machete would be much more efficient and much more consistent with his MO."

"His?" Victoria repeated. "How do you know it was a man?"

Doucet's smile grew impossibly wider.

"Never miss a trick, do you? Like I told you the other day, wasted potential."

He let the papers sit on the desk, patting the top down.

"I met him one night when I was alive. He spoke. He was definitely a man. Unfortunately, that was as much as I was able to work out before he then tried to butcher me. The charming fellow I encountered in your back garden, once I removed the bottom half of his mask, had a jaw much too heavy to be a woman's. Overall, I'd say the only thing the Invisible Man and our not-so-friendly neighbourhood intruder have in common is a mask and a gender."

Victoria was slightly stunned. He'd actually met a serial killer and lived to tell the tale. Now that was something out of her bargain-bin novels. She adjusted her glasses and folded her arms as she spoke, determined to maintain a professional air. There was no need to inflate the man's ego further.

She looked back at the articles, noticing how some of the images had been blotted out and edited in a way that conveniently removed the gorier bits of the corpses.

"That isn't just a simple murder" she remarked, putting a hand to her chest. "Look, there's slashes all over. Lots of blood…and I imagine the point where the picture has been cut off is hiding quite a bit, too."

"Yes, it does. I've got the full images somewhere if you'd like a look." His voice was deliriously cheerful; he seemed to be under the impression that he had just offered her a real treat.

"Gracías, pero no. I'm fine."

"Well, to put it briefly, you're half right. No, it wasn't just a quick kill. All the bodies were missing a limb or a head, or…well, just some part. Further investigation suggested cannibalism, but they couldn't find any evidence. After all, a cannibal tends not to leave any. Are you alright, Victoria? You look rather nauseous."

She chose not to answer, clutching herself tightly as something stirred in her memory. A book she'd read of old Hispanic folklore when she was a child. One that had traumatised her for months afterwards and left Mama Imelda lecturing her parents about being more careful with what she let their daughter look at.

"Pishtacos" she breathed. Much to her surprise, Anton nodded in what seemed strangely like agreement. "The mythical monsters that would kill indiscriminately and take their body fats for food."

One passage discussed some Pishtacos selling the unused body parts on, disguised as fried chicharrones. Needless to say, it put her off eating for a while, which in retrospect probably contributed to one of her many fevers.

She rubbed her eyes to purge the images and stop her imagination from running away with her.

"But they're just myths though, aren't they?" she asked him. She prided herself on being a logical woman, but assurance from anyone just about then would certainly have helped her feel better.

She was about to be sorely disappointed.

"The thing is, there's no way of knowing. Every myth is based partially in truth, including the very world we're standing in right now. Years ago, whilst you were alive, would you have believed in the existence of a city for the dead? Or a slum for those about to fade from reality? Or would you have just dismissed it as a myth or legend, made up to comfort the terminally ill, or those left to grieve?"

"…thanks. You're fantastic at cheering me up."

"I sense resentment in your tone."

"A nicer person would take this time to reassure me that monsters are works of fiction and superstition." Even as the words left her mouth, she couldn't believe she was saying them, fully aware of how childish she sounded.

His head tilted.

"You mean, if I was someone else, I would have taken this time to lie to you?"

"Well…yes."

"In that case, Victoria, Pishtacos cannot possibly be real. Even though the reported killings have been very similar to those supposedly committed by them, and the same type of crime has dated back for almost a hundred years now – which is likely much longer than one lone killer could possibly have been alive – there is no hard evidence to say they have existed at all."

It was as good a comfort as she was going to get, she supposed. She looked away from the papers, desperate to change the subject back to something less intense.

"So, just what does the Invisible Man – or Pishtacos, for that matter - have to do with your case, then?"

"Absolutely nothing" Doucet responded happily, turning around and stalking away once again, leaving both Victoria and his pile of newspapers in the dust. It was an astonishing anti-climax.

She internally grumbled at the thought of having to scamper after him again like a lost little puppy, but did it anyway, stopping only to grab a few for a read back at home.

"Where are you off to?" she asked once she'd caught up with him by the front doors. She sincerely hoped she didn't sound too interested.

