Investigator Clint Sherwood is burdened by his new rookie partner on their quest to rescue a unicorn from animal traffickers.
Story by Joe Morin
Narrated by Joe Morin
Foreword and Afterword by Joe Morin
Edited by Joe Morin
THE PROMPT
A fairy works for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation and discovers unicorns are real.
THE STORY
When the Dust Settles: A Clint Sherwood Adventure
By Joe Morin; Narrated by Joe Morin
My old nemesis sat before me, seductive and taunting. She beckoned: “Take me Clint. Here on this table.” I turned away, my lips puckered, as this situation’s sour taste lingered a moment. Such pleasures I’ve felt before and often– the rapture, the release of my demons. Yet with each appeasement my sense is carried off, my resistance weakens, and my life’s hollow deepens. Still what would be the harm in one last indulgence?
I faced my nemesis, bent to meet her– already spread across the table– and snorted the purple dust through my nostrils. First came the irritation, then the burn. Some spasms followed. And then…
Clint Sherwood gazed upon himself with a new perspective. His heightened state of mind showed his reflection thoroughly, more detailed than a mirror’s constructs. Clint saw the surface: a disheveled middle-aged man; a sullen face, which looked 10 years older than it was; one good wing on his back, and another grotesquely mangled. But he saw too what lay beneath: a good for nothing, past-his-prime junkie, with no future, no legacy to leave; a passionless investigator for the Department of Mythical Creature Conservation, left in the dust by changing times.
These observations were old hat for Clint Sherwood. They were always the first things he noticed on the Dust. But today Clint saw something new: a boy– a young fairy, in Department uniform– who stared at him, mouth gaped in shock and… disgust.
“How long you been there, Rookie?” Clint asked, with suspicion. He watched the kid jot notes on a paper pad. Odd. The Rookie opted against the standard DoMCC magical short-hand. Because that would have meant waving his fingers in such a pattern that Clint would understand. SI Sherwood deduced that a game was underway.
Sherwood continued to break the kid’s concentration “Speak MB Rook?” (that’s “Mythical Basic”).
“Y-Yessir,” the boy stammered, eyes still down on his pad.
“Eyes up, kid.” The Rookie nervously met Clint’s glassy gaze. “Good. Now why are you in my basement?”
“My name is–”
“Don’t care,” Clint interjected. “I asked why you’re here.”
The boy hesitated. “I’ve been assigned to your tutelage, Investigator Sherwood.”
“Why?”
“Because my bosses felt you could teach me a thing or two?”
“Nope.”
“Nope?”
“You deaf?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Listen here, Rookie: You tell those hacks they won’t make a fool of Clint Sherwood.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Maybe you don’t. And that’s fine. But understand this: I don’t do partners and I don’t babysit. The bosses and I have a rare understanding there.”
“I was told to give you this if you put up any resistance.”
The rookie handed Clint an official document, stuffed with dull jargon, which effectively amounted to “The kid’s yours, Clint. Deal with it. Signed: your bosses.”
“Hrmm”, Clint grumbled. He caught the rookie smirk.
“If we’re going to be working together afterall, I ought to introduce myself properly. My name is–”
"Don't care. And I won't until you do something I'll remember. Till then you're just 'Rook'. Yeah?”
“Whatever you’d prefer, Investigator Sherwood.”
“Clint. I don’t go for the titles bullshit. Just don’t forget I’m in charge.” Rook wrote another note on his pad. “What’s that there?”
“I’m a diligent apprentice… Clint. Just noting your wisdom.”
“Good. Here’s summore for you: stay close, keep your mouth shut, and jump when I say ‘jump’, got it?”
“Yessir.”
Clint Sherwood snatched his trilby off the deeply indented couch cushions in the room’s corner; he pocketed the pair of brass knuckles stored in his desk drawer; he aggressively swung a tattered long coat over his shoulder– the tail end missing Rook’s face by an inch; and he marched out the office door. Rook followed Clint Sherwood from a respectable distance, adding more notes to his pad.
