The salt-laden air of the dock, thick with the cries of gulls and the distant hum of ships' engines, clung to Inspector Volkova's dark coat. The last ripples from Alder Wilson's fall into the murky water had long vanished, leaving the surface undisturbed, a blank canvas over a hidden truth. Volkova stood at the edge, his gaze fixed on the spot where the body had disappeared, his face a study in chilling impassivity. The other officers, breathless from their furious, misdirected chase, now gathered behind him, their uniforms disheveled, their expressions a mix of confusion and exhaustion.
"What about the book from the previous epoch, 'The Whispers of Fourth Epoch'?" Volkova's voice, though quiet, cut through the clamor of the dock with an unnerving precision, directed at the constable who had just arrived. His gaze, devoid of any discernible emotion, remained fixed on the churning waters for a moment longer before slowly, deliberately, drifting to the constable's face.
The constable, still panting from his exertion, snapped to attention. "Sir, we swept Mr. Wilson's room thoroughly before we left. Every shelf, every drawer, every stack of papers. We couldn't find it anywhere. It's... simply not there." His voice trailed off, a hint of bewilderment in his tone. The book, a rare and potentially dangerous artifact, had been a priority in their search of Elias Thorne's collaborator.
A flicker—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift—crossed Volkova's features. It wasn't surprise, but something akin to quiet frustration, or perhaps, a puzzle piece refusing to fit. "That's weird," he murmured, more to himself than to the constable, his voice a low, almost reflective rumble. "No one else was involved in this. No one else was known to be at Elias Thorne's residence with the victim. It can't just disappear." His gaze, which had momentarily softened with thought, sharpened again, locking onto the constable's eyes as if seeking a hidden answer there. The mystery of the vanished tome seemed to gnaw at him, a loose thread in an otherwise perfectly executed plan.
He gestured with a curt, almost imperceptible nod towards the waiting police carriage, its dark form a stark contrast to the brightening morning sky. Without another word, he turned and moved towards it, his boots making soft, rhythmic thuds on the damp wooden planks. The other officers, sensing his unspoken command, followed silently, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of their superior's unsettling calm.
After entering the carriage, settling into the plush, shadowed seat opposite to where Noir had sat just hours ago, Volkova issued his next command. His voice was flat, devoid of any inflection, yet carried an undeniable authority. "To Wilson's residence." He paused, a beat of chilling silence. "His siblings will need an explanation."
Of course, he didn't intend to tell the truth. The truth was a messy, inconvenient thing, especially when it involved ancient mystical texts, impossible escapes, and the very real possibility of a supernatural adversary. The narrative he would spin would be clean, tragic, and designed to close the book on this particular chapter, to ensure no loose ends tangled themselves in his carefully constructed web.
As the carriage moved through the city streets, the morning truly began to assert itself. The last vestiges of the pre-dawn gloom receded, replaced by the pale, ethereal light of a new day. The gas lamps, which had illuminated their earlier chase, now flickered weakly, their flames paling into insignificance against the rising sun. The grand gothic architecture of the city, previously a backdrop for shadows and secrets, now stood stark and imposing under the growing light. Spires reached for the heavens, intricate gargoyles peered down from cornices, and the labyrinthine alleyways between tall, narrow buildings offered glimpses into hidden worlds. The cobblestone streets, still damp from the night's dew, gleamed under the burgeoning light, reflecting the muted hues of the sky. Carriages, now numerous, rattled past, their horses clip-clopping with a steady rhythm that spoke of a city awakening to its daily grind. Vendors began setting up their stalls, their shouts mingling with the distant peels of church bells. Yet, within the dark confines of Volkova's carriage, a different kind of dawn was breaking—a dawn of calculated deception.
The journey seemed quicker than Noir's frantic flight, but the tension remained. Volkova sat impassively, his gaze occasionally drifting to the passing street, but his mind was undoubtedly far away, already analyzing and planning.
Finally, the carriage slowed, then came to a gentle halt before Alder Wilson's residence. The house, with its imposing facade and gothic sensibilities, stood quiet and somber in the morning light, unaware of the tragic news about to shatter its peace. It was Sunday, the 7th of the month, and the clock had just struck 6:00 a.m. The city was truly awake now, but this corner of it was about to be plunged into a new kind of darkness.
Volkova stepped out, his posture impeccably straight, his uniform crisp despite the morning's exertions. He walked to the heavy oak door and delivered two sharp, authoritative knocks. The sound echoed in the quiet street, a jarring intrusion.
Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Grace. Her hair was still slightly dishevelled from sleep, and her eyes, usually bright, were wide with startled confusion at the sight of the police. Her young face, usually so full of innocent cheer, paled instantly.