"Someplace where I can focus on the case at hand, that's where. First, I'm going to liberate some documents from Senor de la Cruz."

"Liberate?"

"…steal."

Victoria was really beginning to understand Chichárron's frustrations.

"The man's tried to place God knows how many restraining orders on you and you think it's a good idea to now try and steal from him?"

"Well, he's certainly not going to give them up willingly."

"Okay, genuine question. In solving crimes, how many do you inadvertently commit in the process?"

"I've never really paid attention. But don't worry, I'm never caught."

"That fails to make me feel any more relaxed."

"Good job I don't care about your state of relaxation, then."

They were approaching the market, crossing over the canal and into a crowd of sombreros and tied-up hair buns as people did their afternoon shopping. Victoria found herself having to raise her voice to be heard, determined not to let him have the last word.

"And what about the man from the garden?"

"What about him?" She could have sworn there was a sarcastic edge to his response.

"When are you going to look into that?"

"Never."

"I - what?"

"Why would I? It's not related to the plagiarism case. Neither have you hired me to investigate it."

She sighed. So that's what he wanted.

"I see. It's all about money with you, isn't it?"

"Isn't everything?"

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

Annoyance overwhelming her, she grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around to face her. Never mind that they were in a public place, she was telling him this there and then.

"Like that. Acting all indifferent despite clearly showing enough of an interest back in the library. Surprisingly enough, I want you to succeed, Senor Doucet, really. Yes, you're a bit of a cabrón, but I want to see you solve this case, especially if it's for a man who will soon be forgotten."

"For a nearly-forgotten man who paid me" Anton cut across her.

That did it. She slipped her boot effortlessly from her foot and for once, landed her hit. The heel whacked the side of his skull, causing it to spin uncontrollably and his glasses to slide downwards so one lens was resting against his teeth.

"But do not" she snarled, "talk to me like an idiot. Because I am not."

The one chasm his glasses weren't covering up had widened slightly in surprise, but returned to its usual cool demeanour. He slowly lifted a finger and moved the boot away from his face. Victoria lowered it and put it back on, ignoring the stares from people in the vicinity.

"I don't think you're an idiot, Miss Rivera" he said calmly. His grin had a sudden warmth to it, borderline sincerity. "You've proven yourself to be level-headed and much better an acquaintance than most of the morons I've met down here. But unfortunately, whilst I may feel a little sympathy for certain people, I don't work for free."

Victoria twiddled her thumbs silently.

"Trust me" he added, "if you were an idiot, there'd have been no way I would have invited you to join me."

She'd forgotten about that. She nodded, unsure of what else to do, reverting back to the mental standby of completing a business transaction.

"Vicita! I didn't expect to see you around here!"

Anton quickly shoved the glasses back up to their proper position, whilst Victoria flinched upon hearing her aunt's embarrassing nickname being cried at her from across the market. Sure enough, Rosita ran through the crowd, embracing her in a usual bone-crushing hug.

Her aunt was the only person who Victoria allowed to call her such names, as was the case with the intimate physical contact. Unfortunately, it was hard to enjoy it on this occasion, as she heard Anton snort surreptitiously, no doubt aware of how irritating she would find it if he held it against her.

"What are you doing here, mija?" she asked, immediately bombarding her with questions as she put her niece down. It was only then that she noticed Anton. "And who's this?"

Anton bent forward slightly, extending a hand in greeting.

"Anton Doucet, Private Investigator" he announced smoothly. Rosita giggled and shook it enthusiastically. Victoria couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Such manners!" Rosita exclaimed. Then her face became much more conspiratorial in appearance. "So, what were you two up to this afternoon?"

Uh-oh. Victoria knew that look. Her aunt, whilst a lovely woman with the patience of a saint and the ability to cook like it was nobody's business, also happened to be a massive gossip and hysterical romantic. If she thought she could see a bond being formed, she'd try and spur it on, no mater how unwelcome her interference happened to be. That look was the first stage of Victoria realising that she'd noticed the two of them standing rather closely to each other and gotten the wrong idea.

