Everything I thought I knew changed the day I met Elijah Blackthorne. Back then, I was running my business out of a Boston tavern and living in a glorified toolshed out back. It wasn’t much—drafty in the winter, stifling come summer, barely enough space for a cot and a chair—but the rent was cheap, and the owners didn’t mind me handling business at one of their corner tables. I suppose it kept some of the riffraff at bay. I didn’t have much of a reputation yet, but I looked the part, and I never made a habit of hiding my Schofield—a well-oiled iron from my Pinkerton years that still ran like a sinner with the devil on his heels.
That tavern is where I first made Blackthorne’s acquaintance. The man entered unnoticed at first, like a shadow materializing out of the moonless night. He didn’t go unnoticed for long, though. Between his own height, and the lightly worn top hat on his head, Blackthorne’s stature barely cleared the rafters of the old dive—I dare say, standing back-to-back, he could even have given Lincoln a run for his money. His coat—one of those European garments with a capelet—had a way of making you second-guess the light in the room, like maybe the lamps weren’t as bright as they ought to be. Tall and finely dressed as he was, saying Blackthorne stood out would be an understatement. Most of the regulars here would bleed a man like him dry—figuratively and literally—but even the toughest miscreants have their limits, and Blackthorne had the air of a man on a first name basis with Old Scratch.
The room held its breath as he crossed to my table with an otherworldly grace, his movements concealed under that dark coat of his. The effect was uncanny, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he floated across the floor. Hell, with what I know now, that may well have been true. He removed his hat, revealing well-groomed dark hair, amber eyes, and a face paler than death itself. He took stock of me, not the way one might when sizing up a man, more like he was evaluating a cut of meat for his supper. His mouth stretched into a thin smile that didn’t quite match the predatory gleam in his eye… or maybe it fit too well. Either way, it gave me a chill that I might’ve blamed on the November wind, if we were outdoors. If there were any doubts left that he came from a world of wealth and influence, they were crushed the moment he spoke in that vaguely old world accent of his.
“Malcom Cross, I presume?” A statement phrased like a question. He knew he had the right man, I was sure about that, but his class dictated a certain level of manners—or at least, the pretense of them.
“That’s me.” I confirmed, gesturing to the seat across the table.
He didn’t bother removing his coat, just let it fall open enough for the fine charcoal gray suit and blood red cravat to be visible and sat in an unsettlingly smooth motion. The tavern returned to its usual noisy chatter the moment the other patrons saw who he sat with. He didn’t appear to be armed, but even with his coat open, he had plenty of layers to conceal a piece. I’d had my fair share of clients who were delusional enough to think they didn’t need protection, although I got the distinct impression that the man across the table from me could actually back the claim.
“So,” I began, breaking the uncomfortable pause in conversation, “to what do I owe the pleasure Mr.…”
“Blackthorne,” he answered, “but you may call me Elijah.”
“I’d prefer to keep things professional, if it’s all the same to you.” I’ve had plenty of clients try to use first names; experience has taught me that it never goes well.
“As you wish,” he said with what sounded like a hint of amusement in his voice, “I am told you have something of a talent for investigative work.”
“I suppose some folks might say that.” I paused for a moment, noticing for the first time the only flaw in his otherwise flawless ensemble: a small tear on the sleeve of his coat—like it had snagged on something. “And I suppose there is at least some truth to it.
“Excellent,” Blackthorne replied as though he had planned to continue regardless of the answer, “I need you to investigate a rather gruesome crime—a murder, to be precise.”
I took a moment to mull it over. Something about the job didn’t sit right, but I couldn’t quite pin it down.
“You seem like a man with resources,” I pointed out casually, “why not contract the services of a larger agency?”
“Yes, well, this is a rather delicate matter. I would prefer this issue be kept quiet and I’m afraid there is too much notoriety surrounding those larger establishments.” He paused for a moment, “I’ve come to you, Mr. Cross, because you have a reputation for discretion.”
The job wasn’t legal, that much was clear. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to operate below board; I always charge a premium to compensate for the extra risk.
