Dead First

As Shyla Sinclair approached Saxton Braith's manor, which was not atop the hill so much as it was the hilltop, she could not decide if it looked like it was too much of or apart from the world. With its stony façade and unevenly parapeted roof, it looked like a floodlit fort.

The car Braith had sent for her rounded a turn, and as it came closer the home's shimmering black windows and superficially burnt, tall double doors told a different story. That this place turned into a dark church after sundown, one large enough to keep you lost and trapped inside until it decided you were faithful enough to be shown an exit.

It was a place made for someone who did not have to choose between extravagances, who might pick luxury over taste ten times out of ten just to make a point. I don't need taste. I don't need to be discerning. I don't have to have a "good eye" for anything. Whatever I choose and whatever I do is automatically the best because I bought it and I paid for it, the end.

Now, again, she tried to weigh whether the security holstered beneath her light, red jacket would be enough, should this meeting-this incomparable opportunity-turn into something else. Said security, a subcompact Glock situated comfortably against her ribs, would prove especially ineffective if it was confiscated.

Shyla had expected the driver who came to pick her up-a tall, auburn-haired woman in her late thirties or early forties who introduced herself as Remy-to frisk her before welcoming her into the back of the relatively unassuming silver Lincoln, but that didn't happen. Maybe after the Lincoln pulled to a stop in the arched driveway leading to the front of the manor. Which would leave Shyla with only the backup security of having told a friend where she was going, as well as the instruction to follow up with her first thing in the morning if she hadn't heard back. This wouldn't be much good to her if Braith-along with Remy, and anyone else who might be present in the house-planned to do anything that would take fewer than eight or nine hours to finish.

Her past gave Shyla cause to be paranoid, and vigilant, and a glance at current world events or a general understanding of history could give anyone reason to believe a billionaire might be capable of anything, but Braith's invitation worked both to fuel and to dispel her paranoia. It was disconcerting, delivered as it was by hand to the mailbox hanging beside the door of her newly purchased cottage-style house. No postage, no return or mailing address, just her first name written in black ink. The envelope hadn't even been sealed. A small, folded letter, handwritten, was inside, telling Shyla that Saxton Braith was aware of and impressed by her work, and was interested in interviewing her for a job. It ended with a phone number, and a code she could use in a private message to any of his verified social media accounts if she needed proof that this wasn't a scam or prank. She'd used that code, sent a message, and received a simple response: Hello, Shyla. Looking forward to speaking with you.

Then she called and spoke to Remy, thinking, Well, he already knows where I live. If this was something shady, some kind of setup, he could have just sent for me instead of bothering with any of this stuff that could leave a digital and paper trail. That was encouraging in a way, although she understandably couldn't shake the discomfort of knowing someone-Remy, she presumed-had walked up the steps of her porch while she was either away or unaware, possibly at night, and left that envelope in her mailbox.

So here she was now, still thinking of how Braith had sent a silver sedan and not an unmarked black SUV. A lone driver and not a team. Someone to send a message, not "send a message." All things she could point at to reassure herself she was in no danger. Enough to make her think it was safe to make the call, accept the invitation, get in the car.

Then she'd seen the house.

That wasn't the right word. "Mansion" or "manor" felt inadequate, as well. "Estate" approached what felt appropriate, but even that felt a little too normal.

"Relic." That felt closer to what this was. Braith lived in the last-standing ruin of some ancient calamity.

Remy parked in front of it, stepped from the vehicle. Shyla got out of the car as soon as Remy opened her door, without thinking, almost as if anticipating being ordered out at gunpoint. Remy, with her dark suit and tight expression, engineered her own level of distrust. Shyla had asked Remy to keep the partition lowered during the drive, and Remy had obliged, then deftly stifled Shyla's attempts at conversation.

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere important."

"How did you end up working for Braith?"

"I applied."

"Do you enjoy what you do?"

"I am paid very well."

Shyla hadn't really been pursuing a deep discussion. She had been assessing how disciplined, practiced, or spontaneous Remy sounded. From the moment she'd seen the square-shouldered woman standing outside her house, Shyla had evaluated all she could about her. She noted the scar on Remy's chin, almost invisible on her fair skin. The controlled gentility of Remy's handshake reminded Shyla of her jujitsu instructor, a man who'd suffered his share of "boxer's fractures" and ligament tears during his mixed martial arts career. Remy's blunt responses, wrapped in crisp, steady professionalism that almost felt like a challenge-I can outlast you, I promise-removed any doubt that she was a fighter. A proud one who might not ever look for a reason to show her skills, but was always happy when the world provided one.

Even the way she opened the door for Shyla had a strict and performative quality to it. As Shyla stepped out, she presented Remy with a fifty-dollar bill she had slipped from her inner coat pocket, opposite her gun. Remy looked at it like it was a suggestive Valentine's card from her brother.

"You're joking."

"Only a little," Shyla said, continuing to hold the bill close to Remy's hand. "If you really don't want it, just give it to somebody else for me." A few more seconds passed before Remy accepted the tip, and Shyla smiled while updating Remy's unwritten dossier.

She followed Remy up the stairs leading to the front door. Stay ready, she thought. Trust your instincts; they've never let you down. Which was true, notwithstanding one- or two-dozen exceptions she could recall offhand, ranging from "The timing is right, kiss this boy," to "You can get away with cheating on this one test," to "Dad and Momma wouldn't lie about something that serious."

Hell, overriding her shifting instincts-which couldn't decide whether to suspect or trust-and following facts and clues had brought her to the truth that altered her life.

Shyla stepped into the house, and as the door closed behind her she realized she should have turned around and asked to be taken home before coming in.

Heavy, dark sheets covered various wall hangings, as well as a few statuesque figures freestanding amidst the furnishings. She fixated on the wall décor. Portraits and paintings?

