Fall of Night. Where reality goes to die. Deep in the impossible city, Pascal Hunter makes his living as a detective. The city never fails to offer up sufficient crimes to keep him busy. Always keeping his own secrets well hidden, of course.

PART ONE

FALL OF NIGHT

Sound and light poured from the speakers around the stage. A strong bass beat shook the floor while psychedelic rainbows streamed from the speakers to fill the warehouse. The colors stuck to walls, floors, and people, making the dance floor look like a memorable drug trip.

The crowd pulsed to the music while the detective watched from a catwalk well above the floor. In Fall of Night, physical law changed with the neighborhood. In this one sound and light overlapped, so every sound left its mark in the world. The partiers below were a riotous mix of green, yellow, red and blue. His own faded leather jacket was bright blue with a splotch of red across the back.

“You Pascal?” a young punk with spiky fluorescent red hair yelled at him. He saw the question as a spray of light brown from the kid’s mouth.

Pascal Hunter nodded silently and pointed to one of the wooden barriers along the side of the walk.

The barrier was brightly colored on the side facing the stage but plain and bare away from it. As soon as they were behind it the sound dropped to nothing.

The local rules had side benefits. In the midst of a raucous concert you could find quiet. When the bright and garish colors hit a barrier, the sound stopped. A thin piece of wood was sufficient to give the two of them a quiet space to talk.

“Jimmy, right?” Pascal asked, and the redhead nodded.

The kid was about fifteen and was probably going for the punk look. It didn’t work with day-glo orange and red spots all over his ripped tee shirt and jeans. The spiky leather bracelet was meant to make him look dangerous, but it was the switchblade in his belt that succeeded.

Paz didn’t go for the dangerous look. He preferred business-like, professional, and a bit cowardly. It kept him alive. In theory.

“I hear you have Denise Latour,” he whispered in strings of gray and brown.

“Not holding anyone,” the kid retorted.

“I misspoke,” he corrected. “You’re not holding her. You know where I might find her but you have nothing to do with her being there. No problems from me.”

The kid stared intently at Pascal, as thought to see through any disguise. The most common way people would describe him was nondescript. Short mousy brown hair framed a round face with a solid chin. Brown eyes, average height, no scars; he just didn’t stand out. He could carry on a conversation with someone, and they wouldn’t be able to describe him five minutes later. It was a professional asset.

“Cash?” the teen demanded.

Slowly, with exaggerated care, Pascal reached inside his jacket and showed an envelope. Opening it, he fanned through a few bills. He did not hand it over, and shook his head when Jimmy reached for it. “The girl first.”

“This way.” He stopped, turned back, “And you’re okay with– any condition?” The words spilled from his mouth in dark colors, a nearly black purple.

“Look, kid,” Pascal cautioned, “I don’t care if you’ve been whoring her around– sorry, if some unknown other person has been. I don’t even care if she’s got scars or missing digits. Long as she’s alive her father can fix it. I’m no white knight here, I’m just bringing her back.” He let his shoulders slump, palms out to indicate harmlessness and defeat.

The faint colors of their conversation remained on the buffer as they left. Pascal considered it was an unavoidable risk but Jimmy pulled a few pins and the wooden buffer swung down. A heavy rock beat washed over them again, painting them both in bright new colors. The bare side of the wood was exposed to the music, burying their conversation in layers of color and noise.

An approving nod from Pascal was met with a grim smile from the punk.

“Like the music?” the kid shouted over the blare.

“It’s good enough.”

It was better than good. It was a sensation in a city that sought entertainment with passion.

Sun comes up, I hit the field

Wet fields wait’n for harvest yield

They’d given field songs a techno beat and changed the words just enough to suggest sex. Pascal wasn’t sure they’d changed much, farmers could be mighty lusty on their own. The band understood the local rules and created a light show to complement the visual beat. It was a masterpiece in sound and light. The crowd ate it up. In other circumstances, Pascal might have spent more time watching the band and the crowd.