“Sure, I can be discrete, but that comes with a premium.” I explained.
“Money is no object, Mr. Cross, but as I am sure you would need such things hashed out beforehand, I am willing to offer you $3000; half now, and the other half when the job is done.” Blackthorne said with the casual flair of someone buying a trinket in a curiosity shop.
$3000 was more than generous—it was suspicious. That kind of money didn’t change hands without strings, blood, or both. I’d been around long enough to know when a man was buying silence as much as service, and Blackthorne’s smile had all the warmth of a snake sunning itself on cold stone.
“That’s a lot of money for one mark. What’s the catch?” I asked suspiciously.
“No catch.” Blackthorne answered, “This matter is of the utmost importance to me, and I will spare no expense to see it resolved.”
The way he said it—too polished, too rehearsed, as though he expected my question weeks in advance—set something twisting in my gut. It didn’t feel like an outright lie, more like a half-truth wrapped in good tailoring and a gilded accent. Every instinct told me to walk, but even I couldn’t ignore $3000, and something told me declining the offer would pose a more immediate risk than playing along with the deception.
“Well, Mr. Blackthorne,” I said, standing and holding my hand out to him, “we’ve got us a deal.”
He smirked wickedly, “excellent,” he said before standing and returning my handshake.
#
Two days later I was hot on the trail of the prime suspect in the case: one Nathaniel Hall. The sketch Blackthorne provided showed a rugged looking man with a bald head, thick mustache, and a jagged scar over his right eye. The victims were the family of Blackthorne’s handservant, and Hall was spotted fleeing the scene right around the time the murders supposedly took place. Apparently, Mr. Moneybags was particularly fond of this handservant and vowed to bring the fugitive in. It all sounded a bit too altruistic to me, and none of it explained why Blackthorne wanted to keep the whole thing quiet. I mentioned starting my investigation at the scene of the crime Blackthorne claimed I wouldn’t find anything of use and insisted I go directly after Hall. The wealthy bastard must’ve thought I was just some ignorant hick, or maybe he trusted the price on Hall’s head to keep me from asking too many questions. For now, it served my ends to let Blackthorne believe I trusted his word, but I’d been in this business far too long to let such a threadbare cover story slide. With a bit of delicate persuasion, I managed to convince Blackthorne that I couldn’t very well find Hall without at least knowing the whereabouts of the killing. He was reluctant but agreed to give me the location and requested that I not waste too much time there, explaining that the place was locked and he didn’t have the key.
I went straight to the place of the small waterfront dwelling and, once I could be sure Blackthorne didn’t have a tail on me, employed some less savory skills to gain access. When I arrived, the domicile looked more like a slaughterhouse than a murder scene. The bodies were still present; they should have been in the morgue by then. The victims had their throats torn open and, judging by their pallor, had all been drained of blood. It looked like the whole family—a mother, father, and two sons—had been killed. Blackthorne said this was the family of his employee, if that were true, then someone should have been missing.
There were no signs that any of them had put up a fight; the children still lay in their beds and the parents sat in chairs near the stove. If not for the still chests and slashed throats, one might think they had simply dozed off. Whoever did this entered quietly and killed quickly enough that none present had time to react. I’d met hunters that could creep within spitting distance of a buck without being made, but even they couldn’t pull this off without leaving some kind of evidence behind. A thought crossed my mind; the memory of Blackthorne and the nearly inhuman grace with which he moved that night in the tavern. I shook off the idea, Blackthorne couldn’t have been the killer, it didn’t make sense—hell, none of this made sense. I knew it was already far too late to back out, and I only had one lead: Nathaniel Hall.
Hall reportedly worked the docks in South Boston most days. I didn’t find him there, but thanks to a few leveraged connections and greased palms, I learned he had a not-so-secret mistress he visited often. He’d left a tidy trail of breadcrumbs—the kind that a halfway decent detective could follow better than most folks manage a road map. In my experience, men with a price on their heads are usually smart enough not to linger in the open. But plenty have made the mistake of thinking their mistress was far enough removed to cover their tracks. I didn’t know if Hall would be one of them, but it was the best I had to go on. I didn’t like how the puzzle was coming together, but I still wasn’t ready to admit that Blackthorne might’ve been playing me for a fool.