Rook rode shotgun next to Clint in his DoMCC Glider (glowing pink chariot base, and organically engineered fairy wings on the vehicle’s sides to propel it). Clint barely contained his bitterness each time he rode this thing, knowing his healthcare plan could never cover such a replacement wing for himself… Here Clint noticed the young officer nervously glance his way, looking for an excuse to start a conversation. Clint preferred the kid to stay quiet. ‘Cause Rook’s next words were sure to be some snide judgment over Clint’s decision to “drive under the influence”. Or maybe Rook got that thought out of his system… on his little notepad.
The kid found some courage, and began: “Earlier you expressed some… disdain for partnerships. Your last partner stab you in the back or something?”
Clint turned to Rook, his face neutral, expressionless as stone: “I stabbed her in the back. There’s a lesson in there for you… somewhere.”
Rook wrote something down, and the Glider returned to silence.
Rook glared in disbelief at the entrance to their destination: a glittering image of Greek Godhood, bottle of wine in hand, its “arm” tipping said bottle to the god’s mouth. And underneath this tacky mascot was written the establishment’s name: The Drunken Dionysus.
Clint exited the carriage and made for the entrance. He didn’t care whether Rook bothered to join him. Unfortunately, the kid was close behind.
“What are we looking for here?” he asked of Clint.
“A drink.” And there was another note for Rook’s supposed “words of wisdom” page.
Clint glimpsed a sign on his way in: “No Satyrs.” He tore it down in one swipe while he marched to the bar. Clint had only just sat down when he heard from behind: “Hey Earth Scraper!” Clint gritted his teeth and took a breath. He wanted to give his verbal assailant a chance to rectify their mistake. “I’m talking to you, Grounder.” The voice was closer now– practically right behind him. Clint swiveled on his seat and cracked his fist against the vampire’s jaw.
Clint leapt to the floor and pressed his advance, with gut shot after gut shot to his mocker. And he fought fiercely, despite standing half the height of his 6ft foe! The temperamental investigator might have pressed his advantage to victory, were it not for Rook, who ripped Clint off the vampire’s torso: “Allow us to clear up this misunderstanding,” he begged.
“Stay out of this Rook!” barked Clint.
“It’s you who misunderstands what’s happening here, officer,” mocked the Vampire with a chuckle, as a werewolf grabbed Rook’s arms from behind. The vampire’s arm launched out to Rook’s face, and thudded straight-on against the Rookie’s nose. The werewolf let Rook go, and the punch’s momentum carried the poor, well-meaning boy to the ground.
Clint, meanwhile, sneaked around the vampire, wrapped his arms around its waist, and threw the evil creature over his head. The fiend morphed into a bat, before it hit the ground, with a “SQUEEE!” and quickly reverted to its first form. It laughed at Clint, relishing the challenge, and pounced like a predator.
Rook regained consciousness as Clint laid on the ground, beaten and bloody, with the vampire standing over him: “Time to finish this,” said the vampire with menace. Rook tried to send a stunning incantation towards their foes, but was so dazed he messed up the words.
Then the vampire… extended his arm to Clint and laughed while he helped the battered investigator to his feet. “You know the deal: Victor buys the drinks.”
“Not fair, Alexei. You brought a friend.”
“So did you.”
“Not to fight.”
“He stepped in.”
“He’s a dumb rookie.”
“Shut up and accept the drink already.”
“Hrmm.”
The vampire approached the bar, with a grumbling Clint behind, and a confused Rook (with blood-soaked nose) behind him. “What’s your poison?” he asked the half-delirious detectives.
Clint ordered a “Hydra’s Head” (ale which slowly refills each time you cut off the frothy head), Alexei got his usual Phoenix Fire (drop a match on some treated ashes in a glass, and drink the blazing liquid which results), and Rook refused.
“Take a drink, kid. Alexei’s buying,” prodded Clint.
Rook took another note, grimaced, and looked at the menu a moment before he picked a “Banshee.”
“Your friend here is either brave or stupid,” remarked Alexei to Clint.
“Stupid, I’m sure.”
“What’s the problem?” whined Rook, blissfully unaware of his faux pas.
“Banshees are an omen,” Clint explained, as the server brought the drinks. They set Rook’s “Banshee” on the table, and he looked at it with hesitance. Clint and Alexei stared at him with anticipation. So Rook cautiously sipped the glass. And the most unpleasant screech his baby ears ever heard erupted through the bar. Rook was so startled, he spit half his sip.