Mirrors, she thought. Covered mirrors. She'd heard of that sort of thing before, from a few family members she'd connected with in recent years, folks from Louisiana she'd met at a funeral, who told her that covering the mirrors in the house where the dead had died was a priority. One of the first things to be done, even as you grappled with your immediate mourning, almost like the deceased had a disease that would go airborne if you didn't take this step.

Not every mirror she could see in Braith's home was covered, however, which made Shyla wonder whether she was missing something or reading too much into what she saw. The latter felt impossible to her, and not just because of her previous case, the one that presumably put her on Braith's radar. Even with no previous experience working with someone who believed in demons and spirits, she would have guessed Braith had arcane and occult interests. Or, at minimum, was interested in making others think he was curious about such things.

Along the wall of the mezzanine that hung like a darkened halo over this first chamber of his home, four life-sized, chiaroscuro portraits of men had been mounted in recesses between massive bookcases. She scanned each one and started to wonder if they were depictions of different men, or of the same man just wearing different, decade-appropriate fashions or uniforms dating back a century or more. In one the man wore an officer's uniform that Shyla surmised was from the First World War. In another he appeared to be wearing a white-capped pilot's uniform. The moustache and rounded glasses he paired with a Gatsby-reminiscent tuxedo made him look older than in the painting where he wore a classically 1980s, "corporate shark" Armani suit.

In every picture, the man-or different men, surely related, with uncanny resemblances-stood alone against darkness, lit from below and to his left, like he stood over a white flame. Shyla felt watched by them all as she followed Remy closer to the center of the room, toward the stairs that led up to a blank, black canvas framed by the same inornate wood that housed the other paintings. The blackness of the otherwise unpainted canvas was so deep, Shyla wondered whether it was a canvas at all, but instead an open space to a hallway that repelled light. Just as she was convincing herself that this was the case, the canvas split, revealing itself to be double doors in disguise that Braith opened, walked through, then closed behind him before waving hello to her.

He could have met me anywhere, Shyla thought. I bet he owns a yacht. I bet he owns five. A private plane or two. Or he could have just picked a hotel room-bought out a whole top floor for extra privacy if he wanted to. There are a hundred other places he could have picked, and he chose to bring me here. He wanted me to see all of this. Save the note; suss the reason later.

There would be a "later," she was sure now. She hadn't made the worst mistake of her life by coming here. She couldn't know exactly what was on the man's mind, but she was sure he wanted her to see and know something, and to carry it with her. That was why he met her here.

When he made it down, he motioned for her to join him near the huge hearth behind the staircase. First time I've ever seen a walk-in fireplace, she thought. She accepted and sat across from him in one of two matching, antique, cushioned chairs.

"I can't express how happy I am to have you here," he said. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No thanks, I'm good," Shyla said.

"You're sure? Not anything?" He put an emphasis on anything, and stated the question like it was a dare. Try to come up with something we wouldn't have, we couldn't make, and I promise I'll surprise you. Not only will we have it, but a version of it so good it will ruin it for you. "I have a house tea, specially brewed. You won't get it anywhere else, I assure you. If nothing else comes of this meeting, you can tell your friends you drank Saxton Braith's exclusive, home-brewed tea."

"That sounds dirty."

"Oh. Yes, I didn't realize that until you pointed it out."

"Yeah, no thanks," Shyla said.

Braith nodded, then flicked a glance past her. She looked back to see Remy moving from behind her to the side of the fireplace, near the large, traditional tools you'd expect to see. Tongs, a poker, a broom, and a shovel, all black.

"I appreciate your time and don't intend to waste it," Braith said, stealing back Shyla's attention. "I am compelled to ask, what led you to accept my invitation?"

His voice matched his appearance. Strong and sturdy, but not overly so. He was nearly six feet tall. Dirty blond hair, firm brow, a nose not quite aquiline but close enough to look like the model for classical sculptors. Certainly the model for the mezzanine paintings.

He had good shoulders, a waist that was a little slight for his frame, but legs and feet that fit him. He wore a buttoned-up shirt, suspenders, casual slacks, and hard-looking dress shoes.

Shyla wondered whether he'd done his due diligence to research her, or if he was basing his impression of her on presumptions and superficiality instead. She was Black, stronger and thicker-looking than what he might consider the "average" woman to be. She wondered if he could guess her age accurately. People who barely knew her often commented that she looked younger than twenty-seven, but anyone who had a chance to talk to her called her an "old soul," and was surprised that she wasn't in her thirties. It surprised them even more to find out she'd been in this business since she was twenty-three, with seventeen cases under her belt, even if most of those had been relatively light work. Finding proof of adultery, proof of insurance fraud, a few instances of digging up old, controversial social media posts from burgeoning politicians and businessmen. Nothing close to what Dante had hired her for. That case was different. Some PIs go their entire careers without someone asking them to confirm their paranoid, paranormal delusions.

Braith knew about that job, at minimum, but as to the rest-what was true about her-he might not even be that interested.

Virtually anything of significance that Shyla could learn about Braith would be a surprise not just to her, but to the world. Saxton Braith was, as far as anyone knew, an eccentric billionaire who was content to keep his mouth shut and life secret. No one knew anything about his parents or how he had amassed the money necessary to take ownership of Daedalus Shipping before its abrupt ascension as the favored vendor in a world where "overnight shipping" increasingly became the standard, rather than a luxury.

Having lost herself for a moment, Shyla took an extra second to remember what Braith had asked her. What led you to accept my invitation?

"Money."

"That's all that motivates you?"

"Why else do most people work? Some love their jobs, but even most of those would stop showing up if the checks did. I bet you'd stop doing whatever you do if it stopped making you anything."