According to Hall’s associates at the docks, he kept his mistress—an Irish girl by the name of Moira—in the tenements nearby. The building didn’t exactly give the impression of prosperity; the paint was faded and the rusty hinges on the front door squealed in protest as I opened it, but the place looked sturdy enough and lacked the moldy wallpaper that plagued the cheapest of such dwellings. As working class housing went, it wasn’t half bad. I hadn’t the faintest clue which of the apartments Moira lived in, and the few neighbors that answered my knocks weren’t exactly forthcoming—save for one old hen who was all too eager to answer my questions, but I got the sense that her wits got left a few yards short of yesteryear.
It was by chance that, upon returning the next day, I overheard the tenement’s caretaker telling some courier, carrying a message from the old country, which room Moira lived in. I took a few hours after the courier left to avoid any undue suspicion and make some preparations before going to her door and giving it three firm knocks. The girl who answered the door carried herself in a way that might make one overestimate her modest height. Her auburn hair was pulled back in the popular fashion, revealing a lightly freckled face with high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and hazel eyes that burned with the sort of fiery determination typical of the Celtic temperament. She was pretty enough in her own right, but it wasn’t her looks that caught me off guard—it was the presence she projected, and the abruptness with which she flung open the door, which left me momentarily stunned.
“Are ye simple or something? What do ye want?” she demanded in an accent that was not altogether thick but bore no pretense of concealment.
Shaken from my thoughts, I cleared my throat and answered, “I’m looking for a man, Nathaniel Hall, know where I can find him?”
“Never heard of him.” She answered a little too quickly before trying to close the door. I managed to catch it halfway and push it back open.
“Right, so who’s that, then?” I countered, gesturing to the back of the room, where Hall made an effort to climb through the window.
“Nathaniel, ye bleeding halfwit!” Moira shouted after him, “I told ye to keep out of sight and don’t make a sound!”
By this point, Hall had finished climbing through the window. There was a crash outside.
“God bless it!” a voice I can only assume belonged to Hall exclaimed.
I smiled “Be seeing you, miss.” I said before calmly exiting the building and circling around to the alley.
It was short and narrow, with a tall brick wall at one end, and an iron gate at the other. Behind the latter of these, looking a bit like a caged animal, stood Nathaniel Hall. His escape was cut short by a conveniently placed chain and padlock.
“Didn’t think I’d leave the back door open, did you?” I teased, twirling the padlock key in my fingers
“I swear I didn’t see anything,” Hall said in a panic “you don’t have to kill me.”
“I’m not here to kill you,” I reassured him, though he didn’t seem convinced, “I was hired to investigate a murder, four of them to be exact, and you’ve been named as a suspect.”
Hall’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Suspect? But I didn’t kill anyone,” he objected.
I looked him over, the fool looked on the verge of panic. “Yeah, I got that sense,” I patronized, “but you’re still the only lead I got, so why don’t we have ourselves a chat. Don’t try anything stupid; I won’t be half as pleasant if you get on my bad side.”
I unlocked the gate, keeping an eye on Hall as he stepped out of the alley. We mutually decided to move our conversation into Moira’s apartment. The sun had nearly set, and I had a feeling this conversation might warrant a touch more privacy than that alley offered. The apartment possessed a distinct lack of accommodation beyond the essentials. A humble-looking stove, a bed, two chairs, and a small table made up the furnishings. On the table lay a simple bone knife with a wood handle, etched near the base of the blade with Celtic symbols of protection.
“A rowan knife?” I mused. “Didn’t peg you for the superstitious type.”
Moira gave me a puzzled look. “How’s it a Yank knows about auld magic?” she asked, skeptical.
“My grandmother came from the old country,” I said. “Didn’t teach me everything, mind you, but the old woman passed on enough for me to recognize some of those signs.”
Moira flushed—embarrassed, maybe, or irritated—then quickly gathered herself.