“What was that?!” cried Rook.
“The Omen. Now somebody in this bar is gonna die. Today,” said Clint as he casually cut the head off his Hydra.
“Are you serious?”
Clint saw the abject fear in the youth’s eyes, and sought to quell it. “Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever dies here will die no matter what. People just don’t like hearing the Banshee tell ‘em is all.”
“‘Cause of the scream, mostly,” added a drunken Alexei. Rook put his glass down, with a mix of disgust and regret.
“So you old, old drunkard: what’s the word on the streets?” asked Clint of Alexei.
“S-somebody founddd a -belch- found a uni– a unicorn.”
Clint let the head of his Hydra overflow, breaking the spell. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“But that’s impossible!” chimed Rook. “Unicorns have been extinct for centuries.”
“Guess they miiiiiissed one,” sang Alexei. “Hahaha! But not for long.”
“You have my attention,” Clint said as he leaned in.
Alexei practically whispered, “Traffickers are sh-shipping it tonight.”
“And where’d you hear this?”
“The Lepra‘con’ man.”
“He say any more?” And here Alexei’s werewolf friend stepped in. She wordlessly hauled Alexei from the bar and helped him away, while she glared at Clint and Rook.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Rook asked Clint. “There’s gotta be thousands of Leprechauns around!”
“Cillian Callaghan. The Lepre‘con’ man is his moniker. And he’s got connections with known traffickers.”
“Alright,” Rook said with his eyebrow cocked. “I guess we should return to the precinct and look this guy up in the criminal database. See his known location?”
“Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Get your hearing checked, Rook. That research-based detective work wastes time. Know the streets. Feel ‘em under your feet. And you’ll never need the damned database.”
“Know where our man is then?” Asked Rook, skeptical.
“I know where to start,” Clint declared as he made for the exit.
“One more thing. And forgive me for asking…” Clint stopped, suspicious. Rook continued. “How did you get your wing clipped?”
SI Sherwood kept his back to the young interrogator, “What else but a woman, Rook?” And he exited the bar.
The Dust and the Hydra’s Head wore off by the time Rook and I reached our destination. And I slipped back to unreality. On The Dust, I peg this mythical world for what it is: just a bunch of glam and glitter hiding the sad underlying status quo; there’s the have-nots trying to have more, and the ones who have but never have enough. But sober, I lose that perspective; sober I’m just another sad sack making my way in a broken system. All this to say, I was glad Rook and I went to see my Dust dealer.
“We’re sure to find Callaghan in a Pixie den,” I explained. Rook wrote something new in his notes.
“I’m sorry. But I– you can’t say that word.”
“What? … Pixie?” I prodded, fully knowing.
“Special Investigator Sherwood, I must insist you refrain from that kind of language.”
“What’s your problem? You’re not one.”
“In the academy we learned–”
“Call ‘em what you want in civie life–.”
“Elven Fairies,” Rook interjected.
“But on the streets they’re Pixies. That’s what we call ‘em; that’s what they call themselves, hear?”
“Yessir…” Rook sulked, unconvinced. I could tell he just didn’t want to argue.
“What are we supposed to call Fruit Flies now?” I asked him.
Rook squirmed and avoided the question to jot another mysterious thought. I let it go. Rook turned back to me once he was done, “So how do you know which… ‘Pixie’ den he’s in? They change locations all the time, don’t they? Or is that wrong too?”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t answer my first question.”
“You asked three at once, and I’ve got a hangover starting.”
“How do you know which den?”
“I don’t.”
“Should we contact the department’s Den Hounds then? That’s their whole job is to find these things.”
“Good for them if they find A den. But we’re looking for Callaghan’s den. And we don’t have time to search ‘em all before this trafficking operation starts tonight.” I stopped the chariot in front of a back alley. “We’re here.”
“What are you getting in there?”
“Information. You stay here, unless you wanna get me killed. These Pixies get a little jumpy when they see a uniform snooping.”
Rook sucked his teeth and slumped in the Glider while I entered the alley.
“Tefure’s favourite customer!” announced Tefure upon my approach.
