Chapter 3: A Drink at The Gilded Thorn

Chapter 3: A Drink at The Gilded Thorn

The black, spidery mark on my hand wasn't just a brand; it was a compass needle forged in agony. It thrummed with a cold, insistent pulse, a silent metronome counting down to… something. Back in the relative squalor of my office, I’d tried to ignore it, tried to treat it like a bruise. But the chill was sinking into my bones, and the faint, pulling sensation was growing stronger, an invisible line tugging me east, toward the opulent, rotting heart of the city’s financial district.

Whiskey didn’t dull the throb. Coffee didn’t warm the cold. My leads consisted of a soulless CEO, a terrified assistant, and a psychic wound that felt like it was staring back at me. Following the pull was the only move I had left on the board.

So I walked. The rain had softened to a mist that haloed the streetlights, but it did nothing to wash away the city’s grime. The pull on my hand led me past gleaming corporate lobbies and high-end boutiques, then took a sharp, nonsensical turn into a narrow, piss-scented alleyway wedged between a Michelin-starred restaurant and an old bank. The alley was a dead end, filled with overflowing dumpsters and the ghosts of last night’s garbage. The mundane world ended here.

But the pull didn’t. It intensified, yanking me toward a single, unmarked door of polished, dark wood that had no business being in an alley this foul. There was no handle, no lock, just a small, silver knocker shaped like a coiled serpent biting its own tail. Faintly, through the thick wood, I could hear music—a melody that was simultaneously ancient and yet thrummed with a modern, synthesized bassline.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my uninjured hand and knocked.

The door swung open on its own, revealing not a back room or a storage closet, but a place that defied the laws of Slakterquay architecture.

I was standing at the entrance to a cavernous space that felt like a forest floor at twilight. Glowing fungi pulsed with soft, bioluminescent light from the walls, and the ceiling was a star-field of tiny, floating motes that drifted like lazy fireflies. The air smelled of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and expensive liquor. Patrons were scattered throughout, lounging on velvet chairs or leaning against tables carved from living wood. They were a menagerie of the city’s hidden population: a goblin in a pinstripe suit haggling with a creature made of shadow and smoke; a woman with skin like polished mahogany and vines for hair, sipping something that glowed green; a pair of vampires, achingly beautiful and profoundly bored, watching the crowd with predatory stillness.

This was The Gilded Thorn. The premier supernatural watering hole and neutral ground in Slakterquay. And I had just walked in with a magical signature on my hand that screamed ‘trouble’.

The pull in my hand wasn’t just a compass anymore; it was an anchor line, drawing me toward the heart of the room: a long, impossibly smooth bar carved from a single piece of petrified, glowing wood.

And behind it, polishing a crystal glass, was him.

He was exactly as the legends described. Kaelen, the Fae Lord who ran this establishment, looked like a creature sculpted from moonlight and arrogance. His silver hair was tied back with a leather cord, and his sharp, elven features were so perfectly symmetrical it was unsettling. He wore a modern suit of indigo silk that seemed to drink the light around him. When he looked up, his amethyst eyes—piercing and ancient—found me instantly. They didn't just see me; they catalogued me, assessed me, and dismissed me in the space of a heartbeat. A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn around. Dealing with the Fae was a fool's game, a labyrinth of semantics and binding promises where you always lost. But the throbbing in my hand was a constant reminder that I was already in the game, whether I liked it or not.

I walked to the bar, the eyes of the room following me, and slid onto a stool. Kaelen glided over, placing the polished glass on the bar top. His movements were liquid, unnervingly graceful.

“Aggie McPherson,” he said, his voice a smooth, melodious baritone that could charm snakes from their baskets and secrets from the lips of the dead. “The Spectral Detective. It has been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure of your grim presence in my establishment?”

“I’m not here for pleasure,” I said, laying my marked hand palm-up on the glowing wood of the bar. The black, web-like lines stood out starkly against my pale skin. “I’m here about this.”

Kaelen’s gaze drifted to my hand. His amused smirk didn’t falter, but a flicker of genuine interest sparked in those violet depths. He leaned closer, his proximity creating a strange pressure in the air, a sense of immense, coiled power. He didn't touch me, but I felt as if he were tracing the lines with a ghostly finger.

“Soul-splicing,” he murmured, the words tasting like a fine, aged poison. “Crude, but effective. Leaves a nasty residue. You’ve been poking your nose into a very exclusive, very messy piece of business.”

My desire for information was a physical ache. “I need to know who uses this kind of magic in this city. I need a name.”

Kaelen leaned back, a low chuckle escaping his lips. The sound was like chimes in a graveyard. “Oh, my dear detective. Information is the truest currency in Slakterquay. And the kind of knowledge you seek is… prohibitively expensive.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “These people pay me in secrets, in oaths of fealty, in decades of servitude. Your paper money is worthless here.”

Here was the obstacle I knew was coming. He held all the cards. I was a beggar at a king’s feast. “I’m not leaving until I get something, Kaelen.”

“Brave,” he mused, tapping a long, elegant finger against the bar. “And foolish. But your desperation is… compelling. It has a certain piquancy.” His eyes held mine, and I felt the weight of centuries behind his gaze. He was bored, I realized. This ancient, powerful being was bored, and I was a new, interesting toy. This was my only leverage.

This was the turning point.

“Very well,” he said, his smirk widening into a predatory smile. “I am feeling generous. I will offer you a trade. A bargain.”

I tensed. “I don’t make bargains with the Fae.”

“You have a brand of soul-killing magic eating its way up your arm, and you are hunting a man who is both dead and alive. I’d say your negotiating position is somewhat compromised,” he countered smoothly. “It is a simple exchange. A task for a name. You will perform a service for me, and in return, I will tell you precisely what you wish to know about Alistair Finch and his… condition.”

My mind raced. A favor for a Fae Lord was a debt with infinite, compounding interest. It was a chain around your neck you never saw until it choked you. But the alternative was walking out of here with nothing but a cursed hand and a case that was rapidly spiraling out of my control.

“What’s the task?” I asked, my voice tight.

Kaelen’s smile was blinding. He had me, and he knew it.

“A trifle, really. A certain goblin merchant has come into possession of an item that belongs to me. A small, silver music box. I would like it returned. Discretely.” He slid a small, folded piece of parchment across the bar. “His name and the location of his stall in the Undermarket. Retrieve my property, bring it to me undamaged, and the name you seek is yours.”

I picked up the parchment. The deal was laid out. My pride screamed no, but the cold reality of my situation was undeniable. I had no other path forward.

“Fine,” I ground out, the word tasting like ash. “You have a deal.”

“Excellent.” Kaelen’s eyes gleamed with triumph. As I stood to leave, his voice, now laced with a silken threat, stopped me. “And Aggie? A word of advice. Do not try to cross me. The price for breaking a bargain with the Seelie Court is far, far worse than a few black lines on one’s hand.”