A burly green Orc stood outside Sherry’s brownstone apartment building, The Alinor Terraces. He was one of the residents, Mr. Forlac, from the second floor. Sherry usually spotted him outside smoking from his large pipe when the sun was setting. The big orc snorted with pink smoke coming out his nostril when he noticed them approaching.

“Sherry, Mort, caught a live one today?” He asked, noticing the body Mort was carrying behind her.

“Not so much alive, no,” she replied, passing him.

He nodded gravely and said nothing else. It was not the first time Sherry had brought her work home, which often included dead bodies for interrogation. Since the other knights were dead set against her doing it at HQ, she often had to conduct these interviews in her living room. The people in the block weren’t exactly fans of this, but they were at least less judgemental than her coworkers. They understood why she did it, even if they didn’t like the occasional smell.

But Sherry liked living in Wisp Hill, whatever else anyone said about the area and how it felt abandoned by the rest of the city, it had a real sense of community to make up for it. Yes, crime was prevalent, but people looked out for each other, whatever their kind. There was no sense of division here outside the petty gangs, even between the houseless elves and the clan-less dwarves. It was a pity to see any of them so reduced, millennia ago it was unheard of, but limiting the wealth and magic for a few left the rest in a less-than-ideal situation.

They entered the old building and made their way through the lobby, past the wall with the mail slots, and into the back to the only apartment on the first floor. Sherry had originally wanted the fourth floor at the top, and she could have easily afforded it, but it was occupied by the only tenant who never came out. Ultimately, she went with the one on the floor level, “at the roots” as Mort often said. It was more than spacious enough for a single woman and her undead roommate.

“Hello dear,” came the voice of Mrs. Loafgood, stepping down from the stairs in the corner. She was part of a large family of halflings living on the first floor above Sherry, she was the closest to a next-door neighbor she had, and one of the few of her kind that ventured to live in the city. Most thought they’d be stepped on (in every way possible) if they did.

“Evening Ma’am, out for a walk?” Sherry said as she paused by her door.

“Just going for some shopping, finally got some gold saved and I intend to treat myself,” she said enthusiastically as she greeted Mort.

“That’s the spirit, Mrs. Bread,” said Mort, approvingly.

“It is getting a bit late, getting there could be unsafe,” Sherry said, concerned. “Perhaps you should—”

“You are always worrying deary, and that always warms my heart, but we all feel safer knowing the bravest of the Royal Knights lives right here with us.”

Sherry softened and allowed herself to smile at the small woman. She knew she was the only knight to live in the center of the city instead of the big estates of the recognized Houses. Of course, the tenants liked the extra protection, but it was nice to feel like they saw her as one of their own.

“Carry on then,” she said with a curt nod and opened the door to her apartment.

It was a two-bedroom, which she had turned into something of a gothic basement. All wood and metal, complete with a large bookcase that took over the entire living room wall, with black furniture, rugs, and drapes clashing with the white walls; which Sherry felt reflected her nature. Hard and dark, but trapped in light. 

Sherry snapped her fingers and the whole place came to life, as every candle lit up at once. Houses like cars, had to be retrofitted to run on magic, for those that had it, but here in Wisp Hill, people made do with good old fire for their needs. Sherry had offered to use her own for the entire building, but they rejected it out of hand since they would have been the only building in the whole block with that privilege. Sherry respected their wishes and used her magic only for the candles.

The top half of her grandfather' skull adorned the table in the living room, which as morbid as it sounded, was a tradition among her family, or at least it would be if it was whole. The last head of the family must remain in possession of the next, should they ever need their wisdom, they could reanimate them temporarily. Sherry grunted at the thought…Temporarily. She had taken that less as a rule and more as a suggestion with Mort. Perhaps, selfishly. But Var at least would not have to linger for longer than a few minutes.

Mort carried Var onto the sofa, which, not requiring sleep anymore, was where Mort spent his nights awake in leisure. It served another dead man just as well here. Sherry debated if she should wait until morning to perform the ugly task, but time was of the essence so she didn’t even bother to take off her armor.

“Knowing you, we’re going straight to it, aren’t we?” Mort asked, gently lowering the body on the bed and removing the sheets covering him.

“We never liked him, but he deserves justice as much as any other citizen.”

“So, that’s a yes,” Mort said, amused.

“What I keep wondering is why,” Sherry said.

“Well, we know he wasn’t as popular as he liked to think he was. And we both know many outside his circles had reason enough to hate him.”

“Yes, and murder always has a reason for it. The killer is always saying something with every life they take. How much they hate that person, or perhaps themselves, or society. That they’re getting revenge or making a statement.” She looked at Mort sharply, “What do you think the statement is here?”

“The person who did this was full of hate and didn’t rip off his arm just to see if he could,” Mort replied gravelly. 

“That much is obvious, what confuses me is the gun. Why bother to shoot him dead after such intimate brutality? Why not finish him with his own hands if it was that much easier and pleasurable to do so?”

“He wants to send a message,” Mort said tentatively, piecing together as she did. “But what does shooting him say to us?”