“I’m not here for The Dust today, old friend.”
“That’s good. Bad for Clint’s health. Though, if Clint changes mind, Tefure just got new shipment in. Premium stuff. And Tefure would be willing to share sample.”
I glanced back down the alley towards the Glider. Rook couldn’t see us. So I accepted Tefure’s offer. What would be the harm in one last indulgence? So I took a bit of that purple powder on my finger, and sniffed…
Clint Sherwood discovered a good deal of information from Tefure (after some brass-plated persuasion): for one thing, there’d been a string of overdoses in the Dust Dens, which the Pixies were looking to hide (bad for business). But, more importantly for the time: Tefure knew which Den Callaghan attended. And he agreed to take Rook and Clint there ASAP– lest Callaghan die before they could interrogate him.
Clint noticed Rook some time ago, standing idly by, too scared to intervene. “You ready?” he asked. Rook nodded.
Tefure wiped his bloodied nose and recited an incantation, which conjured a sparkling ovular portal in front of the group. Clint motioned a notably nervous Rook to step through first, followed by himself, then Tefure.
Bodies lay strewn about the surprisingly vibrant and clean surroundings, in a Dust-induced fugue state. It wasn’t hard to pick out the Leprechaun, in head-to-toe emerald garb. Clint kicked the body. No response. He kicked it harder. Still responseless. Clint leaned down to check Cillian Callaghan’s temperature, and found the body cold.
“Dead. From The Dust… Tefure,” seethed Clint through gritted teeth.
“Tefure just sells The Dust. Addicts want to over-do, that’s not fault of Tefure.”
“Hrmm.” Clint’s brass-knuckled fist flew with the swiftness of wind into Tefure’s jaw. The Pixie fell unconscious.
“What is wrong with you?!” Yelled Rook.
Around the corner, in another of the Den’s rooms, rang the sweet and carefree tones of a Leprechaun ditty. Clint and Rook looked at one another with curiosity. Clint took lead around the corner, with Rook in tow.
In the next room was a non-corporeal, singing Leprechaun: the spirit of Cillian Callaghan. “As I live and breathe! Clint Sherwood?”
“Do you know ALL the criminals?” asked Rook.
“Yes,” Clint replied, deadpan– his eyes still locked on Callaghan. “Tell me about the traffickers. Now!”
“You care about a lousy unicorn when a dear friend’s just been murdered?”
“Talk, Callaghan! Before it’s too late.”
“Ya daft fairy! The Dust was spiked, don’cha know! Turned me body to a husk and took me spirit up in a new way.”
“I know! The Unicorn, Callaghan! I’m running out of time.”
“Ooooh!” Callaghan’s ghostly features beamed mischievously. “Ya took a sniff o’ the dust too, didn’tcha Clint Sherwood? Alright. For the man’s dying wish: I was connin’ the traffickers, see. Me and a third party made a deal: go along a ways with the caravan; snag the unicorn and high-tail it about an hour in. Somebody musta figured me, seein I’m dead an’ all… And that’s the long and short. Peace be with you, Investigator.” Callaghan saluted Clint, with a wide grin.
Here Tefure jumped around the corner, a crystal in hand, and spoke a series of words which caused shadows to emanate from said crystal towards Callaghan. These shadows stretched out tendrils which grabbed the Leprechaun’s screaming lifeforce, and yanked it into the crystal.
Rook unleashed a magic stunning orb, from his hand towards Tefure. Clint couldn’t tell what happened next. His perspective was sucked back into my body’s eyes. And I convulsed, with deep pain as Sherwood desperately clung to life. But I couldn’t bear the effects of Sherwood’s self-destructive addiction. I, Clint Sherwood, died on the floor of that Dust Den.
Yet death wasn't the end. For I followed the trail of old Callaghan when my spirit violently ripped from my flesh. I felt like… nothing. I had no weight, no matter. I just floated above my body like a scavenger. Ha. I floated. I could fly again! I never thought I'd see the world quite like this again.
Rook ignored my spirit as he rushed to my body and mumbled a spell of stabilization.
“Don't bother, kid. I'm gone.”
“Not yet you aren't,” he said with a determination which I actually respected. “Ghost or no, this body still has some life in it. And I just got it stable… for now.”