"I was at the library doing some research, my dear" Anton responded, adjusting his bow tie. "Victoria here, being the good-willed woman that she is, decided to generously give up her free time and assist."

Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?

"Did she now?" Rosita asked, turning to her, eyebrow raising and smile growing wider. Victoria responded by turning her attention away from her aunt and glaring at Anton.

Anton opened and closed his mouth three or four times before saying anything more, obviously wondering which answer was less likely to get him smacked with a boot again.

"Uh, yes" he said eventually. "Yes, she did."

"I think it's time when we went home for dinner, tía" Victoria cut across, deciding it was high time this conversation ended before it was steered down more awkward paths. To her surprise, Rosita nodded.

"Okay then, mija, we'll leave. I'm guessing I'll be seeing you later, Anton?" She tipped him an enormous wink.

"Uh…" Anton managed. It was almost amused Victoria, really. She could almost see the smoke coming from his ears as the gears in his brain ground to a halt. It was astounding to see that all it took was a smile and a wink from an overly-friendly woman for him to lose the ability to speak.

"Yes, I'm sure you will, tía" she said, a little more forcefully, this time taking her by the arm and pulling her along after her. She sneaked a quick look back at the detective, who was still standing where they'd left him, his grin now looking downright confused.

She fought the urge to laugh all the way home.

The sun was starting to descend. He could almost feel every second go by.

Ernesto de la Cruz sighed as he lay back in his chintz armchair, allowing his chihuahua alebrijes to scamper around his feet as he nursed a glass of whiskey. It had been a long day. Not necessarily a busy one, but long nonetheless. He was just sitting around bored; no performances planned for the week, nor where there any women to chase. Not even an over-eager fan to drive away.

He looked at the four walls surrounding him, all lined with his awards or memorabilia. Some people considered him an attention-seeker and, in a way, he supposed they were right: without a guitar in his hands and an audience in front of him, he found himself at a constant loose end.

One of the chihuahuas yapped as the door to the lounge opened and in strode Javier, removing his mask as he came. Ernesto internally groaned at the mud being trekked all over his gleaming white floors. He understood that the man was only there for a pay check, but some things were just rude.

"Went to the Riveras' a couple nights ago" he declared, not elaborating. He was a man of few words, but Ernesto was fine with this. As long as the head bodyguard knew his place, he was happy to play his little game and ask the questions.

"And?"

"Threatened the woman there. Made it clear what would happen if her husband happened to show up."

"Good" Ernesto smiled, taking a sip from his glass. No, he wasn't going to offer Javier any.

"But – "

Ernesto paused mid-drink. That was, to be frank, one word he'd rarely heard from the man and something that immediately filled him with worry.

"But?"

"There was an issue. She was giving me lip, denying that she knew who he was, so I decided to demonstrate the message on a more practical level."

Ernesto couldn't help but smirk. He would have liked to have seen that. Imelda had been a cold-hearted shrew in life. He doubted death had mellowed her out very much.

"Then…he showed up."

Ernesto at upright. "Héctor?"

"No. The other one."

Ernesto's eyebrows knitted together in confusion before settling into a grimace.

"Oh" he growled, "him."

Javier nodded.

"What the hell does he think he's doing?" Ernesto snapped, talking more to himself than the other person in the room. "You'd think the message would have sunk in with him by now. Aren't there enough wandering wives or lost alebrijes for him to track down rather than try and have a go at me all the time?"

He looked at Javier, trying not to stare at his left eye, which was scarred and milky, nor the cracks leading from the side of the mouth up his cheekbone. One of Ernesto's other bodyguards had made fun of Javier's features once, saying that it made him look like a pirate.

As far as Ernesto knew, that same man was still in intensive care with half of his ribcage missing.

"Tail him" he decided. "He might be a freak who'll never be believed, but we cannot chance anyone getting suspicious now. Héctor's almost forgotten, he said so himself when he tried to see me last month. Just a little while longer and we'll be in the clear. Got it?"

Javier nodded silently, not even bothering with a goodbye as he slipped the gas mask back on and strode from the room. Ernesto was left once again with his alcohol and alebrijes, his only new companion being a much muddier floor.