Pascal and Jimmy wouldn’t stand out if any partiers looked up. Other catwalks had their own occupants. Most of the others up above the crowd were involved in illicit activities, so they actively avoided noticing their compatriots. Overall, Pascal found this an effective way to stay concealed right in the open.

Jimmy led him to a windowless door at the far end of the walk. It was covered in bright yellow and red, the same splotches that were now decorating Paz and Jimmy. Jimmy opened the door wordlessly and gestured Pascal onward.

He stepped through with confidence, spun on his heel and caught Jimmy’s hand as it rushed towards him. Reversing quickly he pulled Jimmy in, using the kid’s momentum against him.

No longer taking it easy, he pulled the sap out of the kid’s hand and grabbed the switchblade from his belt.

“OK, that was fun. Are we done playing now? Denise.”

The kid’s face fell. “How’d you know?”

“Later. For now, I’m taking you home to your father.” When the punk tried to pull away he said, “Look, kid, gimme a break. You go home, I get paid. You want to run away again after that, it’s your lookout. I don’t figure it’ll be too much of a problem for you.”

Jimmy, or Denise, slumped, ready to give in.

Then she dashed.

And tripped.

Hard.

“Good one. Almost made it there,” Pascal reassured her as he helped her up. With a serious look, he added, “But don’t do it again. Your know your father really does have the resources to fix up any injuries. I don’t want to have to give you any to get you home.”

She scowled.

“Good enough,” Pascal answered with a half smile. “There’s a car downstairs. With me, please.” He twirled the girl’s switchblade to show he knew how to use it.

He could see their conversation painted on the walls. They’d be gone before anyone had a chance to read it. It reminded him that there was a very loud concert on the other side of the door, but they couldn’t hear a single note. It would be hard to get used to this shard. At least he didn’t have to worry about the kid yelling for help.

With a solid grip on her arm, he pulled her towards a fire escape.

He took a hard look at her. Her disguise was excellent. If he hadn’t known in advance that Johnny Bravo was really Denise Latour, he’d never have guessed. Even the little things were there; badly scuffed shoes, dirt and oil under the fingernails, and a ripped belt buckle on her jeans. She was every inch the image of a street punk. A bit skinny, but that wasn’t unusual for teens, and she looked plenty tough regardless.

“I’m just going to run away again,” she complained while climbing down the stairs outside the window.

“Not my problem,” he answered back. Then he added, “Why?”

She jumped down the last flight of stairs and hit the ground in a crouch. Pascal was waiting for it and wasn’t disappointed. She took off. He sighed, wondering why she thought he wasn’t prepared.

From the stairs well above her, Paz extended his hand and concentrated. He felt the power rise and with it came the desire to leave his body behind and wreak havoc. Resisting the impulse, he pulled just a little.

Denise stopped in her tracks and looked around in a panic. Her breath was visible in the suddenly cold air surrounding her. When she backed up to the wall, Pascal dropped to the ground and strolled casually towards her.

“What happened?” she asked when he got to her.

“I caught you,” he answered. It wasn’t what she meant, but he wasn’t going to answer her real question. He grabbed her arm again and brought her to his car, a small white four door car that would not draw much attention anywhere. He pushed her in and handcuffed her to the door.

“My father doesn’t understand me,” she complained when he got in.

Ah, Pascal thought, one of those. “Your father is Park Latour; he is rich and powerful. I’ve seen your home, you’ve got everything you could want and believe me that doesn’t come easy. You can put up with him misunderstanding you, I’d bet.”

“You don’t get it,” she shouted. “This isn’t a disguise. This is who I am.”

He looked sideways. “A street punk?”

“A boy,” she retorted. A second later, “You’re not going to be able to drive home. Cars don’t work in Kuroki.”

“Not going that way. It’ll take longer, but there’s a way back that we can drive the whole way, as long as none of the neighborhoods have moved. It’s worth a try anyway. Fine, you’re a boy. Why haven’t you done anything about it? You’ve got money. Go to a surgeon, get a nano-reconstructon, or find a wizard. Fix it already.”