“We will have to ask him who shot him first.”

Sherry felt the magic surge through her, passing from her core into her hands, where blue sparks erupted from her fingers. She placed her palm atop Var’s chest, right above his heart, and with the slightest flick, sent the energy coursing through his veins.

The effect was immediate, the body shook and twitched as the brain rebooted, synapses firing and muscles working again under the power of her magic. His heart didn’t beat though; it wasn’t true life, after all, just a temporary one that slowly drained her as long as she held it. Just as it did with Mort every day. 

“NO! Get away from me! Don't touch me!” Var yelled, kicking and swinging his remaining arm around wildly as if his killer was still holding him.

“Calm down, Var! We’re not hurting you,” Mort said while trying to hold him steady on the bed.

“I didn't mean to…wha…whe-where am I?” He spotted Sherry in front of him as he calmed down, and suddenly comprehension dawned on his eyes.

Var reached with his right hand for his missing left, as if trying to catch a ghost. Sherry could see him processing that his last horrible memory had not been a nightmare and that he was dead. “How long have I been…?”

“About a day now,” Sherry said, keeping her voice as gentle as she could. “They found you this morning in the house, and called us.”

He said nothing, looking down at his missing limb with sadness before spotting Mort. “So I’m just like you now. Nothing but a walking corpse.”

“I am sorry for your own loss, Var,” Mort began, apologetic. Bless him, thought Sherry. Still being kind to a man who once considered him a second son, but refused to see him once he became…what he has now ironically become as well. 

“It’s not all bad, you miss the food, but there is something to be said for no more back pain.” Mort always liked to diffuse the situation with some levity, but Var was having none of it.

“Oh, you think this is funny? Seeing me like this?” Var growled, and it seemed as though he would be waving his left fist angrily toward Mort if he still had it.

“She can grow your arm back if that’s what bothers you,” Mort replied, with as much success.

“Making me a living taboo like you is what bothers me!” Mort deflated at his venom, but Sherry had had enough.

“I am the one who is doing this to you, Var, not him. Feel free to continue to hate me for the little time I anchor you here. Which by the way, was on the orders of your precious majesty.”

She could see that surprised him a bit, which she enjoyed more than she should. Turning their beloved social rules on them was always a rare win she could savor, even though she supposed she should be better than that.

“You know how I work,” she continued when he said nothing. “You know why I brought you back like this. It certainly was not for nostalgia. We are after your killer, so tell us who it was so we can let you get back to your eternal rest and avenge you.”

“Which we are happy to do,” Mort added, quickly.

“I knew you would bring me back, he told me as much,” Var said

“Who did?” Mort asked.

“The monster who did this to me. He told me to pass on a message when you did…what time is it?” Sherry thought that was the last thing he would ask for, but answered all the time.

“Five minutes until seven,” Sherry said, looking at the clock on the wall.

“Yes, it will be any moment now. Whatever you think of me, Sherr, you know I’ve always cared for my people. I helped bring this city to life, and I don’t want to see it destroyed.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Who killed you?!” Sherry yelled impatiently.

“A ghost born again. He said he was the bones of this city…I suppose he’s right about that,” Var said and laughed a hollow sound that felt more like he was in pain.

Sherry grunted angrily and grabbed Var by his collar, drawing him close, “I realize you have been through a traumatic experience, but I am decidedly not in the mood for this! Tell me who!”

“Your father,” Var said softly, an odd humorless smile on his face as he refused to meet her gaze.

Sherry let go immediately and took a step back, and after the initial shock passed, she felt the urge to punch Var in his lying face. Only Mort stepping in between them prevented her from doing so.

“How dare you? You expect me to believe—”

“I know that face,” Var said, unconcerned by the rage in her eyes. “However pale and painted it is now, there is no mistake. He came for me, and I deserved it. Maybe we all do.”

Before Sherry could say anything, there was a loud crash through the window. They all turned to see, with Sherry getting ready to fight if necessary, but the intruder turned out to be small and flying. Sherry thought for a second it was a bird, but then got a better look and saw it was bigger and mechanical. A machine of some kind, hovering in the air and humming with a low buzz made by the small propellers sliding to keep it there.

“Is that…a drone?” Mort asked, looking as perplexed as she did. “By the gods, I hadn’t seen one of those since the war.”

Sherry was no expert, but she did remember seeing them back in her youth during that time. They were the humans' preferred method for reconnaissance, small and agile, feeding them a video of their movement from above. And in some cases, they were even equipped with…

“Mort be careful! It has a gun!” Sherry launched towards it, summoning her magic to attack it, ready for a hail of bullets to drop on her.

But it was not gunfire that erupted from the device attached to the bottom, but a big stream of light. Sherry froze when she realized it was a digital projector attached to the drone instead of a machine gun.

“Hello, Santa Fae,” a voice said from behind her. Sherry turned to see the video image of a bone-white man with dark makeup staring at her with eerie green eyes on the wall. The face was unmistakable though, Var had told the truth…it was her father.

“You may call me, Deadbone.”