by R. E. Vance
Magnus. Steve groans.
“Good morrow,” Officer Steve says, shifting from four legs to two as he walks over to his eldest brother. “How was your weekend?”
Officer Magnus ignores his question. “Why Columbo?” the eldest, and thus largest, of the Billy Goats Gruff asks. He straightens his younger brother’s coat, doing his best to make it less frumpy.
Steve pulls away and immediately undoes the straightening. “He’s serious but affable. Smart but unassuming.” He speaks through narrowed eyes and dons a raspy New England accent, but unlike Columbo, Steve does not drift off on tangents or point out seemingly useless details. Steve is coherent and straight. If he’s not, his brother is likely to head-butt him with his massive, steel-hard horns.
“He’s an idiot,” Magnus says.
“He’s not,” Steve insists.
“Why do you dress like a human, anyway? You’re not a human, you know that?” Magnus more scolds than asks. “Your name is Steve. Not Columbo. Not Sherlock. Steve. That is the name I gave you. Not that you deserve that name. I should have named you Pathetic or Pitiful.” It was true. Before the GrandExodus, the brother Gruffs were seen as protectors in the Unseelie Kingdom. But after the GrandExodus, they were three lost Others, just like everyone else.
And like so many lost Others, they made their way to Paradise Lot. Once they arrived at their new earthly home, they resumed their natural role as protectors by joining the police force. But their names of Eldest, Older and Youngest Gruff didn’t sit well in this new GoneGod world. So the eldest brother named them all: Magnus, Hunter, and Steve—names that reflect who they are in this GoneGod world.
“Magnus,” because he is the oldest and needs a name that sums up the magnitude and completeness of his power. Within the Fae Kingdom, there are very few as strong as the eldest Gruff, and his name reflects that.
“Hunter,” because their middle brother was gifted with the ability to track any creature in any terrain. It is a name that conjures strength and agility, cunning and decisive reasoning—all qualities his middle brother possesses in abundance.
But “Steve”? The youngest Gruff doesn’t know why his brother gave him such a human name. Steve does not question his eldest brother because no one ever questions Magnus—not unless they want a crippling head-butt as a response.
Being protectors in this new GoneGod world is very difficult. For one thing, the AlwaysMortal do not abide by the same rules of the Unseelie court. You can’t just pass judgment on evil and head-butt them into oblivion. You have to follow procedure, fill out paperwork. Enter things into a computer.
So much change.
Too much change.
And every day requires him to be something, or rather, someone different. Some days he has to be tough, others shrewd. Deductive or funny. Affable or scary. There are so many roles to play in the AlwaysMortal world and there is nary a day that Officer Steve does not miss home.
“Hello... Anyone in there?” Magnus taps Steve’s head. “Or is ignoring my question part of the Columbo act?”
Steve looks up at his eldest brother and sees the gleam in his eyes. It is the stare he usually gets before a well-placed head-butt. He braces himself for it, but before Magnus can come crashing down on his head, a voice bellows, “Everyone in the briefing room. Now.”
↔
Former archangel, current Police Chief Michael stands in the precinct’s briefing room, which is filled with mythical detectives. They are mythical not because they are particularly good detectives—some are, some aren’t—but because, with the exception of a human police officer named Conner, each and every one of them are creatures that the mortal world once believed to be actual myths.
Michael eyes the room with eyes that contain lightning bolts until the conversation and the rustling of settling Others dies down. He doesn’t wait long. “We have a brewing crisis.” His voice sounds like a thunderstorm caught in the tension casing of a bass drum. “These have shown up in several humans’ homes.” He holds up five Ziploc bags, each one of them filled with ivory-colored flutes.
“Children’s recorders,” Magnus smirks. “Hardly an emergency.” Officer Magnus is the only detective—and by extension, Other—who is brave enough to mock the archangel. His bravery comes from the knowledge that in a battle between Magnus and Michael, a clear winner is far from assured. Of course, Michael is his captain, but in the Otherworld their pedigree is nearly equal.