“Dad won’t let me,” the child answered back. “He’s got things planned, wants to marry me off to Kyle Parker as part of a business deal. He doesn’t care what I want.”

Pascal chuckled.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Yeah, I know it sounds like a kid whining, but I’m not a girl. I won’t be some guy’s wife, it won’t work. I’ll–”

“No, that’s not it,” Pascal responded. “Kyle Parker? Skinny kid, black hair, long nose?”

“Yeah,” Denise nodded slowly.

“Well,” he answered with a laugh, “he was a runaway about three months back. You and him have more in common than you might think.” He looked over at her, “You do a better job passing than he did.”

She stared back, goggle eyed. “No.”

“Get to know him. You can help him, he can help you. Never know, you might even like each other. Comes the wedding, if you can’t get yourselves changed, I can hook you up with a wizard who can swap you two. Don’t keep running away. I’ve seen rich and I’ve seen poor. Trust me, you’ll like rich better.”

“Kyle Parker?” she muttered. “Make you a deal, Pascal.”

“You’re not in a position to make deals,” he answered.

“Oh really?” she asked, holding up the handcuff he’d used.

“What’s the deal?” he answered, crestfallen.

“I’ll go the easy way, but call me Jimmy the rest of the trip,” the boy requested.

With a small shake of his head, Pascal answered, “I don’t think so. You don’t act like a kid, so you don’t get a kid’s name. Jim.”

Jim answered with a sly grin.

This one’s a real devil-boy, Pascal thought to himself. His father will have his hands full.

- ♇ -

Jim kept his word and didn’t try to leave the car. They had to stick to places where the rules allowed cars, so it took a while. The bright colors they’d picked up at the concert faded. Pascal’s jacket went back to its normal light brown, and Jim’s bright red hair turned almost the same color.

Jim was quiet until they crossed the Wet Wall, “Damn, does it ever stop raining here?” he exclaimed as they crossed from a clear night into a raging downpour.

“Not very often. They collect the fresh water and trade it. You’ll need to know stuff like that if you intend to go into your father’s business.”

“Even if I do it as Kyle,” Jim responded slyly. “Yeah, OK.”

Pascal had to slow down in the beating rain, and it gave Jim time to phrase his next question. It was clear he was thinking hard about it. “Say this works, and Kyle and I can switch places. Doesn’t that limit us? We couldn’t go to shards where magic doesn’t work?”

Even a quick glance told Pascal the kid was worried. It was a worry he could allay, “Most shards take you as you are, only a few undo changes they don’t support.” He relied on that rule of thumb, though there was no reason to get into that. Jim wasn’t that good at reading people and was wrapped up in his own concerns, so Pascal was able to gloss over his personal connection. “Keep an eye out, sure, but don’t worry too much. And if a rule change puts you back in your old body, you can always change again.”

That gave the kid something to think about. Pascal didn’t need to point out that he was getting way ahead of himself. Jim would have to get Kyle to agree to swap and they would have to convince their parents to go along with it. But if the kid was thinking about a solution rather than planning his next escape, that had to be worth something.

It was easy to think of the kid as a boy, Pascal realized. He’d manage to get the life he wanted. Somehow.

The Latours lived in Pinewood. He had no idea why it was called that. They had a park with trees in it, but so do dozens of other neighborhoods. It seemed unlikely they named it after their park. In the end, they were Pinewood rather than a more descriptive name because they were. They were a wealthy district, where most technology worked and it could be combined with magic to create Gates. It made for some extremely wealthy and influential families.

The tall steel and chrome fancy of Buckman’s Folly loomed overhead. Like the district itself, Pascal was sure there was a story behind the name but he didn’t know what it was. The steel between the large glass windows was carved to look like vines, and a few double and triple windows let you imagine a face peering out of the jungle.