“So there's a chance?”
“Let's get you out of here.”
It was here I noticed smoke trailing from the other room, and flames close behind them. “What did you do?” I asked the Rookie, while he threw my body over his shoulder.
“Magic stand-off. Went poorly. Your friend escaped. But, thankfully for us, he was in too much of a rush to close his portal.” Rook hauled ass for the portal, through the smoke, while I instinctually followed for self-preservation (not that it mattered for me).
We met on the other side, back in the alley. “We’ve gotta save those junkies, Rook.”
He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and paused for a moment. “On it,” Rook declared as he held a deep breath and dived back through the portal. The Rookie came and went half a dozen more times, with half a dozen unconscious addicts on his back.
And he was about to go in for more, when I stopped him: “Situation report.”
“Flames are spreading violently,” he said out of breath. “My magic can’t suppress them. But there’s more people in there.” He was about to run back in.
“Rookie! You’re done. That’s an order.”
“But the people!”
“You’re done.” Rook looked like he was about to talk back. “I might be dead, kid, but I still outrank you.” The impetuous young officer relaxed some, rushed to our chariot, and sent for a medical team with our crystal ball unit.
They arrived soon afterwards, closed the Dust Den portal (before the flames could seep out of the pocket dimension into our world), and treated the wounded. Not all of them made it. The medics informed Rook that they could perform a procedure which might reconnect my spirit with my body. But the ritual would take 12 hours. And we’d have to fetch some special items to make it work. Plus my spirit would need to be present. And there was a chance my body could die before all that took place. Rook was ready and willing to do the run-around for my sake, but I couldn’t allow it.
“There’s no choice here,” I started. “Rook. You and I are going after that unicorn. Save me if we have the time.”
“But you could die! Go with them, Clint. I’ve got it.”
“The hell you do. Dead or alive, you need my help.”
“What are you gonna do? Fly through the bad-guys? Give them the chills?”
“Whatever it takes. My death is on my hands. But that unicorn needs my help.”
“Our help. Fine. Your call.”
“I’ve just got to think… Where would Tefure go?”
“No need to think, Sir. Just gotta follow my tracer.”
“Tracer?”
“Magical tracer on the suspect. Planted the spell while you beat him up in the alley.”
“Hrmm. Good work.”
“Standard DoMCC procedure.”
“Then how come I’ve never heard of it?”
“You can’t learn EVERYTHING on the streets… sir.”
We entered the red light district just before sunset. Rook’s tracer placed that slimey Pixie in one of the brothels.
“I’m going in,” I said to Rook.
“That’s not a good idea. He might have another one of those crystals.”
“We’re gonna catch Tefure with his pants down. You just make sure he doesn’t have the chance to react, yeah?”
Rook nodded. His tracer was accurate enough to pinpoint a specific room of the place. So I made my way to it… through the outer wall.
Tefure was halfway undressed, a winged, wondrous woman standing atop him. “Azaerraya is woman of Tefure’s dreams!”
“Not tonight, dear,” the sultry succubus declared. “I’m really here. And you’re going to remember every bit of this.” She knelt down to the shaking Pixie and kissed him softly. He moaned as she sprung up, “Clint Sherwood?”
“No no,” Tefure sought to correct, his eyes still closed. “Name is Tefure. Clint Sherwood is nothing but ghost now!”
“Boo,” I said, arms crossed.
Tefure jumped up in terror and covered what little manhood he had. “Good to see Clint again!”
“Hell of a Dust you sell there, my friend.”
Rook took his cue to kick open the door and tackle Tefure to the ground “Where is the caravan?”
“Caravan is already en route. Rookie and Clint will never catch up to them.”
I addressed Rook. “Punch him.”
“No!”
“It’s part of the game. You have to punch him.”
“Clint is correct. Tefure won’t talk unless Rookie uses force.” Azaerraya nodded in agreement with Tefure and I.
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Then Rookie will never get Tefure’s information!” declared the Pixie, arms crossed.
“Do you want to save the unicorn or not?” I asked, annoyed I couldn’t do this myself.
“Yes! Of course!”
“Then punch that Pixie in the face like you mean it!”
