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One
Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby slid his enchanted bicycle to a stop on the cracked pavement leading up to the house's sun-scoured door. Green sparks crackled from the rear gears as his Torque spell tried nudging the wheel forward, but he held it in place with the handbrakes as he gauged the neighborhood. This particular street was worn, relative to the quaint standards of Hyde Park. The pavement was pitted and faded to a bleached gray, while the homes on either side of the street were long, narrow collections of chipped brick, cracked timber, and rusted fixtures. However, even compared to its neighbors, this house seemed ill kept, or maybe just abandoned.
Grimsby wiped at the sweat on his brow with the loose sleeve of his oversize suit jacket before pulling a folded paper from his pocket. He double-checked the address, then leaned his bike against the short chain-link fence that guarded the small yard of wild, overgrown grass, propping the ever-spinning wheel up off the ground, where it spun in the still afternoon air like a windmill. Even from the broken-hinged gate, he could smell that the warm spring air was dampened by the odor of mold and something wet and pungent.
His steps ground over sun-cracked concrete and creaked on the old porch as he approached the door, and all the way he couldn't help but feel eyes on him. It made a shiver crawl through the gnarled burn scars along his left side, like ice-water veins from his fingertips all the way up the side of his neck. He scratched at the sensation and shook away the nervous feeling, forcing himself to remain as rigid and professional as he could.
He was an Auditor now, after all.
Though it didn't exactly feel like he had always imagined it would.
He rapped his knuckles on the weathered door, the rough surface stripped clean of paint by sunsets and neglect. His knock sounded meek, almost shallow, and no reply came from within.
He scowled and knocked more firmly, making his knuckles ache, until he was sure the occupant must have heard. It was the last name on his list, and he wouldn't return to the Department before checking it off. Menial task or not, he'd do his job.
Footsteps creaked inside the house, drawing slowly closer. Grimsby saw the peephole in the door darken as someone on the other side peered through, then heard the clatter and clack of multiple dead bolts and locks unwind and recede.
The door opened a crack, and a portly face with reddened eyes and lanky locks of dark, stringy hair peered out from within. "Yeah?"
"Samuel Goode?" Grimsby asked, trying to look imposing yet respectable as he imitated Auditors he had met in the past, though he had chosen to forgo their traditional white masks in favor of his glasses. The masks were for when things got ugly, and he expected today to be as banal as any other. Besides, he didn't care for the way he looked in one.
The man's face was smooth and shiny with sweat, but the circles around his eyes were deep and dark, cracked with more sleepless lines than the pavement outside. "Tentatively. Who's asking?"
"I am Auditor Grimsby," he said, still feeling a thrill of excitement at that particular pair of words, though it had slightly dulled over the last few weeks. Making house calls and riding his bike wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind a few months ago, when he received his badge, although it had been much more than he had expected before that.
Goode eyed Grimsby's outfit and scoffed. "A while to go until Halloween, kid. Come back when you fit in Daddy's suit."
He began to close the door, but Grimsby slid his foot in its path. He instantly regretted the decision as the man's idle strength nearly twisted his foot against the door's frame. Samuel Goode was a lot stronger than he looked, though Grimsby supposed most Therians must be.
He managed to choke his yelp into a more respectable grunt and drew his Department badge, a bifold of leather with a pentacle embedded in a silver shield within and his name below. "I'm afraid I'm a real Auditor, Mr. Goode," he said, trying to keep his voice straight over the pain of a likely stubbed toe. "I just need a moment of your time."
Goode looked at the badge in disbelief, then back at Grimsby. "If you're a real Auditor, where's your partner? I thought you guys never fly solo . . ."
Grimsby felt his stomach drop at the mention of a partner and bit back an unprofessional reply. Before he could come up with an appropriate substitute, however, Goode glanced past him and an unpleasant grin curled his face.
"Wait," he said, his smile wolfish, "did you ride a bike here?"
Grimsby tried to keep his face even but felt his fingers squeeze tight around the badge as he put it away. He half expected it to crumple in his hand like cheap plastic. "May I come in?"
Goode sighed, though a smirk still littered his face. "Fine, whatever, Mr. Auditor."
He opened the door wider and stepped aside. He wore a pair of stained cargo shorts and a T-shirt that had a sloppy, indecipherable logo on it, though it was of a style that looked to be for a heavy metal band. Now close to him, Grimsby could tell the odor he'd smelled outside had come from Goode himself-and was even more pungent up close. Grimsby clenched his jaw but managed to keep his face straight and avoid wrinkling his nose.
Who said he wasn't a professional?
He entered, though the house was so dark it took his eyes a moment to adjust. Clutter was collected against the baseboards to either side of the short hall before him. Discarded wrappers, old shoes, dirty laundry, all of it with the settled manner of having been left in place for quite a while. The wall to his right fell off to an arched doorway, with a darkened living room beyond filled with scattered cardboard boxes and piles of who knew what.
Grimsby felt a brief flare of disgust before remembering his own apartment had looked quite similar not too long ago.
What was quite different from his own abode, however, were the windows. Every pane of glass had been covered with layers of curtains, bedsheets held up by thumbtacks, and even glued-on tinfoil. The few threads of light that managed to stray their way inside shone in the drifting dust like crossbeams.
Goode must have noticed Grimsby examining the source of the dimness. "The light gives me a headache. It's part of my . . . condition," he said, "and no, I'm not a psychopath."