"Good morning, Miss Wilson," Volkova said, his voice even and calm, almost gentle. "I apologize for the early disturbance. Is your brother, Mr. Thomas Wilson, also present? It would be best if you were both here."
Grace's confusion deepened, but the authority in his tone was undeniable. She nodded mutely, her gaze darting from Volkova to the carriage, to the constable waiting patiently. "Yes... yes, he is. Please, just a moment." She disappeared back into the house, and Volkova could hear her muffled, hurried calls for Thomas.
A few tense moments later, Thomas appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his brow furrowed with annoyance that quickly turned to concern as he saw Volkova and the police carriage. Grace hovered anxiously beside him, her hand clutching his arm.
Volkova took off his hat with a slow, deliberate motion, holding it respectfully at the level of his waist. His gaze, for a fleeting moment, seemed to soften, to hold a flicker of something akin to genuine regret. "So, Mr. Thomas," he began, his voice lowered, solemn. "We are here to inform you about something important." He lowered his head, ostensibly looking into the dark interior of his hat, a moment of profound, manufactured solemnity. He raised his head again, his eyes meeting Thomas's with an expression of deep, professional sorrow. "This is related to Mr. Alder and Mr. Elias Thorne."
He paused, letting the names hang in the air, allowing the weight of the moment to settle. "On the morning of the fifth, Elias Thorne was found dead in his residence. It was a most unfortunate and tragic incident." His voice held a practiced mournfulness. "And Alder Wilson was the only witness we had, a crucial link to understanding the circumstances. However... when we reached out to him, we got to know that... he had developed amnesia over the recent time period."
"Amnesia?" Thomas began, his voice incredulous, a tremor of disbelief in his usually steady tone. He glanced at Grace, then back at Volkova, a flash of protectiveness entering his eyes. "And he didn't mention your visit to us. Let me call him so we can discuss this properly." He started to turn, perhaps to step inside, to summon Alder, to dispel this strange, unsettling story.
Volkova's voice, though still calm, carried a sharp, undeniable finality, halting Thomas in his tracks. "There is no need to waste your time, Mr. Wilson. Alder... he is... dead."
The words hung in the crisp morning air, cold and stark. Thomas and Grace froze, their faces draining of color. "What?" Thomas finally managed, his voice a choked whisper, utterly devoid of its earlier strength. Grace swayed, a silent cry escaping her lips, her hand flying to her mouth. Disbelief, raw and agonizing, contorted her features.
Volkova continued, his narrative smooth, unblinking, utterly convincing. "You see... this night, he was met with an unknown visitor. A dangerous individual. He answered the door, and he was met with his demise. He tried to escape, as anyone would... he reached the dock, fleeing his assailant, but... he was shot." Volkova's eyes, though conveying sorrow, also seemed to hold a fleeting, chilling triumph. "And he fell into the sea. The killer, in his desperate escape, also tried to attack us, the officers in pursuit, so we had to shoot him as well, and he also fell into the sea. We weren't able to retrieve either of their bodies."
Grace's breath hitched, her small frame swaying precariously, her face ashen. She leaned heavily against Thomas, her eyes wide and unfocused, on the verge of fainting. Thomas, though he kept his cool, a grim composure settling over his features, could not stem the flow of tears that began to trace silent paths down his cheeks, a single, agonizing tear for his lost brother, falling in the quiet, merciless dawn. He said nothing, simply staring at Volkova, accepting the brutal finality of the words.
Volkova offered a formal, almost theatrical bow of his head. "Very well then, we wouldn't want you to become a victim of this. This matter is now closed. So... you shouldn't involve yourselves into this matter, for your own safety. And... I am terribly sorry for your loss."
With that, Volkova raised his hat, bringing it slowly up to his head, his face momentarily hidden in its dark shadow. For a split second, a single, solitary tear, glistening and real, ran down his cheek, unseen by the grieving siblings. Then, with a practiced movement, he placed the hat firmly on his head, the brim casting his face into concealing shadow, the tear vanishing. He turned and walked away, his steps measured and deliberate, towards the waiting carriage. As he reached the door, he glanced back, his face now consumed with a peculiar, unsettling, somewhat weird smile, a fleeting, almost predatory satisfaction that flickered and vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He entered the carriage, the heavy door closing with a soft thud, sealing him away from the stunned siblings. Through the window, he watched them for a moment longer, their forms huddled together in grief on the porch of the gothic house. Then, his face returning to its familiar, impassive mask, he commanded the driver, "To the police station. And make haste."
The carriage pulled away, leaving Thomas and Grace alone with their fresh, profound sorrow, the silence of the street now heavier than before, filled with the echo of Volkova's chilling words.