“Oh, aye? She feed ye all the old tales with your porridge?” she jabbed. “Anyway, it ain’t about the magic. ‘Twas a gift from me ma—God rest her—said it were an heirloom, and it’d keep me safe so long as I kept it near. I only hold onto it to remember her by.” She reflected for a moment, then added “rumors spoke of her bein’ one in a long line of hedge witches, but there weren’t no truth to the tales; she just knew her herbs and had a liking for good luck charms is all.”
“As you say.” I changed the subject, “anyway, I think we have a more important matter to discuss.”
“Yes,” Hall butted in, “like I said I didn’t kill anyone, but I saw who did.”
“And? What did he look like?” He was hesitant to give details; something—or someone—spooked him.
Hall took a moment to collect himself before he answered. “Tall, black coat, one of those fancy hats like rich folk wear to the opera. I didn’t get a good look at his face; it was too dark.”
I didn’t like his answer, not because I thought he was lying, but because it seemed to confirm what I already expected. The evidence was mounting, but it still wasn’t enough to act on. I needed something solid, something irrefutable.
“Got any proof?” I pressed.
“No,” Hall admitted reluctantly, “but whoever it was noticed me and attacked me. I had my bosun’s knife with me and managed to catch his coat sleeve with it before losing my balance and falling into the water. By the time I surfaced and pulled myself out, the killer was gone.”
Suddenly, a memory shot to the forefront of my mind, shattering any doubts I still had like a bullet hitting a pane of glass. It was a small detail, the kind a less observant person would have missed. A tear, exactly the kind a bosun’s knife would make, in a coat sleeve… in Blackthorne’s coat sleeve. One thing still didn’t make sense; why would Blackthorne hire me to investigate a murder that he committed? The realization came a moment too late as the apartment door burst inward, splintering the frame as it did. A familiar figure stood in the doorway, his black inverness coat and silk top hat seemingly undisturbed by the task of breaking the door open. Blackthorne had used me to find his witness and showed up to finish the job himself.
“Mr. Cross, I am deeply grateful for your assistance, but I am afraid I will no longer be in need of your services.” Blackthorne said coldly.
The son of a bitch was planning to kill me along with Hall and, more than likely, Moira. Unfortunately for him, I had six things to say about that. I stood, drew my Schofield, thumbed the hammer, and emptied the cylinder in the space of a breath. He looked at me… and smiled. It was that same predatory smile from the tavern, like a cougar staring down a cornered fawn.
No more than three paces separated us, I knew I couldn’t have missed from that range. Men have taken worse injuries and kept fighting, though none that I had seen retained the level of calm Blackthorne exhibited in that moment. I didn’t have much time to reflect on it. He took a step closer, I cleared the other two, drawing the bowie knife I kept on my left hip and slashing him across the face then the chest before burying the blade deep in his gut. The blade cut deep on each stroke, but rather than collapse or cry out in pain like most men would, Blackthorne halfheartedly swung his arm in a broad backhanded swipe. I felt my ribs crack as his attack caught me in the side and knocked me clear off my feet. I landed in a heap in the corner, struggling to take in air. Blackthorne pulled the knife from his abdomen like it was nothing more than a splinter.
“Are you quite done?” he taunted, his smile never faltering.
I looked on in stunned silence as the knife wounds stitched themselves closed. It looked to all the world as though the cuts had never existed, the fresh tears in Blackthorne’s clothing serving as the only evidence that I hadn’t imagined inflicting them.
“What in hell’s creation…” I choked out between gasps. The taste of copper filled my mouth.
“Hell’s creation—a more accurate term than you know, Mr. Cross.” Blackthorne mused.
I tried to stand, to prop myself up, to do anything. Crippling pain denied my efforts with dogged persistence. If the worst of my injuries were broken ribs, then I’d count myself lucky.
“Do sit still, Mr. Cross,” Blackthorne chided “and try not to bleed out while I deal with Mr. Hall and his paramour.”
