Chapter 1: The Scent of Rain and Regret

Chapter 1: The Scent of Rain and Regret

The rain in Evernight had a personal grudge. It didn't just fall; it hammered against the grimy windows of my second-story office, seeking out the cracks in the cheap sealant with a vindictive persistence. A slow, rhythmic plink... plink... plink from the corner was the metronome for my impending financial doom, each drop landing in a strategically placed coffee mug that was already half-full of rust-colored water.

My name is Grimm Gourden, and I’m a private investigator. That’s what the peeling letters on my door say, anyway. Mostly, I investigate the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The office, which doubled as my apartment and tripled as my mausoleum, smelled of stale bourbon, damp wool, and the lingering ozone of a miscast locating spell from last week’s pathetic cheating-spouse case.

The neon sign outside flickered, casting my name—G O R D E N—in a sickly green light across the wet street below, the ‘U’ having given up the ghost months ago. Just like me.

Desire? Mine was simple: make rent. The crisp eviction notice slipped under my door that morning was a stark, white reminder that my landlord’s patience had finally run out. It sat on my desk, a paper tombstone for my career.

My obstacle was equally simple: an empty bank account and a city full of secrets nobody wanted to pay to uncover. I swirled the last finger of whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. It was cheap stuff, the kind that burns all the way down and doesn't even have the decency to make you forget.

That's when I heard it. Not the usual shuffle of debt collectors or the stumbling of drunks from the bar downstairs. This was the crisp, clean sound of expensive heels on my worn-out floorboards. The knock that followed was sharp and confident, not a sound my door was accustomed to.

I took a final swig from my silver flask—a habit—and grunted, "It's open. Don't expect a parade."

The door swung inward, and the stale air of my office was instantly banished by the scent of a deep forest after a summer storm—lilies, wet earth, and something ancient and electric. The woman who stood in the doorway didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere on this side of reality.

She was perfect. Not beautiful in the way of movie stars or models; that was too simple a word. Her perfection was unnerving, an intricate, flawless construction. Long, silver hair, braided with what looked like faintly glowing flowers, cascaded over the shoulder of a silk blouse that shimmered like captured moonlight. Her eyes were the color of twilight, a deep violet that held the depth of a starless night sky.

This was when my cheat code kicked in. The one thing that set me apart from every other down-on-his-luck PI in this godforsaken city. I call it the Gloom Sight. For me, the world has layers. There’s the mundane, brick-and-asphalt reality everyone else sees, and then there’s the Gloom—the shimmering, buzzing, often-terrifying world of magic that lies just beneath it.

And this woman was drowning in it.

To my Gloom Sight, her form was wreathed in a silver-blue aura that warped the air around her. The human-like perfection was a mask, a glamour woven with such skill it would have fooled anyone else. But I could see the truth flickering at the edges: a being of immense power, ancient and alien, her true form something etched from starlight and shadow. She wasn't human. Not even close.

"Mr. Grimm Gourden?" Her voice was like wind chimes, melodic and clear, yet it carried an undercurrent of steel.

"Depends who's asking," I rasped, staying behind my desk. It was a mess, but it was my fortress. "If you're from the landlord, I'm out. If you're selling salvation, I'm not buying."

A small, dangerous smile touched her perfect lips. "I am Elara Meadowlight. I was told you are... discreet. That you find things others cannot."

Her gaze swept over my office, taking in the leaking ceiling, the stacks of unpaid bills, and the empty bottle on the floor. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a cold, detached assessment, like a biologist examining a curious specimen of mold.

"I find things," I confirmed, leaning back in my squeaking chair. "Usually trouble."

"An admirable specialty," she said, gliding further into the room. "I need you to find my son. His name is Lyra."

She placed a small, framed photo on my desk. It showed a young boy, no older than eight, with the same silver hair as his mother and eyes that held an impossible amount of wisdom. He was smiling, but even in the photograph, I could feel it—a faint, crackling echo of the same power that rolled off his mother.

"He was taken from our home. Last night," she continued, her voice now tight with a carefully crafted imitation of maternal grief. My Gloom Sight told me a different story. The silver-blue aura around her pulsed not with sadness, but with cold, calculated fury. This wasn't a distraught mother; this was a queen who'd had a valuable asset stolen.

"Police?" I asked, a token question.

"The mundane authorities would be of no use. The circumstances of his disappearance were... unusual."

"Unusual how?" I prodded, tapping a finger on the eviction notice. Time to see what was behind the curtain. "Let me guess. No broken windows, no forced locks. Just an empty room that smells faintly of ozone and regret?"

Her twilight eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. The air thickened.

"You see more than most mortals, Mr. Gourden," she stated, the melodic quality of her voice sharpening to a razor's edge. It wasn't a question.

"The sign says 'Investigator,' not 'Blind Fool'," I countered, holding her gaze. "I deal with the 'unusual.' It pays better, usually. My rates are high, Mrs. Meadowlight. Especially for clients who shimmer."

The mask of the grieving mother fell away completely, replaced by an expression of regal authority that could have frozen empires. "My son is of the highest importance. Your price is irrelevant."

She opened her designer handbag and placed a heavy, velvet pouch on my desk. It landed with a solid, clinking thud that spoke of real weight.

"This is your retainer," she said. "Find him. Bring him back to me, unharmed. Do this, and you will be rewarded beyond the comprehension of your kind."

My desire—rent money, survival—was sitting right there in a bag, offered by a creature of immense power who was clearly lying to me about something. Every instinct, honed by years of dealing with the dregs of both the human and magical worlds, screamed at me to refuse. This case smelled of ancient feuds and politics I couldn't possibly comprehend. Getting involved was a death sentence, plain and simple.

But then my eyes fell on the eviction notice again. A death sentence tomorrow, or destitution tonight. It wasn't much of a choice.

"I'll need access to the scene," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "And everything you're not telling me."

"You will have access," she conceded, her perfect smile returning, colder than before. "As for the rest... find my son. The truth is a luxury you can earn."

She turned and glided out of my office as silently as she had entered, leaving behind the scent of a storm and the heavy weight of her secrets.

I waited until the sound of her footsteps faded completely before I allowed myself to breathe. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the velvet pouch. I loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents onto my cluttered desk.

A cascade of heavy gold coins tumbled out, gleaming with an inner light that defied the gloom of my office. For a moment, they were perfect, ancient coins, stamped with symbols I'd never seen. Then, as the mundane light from my desk lamp hit them, they shimmered and changed. The illusion—or perhaps the reality—wavered.

Before my eyes, the gold coins flickered, becoming a pile of perfect, crisp autumn leaves, then shifting back into solid, heavy gold.

Fae gold. Unreliable. Treacherous. Binding.

I scooped one up. It felt cold and heavy in my palm, a solid promise of paid rent and a full bottle of whiskey. But my Gloom Sight saw the strings attached, invisible threads of obligation and power spiraling off the coin and into the rain-soaked night, connecting me to a world I had always tried to keep at arm's length.

I had my money. My immediate problem was solved. But as I stared at the impossible gold on my desk, a new, far colder certainty settled in my gut. I hadn't just taken a case. I had just sold myself, and the price was going to be infinitely higher than I could ever afford. The scent of rain still filled the air, but now it was mixed with the cloying sweetness of lilies, and the unmistakable stench of regret.