Michael opens one of the bags and throws one of the flutes to Magnus. “Blow,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Blow,” the archangel repeats.
Magnus chuckles as he puts the flute to his goat-shaped, furry lips and blows. What comes out is not the expected musical notes, but rather a voice. A woman’s voice. “They came so unexpectedly. First we heard an explosion and then the sky caught on fire,” the voice says. “We didn’t know what was happening. All we knew was that creatures were falling from the sky. Then without warning the roof cracked as one of those massive beings came crashing down into my home. My last thought before I died was, ‘Thank God little Newton was playing outside.’ ” The woman is telling the story of how she died.
“By the Snow Queen!” Magnus says, pulling his lips away. “I didn’t think I’d see one of these on Earth.” Magnus eyes his two brothers, who nod knowingly.
“We aren’t entirely—” Michael starts.
“It’s a bone flute,” Officer Steve cuts in. At this announcement, Hunter and Magnus bray.
“Go on,” Michael says.
“A bone flute.” Officer Steve stands up and straightens his coat. Then he remembers which uniform he is wearing and crumbles it up again. He narrows his eyes, practically closing one of them. After all, he is Columbo. “Boy, oh, boy,” Officer Steve rasps, “I haven’t seen one of these since...” He walks to the front of the room and takes one of the bone flutes out of the bag. “May I? Since before the gods... you know.” He makes a bird-flapping-away gesture.
“Get to the point,” Magnus says.
“Yeah—sure, sure.” Officer Steve turns to face the other detectives. He is forcing his right eye down to mimic Columbo’s lazy eye. It takes effort and concentration to keep the eye half-closed, but the effect is worth it. Almost everyone recognizes Columbo when you half-close an eye and drawl on when making a point. “You see, bone flutes... they tell stories. Stories of the dead.”
“And who’s telling the story?” Michael asks.
“Why, the dead themselves! See, this thing... it’s crafted from the bones of the dead. Usually the femur. Think of them as mystical forensics, or maybe a magical autopsy.” Officer Steve holds up the flute like a telescope. “Which means someone dug up their bodies, pulled out the leg bone then did a lot of filing, polishing and drilling to make this thing sing. Interesting thing about bone flutes...” Steve stops, as if remembering something, and turns to Michael. “Where did you say you got these things?”
“You’re playing Detective Columbo, aren’t you?” Michael asks.
Steve nods, disappointed it took so long for the archangel to recognize him.
Michael sighs. “They were delivered to the relatives of the deceased.”
“So we got a grave robber on our hands?” Magnus interjects, looking at Michael.
Michael nods. “Seems so. But there’s more to this case than simple grave robbing. Each bone flute belonged to a Jane or John Doe, which means when the body was found there was no ID, no next of kin, nothing. This grave digger not only exhumes the bodies, but he also goes to the trouble of finding out who they were.”
“A kind of musical detective,” Steve muses. “Tell me, Captain... You said he delivers the bones to next of kin? Care to elaborate?”
Michael is annoyed by his cavalier tone, but plays along with the youngest Gruff. “Three were delivered to parents, one to a sibling and the last to a friend.”
“A friend? Tell me... The owner of this last bone, were his parents dead?”
&nb
sp; Michael sighs, which sounds more like a steamroller going uphill, and looks at the file. “Her,” he corrects. “The bone belongs to a female. Emily Rose. And no, her parents are not dead. They’re very much alive. But this friend—Sean Sumner’s the name—was registered as her next of kin.”
“And don’t you find it odd that—” Steve starts.
“So what? Is this guy bringing these humans back to life?” snorts a minotaur detective.
“Ahhh, you’d think, but no,” Steve cuts in. “Just their stories. The important ones. The kind of stories you take to your grave, but really, really wish you didn’t.” He holds up the flute. “A standard flute can produce thirty-seven notes. So, too, can this one. But the difference is that with this flute, each note tells a different story. A-sharp tells the story of their birth. F-sharp tells of their true love. All the way to C-natural—the story of how they died. Interesting fact—”
“How much time does one need to burn to craft one of these things?” chirps a beat-cop harpy.
