Plotseekers

Chapter 1

Constantine Kipling pushed away another thought that was antagonistic to the very concept of driving as his car crept around another curve in the gray, near-nonexistent visibility. Mailboxes with their numbers in various states of obscurity slid past, but he did not doubt being able to find the yellow police tape of a crime scene on this clean, suburban street. Rain tapped against the Miata’s windshield and hissed under the tires. The young woman beside him still made him nervous.

"Lower that cowl while in the car, will you?" He said loudly.

She shrugged. Her black sweatshirt’s hood lay down around her shoulders, revealing short dirty-blonde hair and a pointed face with a thin scar running to the hairline above her right eye. The old scar made her face less attractive and more intent. She said, "You get used to it. All movie bad guys wear them, they’re so comfortable."

"You’re not a movie bad guy."

She smirked.

Constantine sighted, with difficulty, the yellow tape and police car marking a house and section of sidewalk ahead. He drove past to find somewhere to not parallel park, even though three Miatas could fit in some of the spaces along the stone curb.

Not long after the awkward silence of their last exchange, his companion quietly said, "All this rain. It sets the scene to match the mood. We could be in a story of our own."

He shook his head. "If so, how can we enter other books and manipulate them?"

"I’ve had this conversation before, but backwards."

After parking a few houses away from their target they crossed the street and dipped under the police tape. The rain continued to pelt down.

They climbed the stairs to the white, split level home's porch. Two dim figures rising up from the dim day; Constantine, a man of average height and thin build, wore a brown leather trench coat. His brown hair was worn short except for a long, thin, unbound tail between his shoulders . His eyes, gray glinting bronze in the murk, expressed unshakable confidence. The girl quickened her short stride behind him. Both bowed slightly from the rain, but straightened and did not shiver during the first steps under the cover of the wooden porch.

Before they could knock or make any other sign, a middle-aged, bearded policeman opened it. Constantine’s nervousness jumped a notch. He did not usually deal with authorities in so-called Real Life. Authors did not usually murder their fans for writing copious tie-in fiction.

"We are here on special investigations for the death of Marie Shandler." he said.

"The scene’s mostly cleared away. Let me see your ID."

Constantine’s partner spoke firmly, looking up at the officer. "This is Master Constantine Kipling and I am Mourn," She spelled it. "You will grant us entrance and wait outside until we’ve finished. Keep quiet."

The officer nodded and walked out on to the dripping porch. Mourn stepped aside for him to pass.

Constantine entered the house and started up the stairs. He slowly shook his head, but also said, "Thank you."

To her credit, Mourn, following closely now up the worn carpet, only replied with, "I had a friend who watched a lot of X-Files. Police are just people."

The living room had a mauve carpet, various paintings of the crucified Jesus or Catholic saints in neat formations on the walls, and no body remaining. The weapon lay just outside the stain of blood on the carpet, lain horizontally where presumably it had been left. It was a long, thin sword, silver until the red blood which had dried on the last four inches of the blade, the hilt carefully styled in gold and with a wide, complex golden guard.

Mourn hissed a foreign curse.

Constantine flicked his gaze to her and then back to the crime scene. "What?"

"Just the blood." She knelt down beside the stained blade and moved to touch the guard with the back of her hand.

"I’m not sure. I just read it. He didn’t describe them as so Spanish."

Constantine’s cell phone trumpeted the first few tones of a techno ‘Amazing Grace’ and he snatched it from pocket to ear. "Hello?"

His mother’s voice said, "Trouble! You two, get back here, now!" She hung up.

Constantine and Mourn traded glances and hastened out. The rain had begun to slow, though now silver puddles lay across the sidewalk. The other lawns and houses on the street remained quiet under the emerging sunlight.