Rook hesitated, then grabbed Tefure’s collar, picked him up and slammed him against the wall. “Tefure getting scared of Rookie. Good.”
“Where is the caravan?”
“Tefure doesn’t know exactly.”
Rook conjured a ball of flame in his hand and held it near Tefure’s body hair. “Flame is a dangerous thing. Multiple people in your den burned alive today. Maybe it’s justice that you suffer the same.”
“Alright, alright! Tefure will talk! Tefure knows caravan path. Can guide Rookie to caravan in Glider.”
“Why should we trust you?”
“Because Tefure stands to lose from deal now! Did not know Callaghan made deal with secret partner. Clint and Rookie only chance to secure investment. And Clint already dead. If Rookie dies too?” Tefure shrugs.
“And you’re somehow securing your investment in the arms of dear Azaerraya?” She smirked as I said so.
“Danger ahead. Need to be relaxed for trip.”
Rook continued his interrogation. “What’s their plan for unicorn– I mean THE unicorn?”
I threw in my two cents “Let me guess: Same as the unicorns of old? Bound to be sold… then ground into dust.”
“Not just any dust, Clint! Most potent dust ever made. Made of ancient recipe. Limited quantities made from one body. So pricey!”
Here Rook’s right hook slammed into Tefure’s face, and dropped him to the ground. “You sick bastard,” he spat like venom. I smiled.
“Would the handsome young officer like to be relaxed before his trip?” asked Azaerraya.
“No thank you, ma’am.” said Rook with a polite nod as he slapped magic-dampening cuffs on Tefure.
Azaerraya looked to me in shock. So few men had ever before rejected her perfection. I eased her mind with a silently mouthed message: “Fruit fly.” And her surprised acknowledgement amused me more than anything I’d seen all day.
Rook and I argued whether to call for backup. I knew it’d be a waste of time, but the stubborn Rookie didn’t listen. The DoMCC begged us not to pursue. Even Rook knew we didn’t have the time to convince them. So he hung up, and we gave chase.
Tefure explained his conundrum further, on the way: this afternoon he’d received a message from the werewolf, explaining that I’d managed to coerce information about the traffickers. It was Alexei’s outing of Callaghan, and my subsequent involvement, which got us both killed. In fact, Tefure had no knowledge of this “third party” until he overheard the confession of Callaghan’s ghost (an unexpected side effect of the Kelpie hair with which he’d spiked the dust). But then Tefure wasn’t sure who to trust, so he determined to steal the unicorn for himself.
By the time Tefure finished his yapping, we’d reached the back of the fast-moving caravan. Seemed we’d arrived too late– as the traffickers were in the middle of a chase with the unicorn– and a rider atop it, whip in hand. That magnificent creature outran the criminals with ease! But it couldn’t outrun me, in this state. I dashed through the fray, despite Rook’s protests, and caught up to it.
Rook activated the glider’s siren as Tefure sneaked from behind to choke him with the magic damping cuffs. Tragedy unfolded around me: to my back, my best friend strangling my rookie; to my front, a criminal escaping with an innocent mythical beast; and, to my sides a myriad of criminals fleeing Rook’s siren. How could I fix this? Whatever I’d do, someone would die, and criminals would escape.
I chose to help the rookie (for purely tactical reasons), and the rest sorta fell into place: he captured the criminals (with help of a hidden DoMCC sting agent– who’d conned Callaghan into making her the mysterious “third party”), I saved the unicorn by flying through the rogue rider’s face (it was Alexei. I later gifted him a Phoenix Fire in prison). And I was rewarded for my trouble with a resurrection, courtesy of the unicorn’s lightning fast speed, and unique healing magic. Another day on the beat; another case in the books.
But, after all that stress, what would be the harm in one last indulgence?
EPILOGUE:
Rook made a point to burn that cursed notebook in Clint Sherwood’s presence.
“What about my precious ‘words of wisdom?’”
Rook shrugged. “You can do better.”
“You were their pawn, weren’t you? Trying to get me ousted. What changed your mind?”
He smirked and sidestepped the accusation: “Ready to hear my name now?”
“When you do something I’ll remember, Rook.” Clint said with a wink.
END