“Depends on if bone flutes are part of your ethos. I’d have to burn through a couple months of life to make one myself, maybe a bit more. But an Other from the Unseelie Kingdom will spend a lot less time,” Michael says.
Steve raises his hoof. “Interesting fact about—”
“We got to work the case,” the archangel says. “Magnus, you and Officer Conner interview the relatives. See if there’s a pattern to who they are. So far the humans suspect nothing, and they certainly don’t know that the flutes are made from the actual bone of their loved ones. So be civil—they’re humans, not suspects. Don’t go Gruffing up the place.”
Magnus and Conner nod.
“Hunter.” Michael points at the middle Gruff. “Interview the usual suspects. Maybe this is part of some sort of black market trade.”
Officer Hunter brays in acknowledgment.
“And as for you, Officer Steve, go to the graveyard and see if you can uncover anything. Maybe the perp left behind a hoof print or a dropping or something.” The briefing room giggles, but Michael’s stoicism tells them that he is not joking. “As for the rest of you... Stay alert. I know that a few bone flutes may not seem like a big deal,” Michael pauses, “but make no mistake—this is a big deal. Humans are very skittish about death, and we can’t have another scandal on our hands. Tread lightly. Dismissed.”
As everyone stands up to leave, Officer Steve goes up to Michael. “Interesting thing about bone flutes,” he starts.
“Not now. Just get to the cemetery. I expect a full report by nightfall. And for GoneGods’ sake, change. Columbo is the last person we need on the case.”
The archangel leaves the room and Officer Steve sighs, wishing he had chosen a more forceful personality. “Interesting thing about bone flutes, there’s only one creature I know of who burns next to no time when making a bone flute,” he mutters to himself. “Trolls.”
↔↔↔
Officer Steve stands at the threshold of the crematorium, afraid to knock. Well, he’s not afraid, but the character he’s playing is, so he just stands there shivering in his green-brown, single-breasted, tweed jacket. “Hello,” he says with a little bit too much force for the part. “Hello,” he repeats, doing his best to both be heard and convey the fear he’s meant to feel.
He hears some shuffling from within before an angel opens the door. “May I help you?” The angel lowers the rims of his reading glasses to better see the Gruff.
“Ahhh, hi,” Officer Steve says as he pulls out his badge from his coat pocket with tweezers. “PLPD. I’m investigating a... a... possible grave robbing.”
The angel reaches for the badge and Officer Steve pulls it away. “I’d prefer you didn’t touch it. You know. Germs and all.”
“Germs?” the angel says.
“Az, who is it?” a female voice calls from inside.
The angel sighs before calling back into the crematorium. “A detective with a germ phobia.”
“A germ phobia?” A young woman pushes past the angel. She is young, elegant and beautiful.
“Don’t touch the badge. You may be infected.” The angel turns to go back inside, evidently bored by the whole interaction.
“Don’t mind him, he’s always a grump. How may I help you, Detective...” She snaps her fingers in recognition. “Say, aren’t you the cop that showed up during the changeling incident a while back? You were one of the first cops on the scene. I’m sure of it. But back then you were dressed more like a Miami Vice cop than... than... whatever this is.” She waves her hands at Steve’s attire.
“Officer. Officer Steve Gruff.”
“As in the Billy Goats Gruff?”
Steve nods.
“I thought you guys were just a story,” she says. “But then again, I also thought angels weren’t real, elves didn’t exist and fairies were a life choice.” She giggles and sticks out her hand. “I’m Holly. I run this place.”
Steve looks at the hand uncertainly.
“You do shake hands, don’t you?”
“Normally, but today I’m... I’m in uniform.”
“Uniform?” She smiles, looking him over. “Let me guess—tweed jacket, germ phobia, extremely nervous... You’re Monk! From the TV show.”
Officer Steve nods.
Holly grins as if she understands exactly what Officer Steve is doing. Officer Steve smiles back. “OK, Officer Monk Steve... How may I help you?”