"Oh good, because that's exactly what a non-psychopath would say," Grimsby said, managing a smile. "No, Mr. Goode, I'm here because-"
"You're my new zookeeper?" he asked.
"Well-I wouldn't call it that. As you are a registered Therian, I'm here to ensure you're prepared for your coming period of mandatory asylum. I need to-"
Goode interrupted him in a stuffy voice. "'Make certain I am ready for a period of stay lasting no less than three days, beginning no later than twenty-four hours before the apex of the lunar cycle,' blah blah blah." He sighed bitterly, using his hand to mimic a sock puppet talking. "Yeah, kid, I've heard the speech before. Every month, actually, so yeah, I know why you're here. So, which is it?"
Grimsby frowned, uncertain if he had missed some context. "I'm sorry?"
"If you're here, that means you're on Department house-call duty. Which means you're either the new guy or you drew the short straw. So, which is it?"
"Well, I-" he began, standing up a little straighter.
"New guy, of course," Goode scoffed. "Listen up, new guy. I know the deal, okay? I've been going to the cage since I was thirteen. I haven't missed it once, and I'm not going to miss it this time."
Grimsby felt annoyance crawl into his jaw and prickle his scalp. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised at the flippant attitude. Goode was a Therian with a spotless record of Asylum attendance; it was why the task to make sure he was prepared for the coming full moon was one of Grimsby's many dully routine duties. He would be annoyed, too, if someone with a badge showed up every night to remind him to brush his teeth.
Though the attitude wasn't what bothered him.
What bothered him was that Goode had been completely correct in his assumption.
Grimsby was the new guy.
It had been six months since he got his badge, and he had been doing nothing but busywork since. House calls, recording complaints, writing citations for minor magical offenses, like kids hexing their tutor's hair to fall out. His most exciting moment to date was when he had to corral a rogue familiar, though it had only been a rabbit, much more manageable than some of the others he had faced in the past.
Much more.
He had dreamed of being an Auditor all his life, imagining what it would be like during his early years of training and then while working long shifts as a minimum-wage children's magician. He had concocted every scenario and image in his head.
But he'd never once dreamed it would be boring.
So when it was, he hadn't known whether he should be relieved or disappointed. It only took a few more weeks for him to settle on the latter.
Half a sigh slipped from his lips before he caught himself, but his chest deflated and his shoulders slumped lower all the same. He had promised himself he wouldn't stray back toward what he had been before he became an Auditor. Deflated, defeated, and content to stay that way.
Turned out, that was easier said than done.
He shook his head, turning his mind back to the job at hand.
Then something caught his eye. A scrap of paper with a string attached, like the kind used as a price tag at a yard sale. It sat on the dusty table beside the door.
He picked it up and raised a brow as he read the handwritten text. "Eye, newt. Three ounces," he said. "Is this yours, Mr. Goode?"
The Therian balked for a moment, then regained his flippant demeanor. "It's just a ritual reagent," he said. "Civilian-grade. I-I have a permit, if that's what you mean."
"A seller's permit?"
He shrugged. "Gotta make a living somehow. The Department stipend barely covers rent, and no one's going to hire me when they see Therian on every ID I own. They probably think I'm as likely to eat customers as help them."
Grimsby frowned. If Goode was on the up-and-up with his little business, he likely wouldn't have been so nervous when the tag was found.
"You mind if I take a look around?" he asked, feeling cautious excitement rise in him. Maybe he could find a case here after all. His first case.
Goode's lank hair seemed to bristle in agitation; his expression went as cold and hard as concrete in winter. "You have a warrant?"
Grimsby opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "No, Mr. Goode, I don't. Just thought I'd ask."
"Well, as long as we're asking." He stepped to the door and opened it. The fingernails on his hand were unclipped near to the point of talons. "I'd like to ask you to leave."
"Of course," he said, trying to ignore the nervous tenseness in Goode's motions. He was hiding something, but it wasn't as though Grimsby could snoop around until he found out what it was.
He was an Auditor, and that meant he had rules.
Though that didn't mean he couldn't come back. Especially if he could convince his director it was worth investigating. Even if it ended up only being a citation for wrongful possession of Unorthodox paraphernalia, it would still be his first real case.
Maybe it would even be enough to prove he was ready for something more than milk runs.
He drew his gaze over the sullen, dark interior of Goode's home one more time and suddenly wondered if he wanted to press the issue. Whatever he was selling, the Therian didn't seem to be living large by any stretch of the imagination.
He hardly seemed to be living at all.
Then again, perhaps it was his Department-given responsibility to press the matter.
He shook his head, setting his conflicted thoughts aside for the time being. Either way, it would have to wait. Goode was his last stop, but the Assessor would be expecting him at the Department headquarters soon. He had no time to waste agonizing over whether to chase a hunch or let it go.
He walked out the door and felt Goode's eyes on his back the whole way. Primitive instinct made the hairs rise on his neck. It was the feeling of being stalked by a predator.
He didn't look back until he reached his bike, and when he did he saw the afternoon daylight flash green off Goode's eyes in the darkened doorway for an instant. Then it was gone.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Goode," Grimsby called, ignoring the chills that brushed over the back of his neck. "I expect to see you at the Asylum by tomorrow afternoon."
"And I expect to see you for many months to come, new guy."
Goode said the words like a curse, and Grimsby felt it keenly.
But even as he rode away and the feeling of being watched faded, the real worry pressed in on him, gnawing at his stomach like he'd swallowed a live rat.
How much longer would his dream job remain a disappointment?