“We’re here, Jim,” Pascal announced. He knew he was wasting his breath since the kid obviously knew his own home, but it was one last chance for him to hear his name. His real name.

Pascal pulled into the parking garage and they got out. The boy led the way with Pascal watching him from behind. He wasn’t entirely convinced Jim wasn’t going to make one last attempt to run off.

Jim only smiled and nodded, understanding and accepting the gesture. It was a very manly response. “Thanks, Pascal. I mean it,” he said as he reached over to shake hands.

A man stepped out before they were halfway to the elevator. “Denise,” he called. For a second, Pascal was tempted to look around.

“Hi, Mr. Zims,” she said with a slump to her shoulders. Pascal looked at her in amazement. As soon as she heard the name Denise, she looked like a girl again. A sad, depressed girl.

“Buck up, kid,” Pascal whispered. “Take your medicine like a man and look to the future.”

That got a smile out of her.

“Mr. Latour will see you now, Mr. Hunter,” Mr. Zims announced.

With that serving as a dismissal, Pascal watched him lead off the girl dressed as a boy. He hoped things would work out for her.

The elevator whisked him up, and up, and up some more. He hated being alone in elevators. It was too much like being in a tomb hurtling through space. He could feel the cold darkness pressing in on the capsule. Every instinct screamed at him to leave his body behind for good. He relaxed as soon as the little bell rang and the box came to a fast stop.

“Pascal,” an excited voice greeted him. Park Latour met him in his lobby wearing sweat pants and a Japanese robe but still immaculately groomed even in the middle of the night. “I hear you brought my daughter back. Thank you. And it’s good to see you again.”

Park Latour treated Pascal like an old friend every time he hired the detective. Paz didn’t know, maybe he was. Memory was a problem for him, it faded in and out. Large pieces of his life were missing, and if he went back far enough it was all gone. He didn’t how or when he’d met Latour, but he’d gotten several interesting cases out of him. He was happy to overlook missing memories in return for difficult cases to solve.

“She’s fine,” he stated bluntly. Despite his resolution, Pascal got defensive when talking to people who might know him better than he did.

Latour stared him down, “I’ll need more than that, old man.” Park was graying at the temples and showing a bit of middle age spread around the waist. From appearances, he was about 10 years older than Pascal. Appearances were deceiving.

“Disguised herself as a boy, was running scams and living on the streets. Was in a fight or two I know about, but no serious injuries on either side. I’ll give you the full report, you didn’t need to call me up here for that.”

Park laughed, a short but rich sound. “I’ve dealt with your reports before. They’re late and sketchy. I’ll ask for myself, thanks. Pascal, you’re a wonder at finding things out. You found Denise in a week; the police were hunting over a month. But when it comes to explaining things–”

“I did find her,” he interrupted.

Park stopped suddenly. “Yes. Of course you did, old friend. That’s putting things in perspective.” He tossed a box at Pascal, who caught it. “Have a cigar. I’d invite you in for drinks, like old times, but I have… company.”

“Thanks,” he said while cutting and lighting the gift. Smoking was not his normal vice, but he wouldn’t turn it down. The cigar was richer and smoother than any he could remember. It could tempt him to smoke regularly if he could afford it. “Not like it’s going to kill me,” he joked.

After a very small chuckle, Park said, “I have another favor to ask.”

Pascal just raised an eyebrow at him to continue.

“Another case. For a friend. Well, associate, really. Daughter of an associate.”

“All right. What’s the case?”

“Murder, I gather.”

Pascal’s eyes lit up.

“Thought that’d get your attention.”

Getting two cases in a row was like hitting the jackpot. If it weren’t wildly out of character he’d jump up and down with joy and squeal like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t the money; he was nicely set. It was the challenge, the joy of finding something hidden, or chasing someone who didn’t want to be caught, or figuring out who did what he shouldn’t. Without it he’d drift, always a step away from leaving for good.