↔
“So someone is digging up the graves?” Holly asks.
“It seems so,” Steve says as he walks nervously, careful not to step over any crack, twig or crevasse in the earth. That’s what Monk does on the TV show. He suffers from something called OCD and Personality Disorder. Steve is not sure what OCD is, and as for Personality Disorder... Well, Monk is erratic and difficult, but he is also brilliant, and if being worried about germs, being afraid of cracks and not being able to shake hands is the price to pay for brilliance, so be it.
“In our graveyard?” Holly confirms.
Officer Steve pulls out antibacterial gel and pours it over his hands. “I’d like to look around and confirm that.”
Holly nods and points ahead. “All unidentified bodies are buried on the south side of the grave,” she says. “Over that way.”
The two of them walk in silence. Officer Steve can sense Holly looking at him. If he wasn’t so intent on looking at where he was stepping, he’d look up. But he has a role to play, and he’ll see it to the end.
“I’m sorry, but I got to ask. Why Monk?”
“Different uniforms for different scenarios,” Steve answers.
“Huh,” Holly says with an inflection that shows she knows exactly what he means. Officer Steve really, really likes this human female. “Still,” Holly says, “you didn’t answer my question. Why Monk? Why not, I don’t know... that bald guy from The Shield, or Harry Dresden?”
“Vic Mackey”—he mimics shaving his head—“is too brutal, and Harry burns through waaay too much time. But Monk... He’s brilliant, even when he is afraid,” Officer Steve answers, before he can stop himself. He answered her—the first person he’s ever answered. And he has been asked a lot. Seems everyone he meets wants to know why he chooses one character over another.
“And are you afraid?”
Officer Steve shakes his head. “No. Well... yes. Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“Do you know anything about bone flutes, Miss Holly?”
“Just what you told me—that they tell the stories the dead wished they could tell.”
“Yes. But do you know why bone flutes exist?”
Holly shakes her head.
“The bone flutes are... were... the Fae’s way of making sure that no one could get away with murder.”
“Sounds ideal. Certainly a better deterrent than the death penalty.”
“It was useful to cull premeditated murder, but nothing can dissuade crimes of passion. Also, one can hide the body, so... no. Not really a great
deterrent. But still, it was something.” As he speaks, he notes that he’s not talking like Monk. He’s speaking like... like himself. He must try harder at playing the characters consistently. But later. Now, he’s enjoying the character lapse.
“Perhaps. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you ‘maybe’ afraid?”
Officer Steve sighs. He looks up at Holly, her kind face, and remembers how she just accepted he was Monk. She is a human of uncanny empathy and he likes her. Then he looks at his tweed brown suit and asks, What would Monk do? He replays episode after episode and settles that Monk would have no problem sharing secrets. In fact, his phobias were a physical manifestation of the fact that he could not hide who he was from the world. Monk certainly wasn’t any tough-talking, stoic, suffer-in-silence kind of guy.
“OK,” Steve says. “Do you know my story? I mean, the story of the Billy Goats Gruff?”
“Youngest brother tries to cross a bridge—”
“That’s me.”
“But there is this troll there that tries to eat him—you. You trick the troll into waiting for your older brother to come because he is meatier and thus tastier than you.”
“In other words, I offered myself up as both ransom and bait. And then, when my older brother does come and he can’t defeat the troll either, he calls our eldest brother, who defeats the troll in one-on-one combat.”
“Yeah... So?”
“What the story doesn’t tell is how the troll held me captive for three days and three nights while I waited for my brother to come. During that time, I saw the troll make three bone flutes from the three creatures he had killed before I showed up. He played those flutes incessantly, listening to their stories over and over again. He especially liked the stories of how they died. After all, he was the main character of those ones.”
“You must have been terrified.”
Officer Steve shudders. “I have never been more afraid in my life. Even when the gods left and the void consumed our home... Even when my middle brother showed up, I was terrified.” Officer Steve shudders again. “But I was also ashamed. I was too afraid to fight, and the troll nearly killed me.”