Blackthorne turned on Hall and Moira, his eyes practically glowing with murderous intent. My injuries kept me pinned; there was nothing I could do but watch as he lifted Hall by his neck and pinned him against the wall. I don’t think any of us could have predicted what happened next. Moira grabbed the bone knife from the table and, screaming like a banshee, slashed at the intruder. Her attack lacked any real form or precision as befits an inexperienced fighter, but she made contact, nonetheless. The cut didn’t look deep, less serious than the wounds my own knife inflicted by a measurable degree, yet the effect was profound. Blackthorne let out a pained roar that sounded more beast than man, released Hall and staggered away from the pair. His confident smirk twisting into an expression of pain, rage, and fear.
“That sting…” he rasped, his voice losing its cool arrogance, “Cnaimfhuil… I thought that accursed relic was lost after Glenthorn.”
Blackthorne took a cautious step forward. Moira thrust the knife towards him, holding it point-out at arm’s length. Blackthorne recoiled from it as though from a hot iron. The new wound—a three inch gash on his forearm—did not close itself as the others had. Whatever that knife’s story, it was the only thing keeping Blackthorne at bay. Moira lunged and slashed at him again and he leapt back, narrowly avoiding another cut from the knife’s wicked edge.
“I don’t know how that blade came into your possession, girl,” Blackthorne spat, “but all charms break sooner or later.”
“Maybe,” Moira countered, “but it’s doin’ a damned fine job now.”
The fear in her face had faded, replaced by her signature fiery grit—and something else… something older and wiser. Her grip grew steadier, the faint tremor in her arms stilled. It was as though generations of folk wisdom had flowed from the knife to her. I told myself that the knife’s efficacy had just made her more confident, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something deeper. Blackthorne retreated further, his face twisted into a fearful grimace, then in the blink of an eye, he vanished into shadow.
#
After the heat of the engagement faded, I lost consciousness on account of my injuries. Fortunately, Moira and Hall, being the charitable sort, carried me to a doctor. Apparently they possessed enough wits to recognize that the truth would likely earn a permanent reservation at the sanitarium, so they instead told the doc that I had been kicked by a horse; it’s a little farfetched, but more believable than the actual cause of my condition. He told them not to place any bets on my survival but still managed to keep me from kicking the bucket. What’s more, he had me back on my feet—if a little unsteady—in a few days’ time.
Moira and Hall stuck around. There are some things that, for better or worse, inextricably tie people together. A shared encounter with… whatever the hell Blackthorne was… counted among them. Besides, even if Hall made an exceptionally incompetent fugitive, he came out of his first encounter with Blackthorne a little damp, but otherwise unscathed, and Moira managed to drive the hell spawn off with an old knife and a healthy portion of gumption. Both were capable enough in their own ways, and I needed capable allies to deal with someone like Blackthorne.
Speaking of, if there is one good thing that came of this, it’s that Blackthorne’s $1500 advance payment left me with enough extra funds to purchase a proper office space. The building we ultimately settled on saw past use as an apothecary shop. The previous tenant skipped town to avoid a tax debt, and the city gave us a fair enough price to take it off their hands. It needed some finishing work, but it was sturdy enough, and it had living quarters consisting of two bedrooms and a wood burning stove. Hall and I shared one of the rooms while Moira got the other to herself. She didn’t ask for a private room, but propriety and such—I can be a bit rough around the edges, but I’m not completely indecent.
We had enough left over to put iron bars on the windows and reinforced the doors and locks for more mundane threats. Between the three of us—and a couple of discreetly acquired occult volumes—we cobbed together a variety of protective charms in case Blackthorne, or worse, decided to pay us a visit. We had no way of knowing which ones actually worked, but we figured, between the lot of them, at least one was sure to be potent enough. Moira kept that Rowan knife in arms reach as well. The origins of the thing remained a mystery, but it succeeded where far more imposing weapons failed. Not to mention, Blackthorne called it by name, implied he encountered it before. I suppose that had to count for something.
After the building purchase and security essentials, we only had a modest budget left for signage. All we could afford was a humble wooden sign that read “Cross Investigative Agency” not that it bothered me all too much. I’ve never been one for fancy slogans anyway; a name speaks for itself, and mine still had plenty to say.
~End of Account 1~
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