“Is this client your… company?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Latour snapped back. “Of course not. I recommended you to her. I’ll let her know you found Denise, and you can meet her at the Sunrise Plaza for breakfast. If that’s all right with you?” After a moment’s silence, he added, “It really is good to see you again Pascal.”

“You too,” he smiled and left. Park was polite about it, but Pascal could tell when his interview was done.

- ♇ -

The Sunrise Plaza was well named. The morning sun filtered through the trees in the park across the street, dappling the pavement with brilliant patterns of light and shadow. It was a performance art piece that would change each day.

A flock of birds rose from the trees. They were just pigeons, rats with wings, but in the morning light they were entrancing. Pascal watched them take off, rise, turn in the air and head off together somewhere. They were probably headed to a favorite statue to crap on, but he liked to imagine something grander and more mystical. Perhaps they were flying off to a grand meeting of all the pigeonry in the city to decide which statues they should crap on.

He was jolted from his thoughts when a tall thin woman imperiously slammed her hands on the table. “You are Mister Hunter. I will be retaining your services.”

She was a striking auburn haired beauty, wearing a plain black dress without jewelry or ornamentation. Her thin, wan lips, bags under her eyes and pale skin made her look worried, but her aggressive posture screamed of anger.

He leaned back and cocked an eyeball at her, but said nothing.

Inside he berated himself. Too much time watching the sun and the birds, not enough time keeping an eye on people. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if this was the fatal mistake he’d made once.

Every one had to face death, but he faced it by looking behind him. He didn’t know how, be he had died. All that remained was his ghost, endlessly seeking a semblance of life. He’d learned to make the best of it.

- ♇ -

Fall of Night was a city unlike any other that has ever been. There have been planned cities whose beauty came from the mind of the architects. There have been cities that grew organically, form relentlessly following function, with wonders of accident and design sitting next to each other. Fall of Night was neither. It was where reality came to die.

No one knew what cataclysm broke the world, but it broke them all. Everywhere. All that remained were shards. Small pieces of different realities, each with their own physical rules, drifted through the ether and occasionally collided.

Fall of Night was a collection of tiny shards pushed against each other. Some stayed for years, some moved about the city, and some vanished, never to be seen again. Hundreds, or thousands, of different worlds pressed against each other, creating danger and opportunities for those who could see them. To Pascal Hunter, it gave the chance to be more than a mad, wandering spirit.

The woman who startled him either didn’t notice his distraction or didn’t care. She continued, “My father was murdered and my family has arrested the wrong person for it. They will not listen to me. I want you to prove my case.”

Arrogant clients were not new to him. He did not need to like his employer, but he did need assurances. “And if I find out they do have the right person?” he asked.

Her eyes, dark brown to the point of being black, blazed. “They do not. But don’t worry, Mister Hunter, you’ll still get paid.”

“Not what I meant, but that’s good too. Please sit down, miss–”

“Lady,” she answered. “Lady Sofiya Stanislovna Pankov”

Paz nodded. “Then please have a seat, Lady Pankov.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Lady Sofiya Stanislovna.”

With a sigh and a slight slump of his shoulders, he said “Then please have a seat, Lady Sofiya Stanislovna. And perhaps we can discuss the actual case?” The abundance of titles, modes of address, and languages in Fall of Night got most people to forgive protocol lapses. But not everyone.

She had a strong accent. Pascal assumed she did not normally speak the lingua franca of the city. If she used another language, she was probably from a large shard.

There were at least a few hundred languages within the city, and uncountably many more outside. A pidgin tongue had taken root, a creole of five or six dominant languages, and was now the major language. Often called Frankish, the common joke was that no speaker was ever frank.

He wondered if the case would be worth the client.

She slid into a chair and without a pause said, “How long will it take?”

“Hold on. I haven’t taken your case yet. I want some more details first.” It was only partially a lie. He’d take the case. Park Latour recommended this one, and he saw no reason to annoy someone who might be a friend. The chance to investigate a murder was too juicy to pass up.

“I told you. I am Sofiya Stanislovna Pankov.” She seemed honestly surprised. Offended too, but mostly surprised.

“For the sake of argument,” he replied while trying not to sigh with frustration, “assume I’ve got no idea who that is. Try just explaining what happened.”

It took her a moment to wrap her head around the idea. She finally started explaining.

“My father, Lord Pankov, Stanislav Ivanovich Pankov, was found dead in his bed. He was still healthy, so we suspected foul play. The police found a piece of his bed quilt in his valet’s room, and that was enough to convict him. They arrested him and are holding him for trial.”

Pascal nodded. A waiter brought their breakfasts, fried eggs over tomatoes and spinach with fresh orange juice and, most importantly, coffee. Pascal cut his eggs to let the yolks mix with the vegetables while listening.

“Yakim Sergeyin protested his innocence, and I believe him. I told my mother to have him released and she refused me. Refused me.” She stopped speaking for a moment, indignant at the memory. Pascal sighed inside, realizing all too well what this client was going to be like.

“Why do you believe him?” Pascal asked her.

She brought her attention back to him with a small shake of her head. She was younger than he’d first thought. The black dress, aristocratic bearing, and lack of makeup made her look older than her years. She was at most 20, possibly still in her teens. He quickly reevaluated her. She might just have the certainty of youth, rather than the arrogance of the rich. That would be easier to handle.

“I’ve known Yakim since I was a little girl,” she answered. “I know him. He’s an honest man who loves, or loved, my father and the family. He would not harm Father for love or money.”

“Surely the rest of your family knew him just as long. Why do they disagree with you?” Tapping the table for emphasis, he added, “Do you have some information or evidence you haven’t shared with your family?”

“Of course not,” she pushed back away from him, eyes narrowed in surprise. She might be lying, but if so she was a particularly fine actress. “I don’t know why they believe he could be guilty. It’s just so, so, clear. He didn’t do it.” Her voice shook slightly.

She wasn’t going to make this easy, he could see.

“All right, let’s leave that alone for now. Describe how your father died.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said while shaking slightly.

“Forgive my bluntness,” he said evenly, making it clear he didn’t really care that much if she forgave him or not. “If I’m to take on this case, I need to know what I’m looking at.”

“I am not accustomed to being questioned by the people I hire,” she retorted.

“What exactly do you think a detective does?”

She thought about that for a moment. A shadow brushed her face, shaking her out of her reverie. She decided to answer. “My father was found in his bed in the morning. He was held tight by the blankets, they were tucked in on either side. When the police found a torn piece, they naturally suspected magic was at play.” Their shard’s rules must support some magic. He’d need to learn how it worked before going there.

“Our doctor and the police doctor examined him, of course. He wasn’t able to breathe, and that’s how he–.” She stopped and turned away from him for a moment. “My brothers tried to keep that from me, but I spoke with the doctor on my own and got him to tell me. When they found a piece of my father’s blanket in Yakim’s room, they believed he was responsible.”

“I see. Did your father have any enemies?”

“No, everyone loved him. There are two other noble families in Brodjach, but relations have been amicable for years now.”

Brodjach. He had a name for the shard now, but it wasn’t one he’d ever heard of before. No need to tell her that.

“So let me see if I’ve got it. Your father died in bed. He stopped breathing, and there were no signs of a struggle, but there is some evidence of foul play. Your family found evidence of a killer, and he’s under arrest, but the evidence isn’t conclusive. You want me to clear the accused killer, either by finding the real one or evidence that he didn’t do it. Does that sum it up?”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”

“I charge 25 pounds daily plus expenses, or equivalent in some generally exchangeable currency. Five days in advance. I’ll report in on my schedule, which may not be as often as you like. Do not try to contact me, as my work often involves being undercover and I don’t want to reveal that. Acceptable?”

She thought about it. She was unhappy, but finally nodded.

“Yes.”

Pascal nodded. He had a job.