Plague on Hollowed Fairies : Dream with Wings Series

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Gin in person. She’s been buried in textbooks and lectures at Queensland University, chasing down economic theories while I’ve been chasing murderers. Different kinds of puzzles, same sleepless nights. But today? Today we’re finally syncing up—and not just for coffee or a rushed catch-up. We’re getting tattoos. Ink and memory. Something permanent to mark the years we’ve survived. I pull into the lot, engine humming low, and spot her taxi rolling up beside me. Gin steps out, her hair longer than I remember, her smile just as wide. We collide in a hug that feels like exhaling. “How’s uni, Gin?” I ask, pulling back. “Tiring,” she groans. “How’s your dead bodies?” I laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few stranger things this month.” She raises an eyebrow. “Stranger than the guy who thought his toaster was possessed?” “Stranger than the woman who left feathers in every room before she died.” Gin whistles. “Okay, you win.” We walk toward the tattoo studio, the sun warm on our backs. I don’t know it yet, but the ink I’m about to get isn’t just decoration. It’s a doorway. A warning. A beginning. Here’s a vivid continuation of your scene, keeping Thara’s voice grounded and subtly foreshadowing the magic to come: --- We step into the studio, the scent of antiseptic and ink hanging in the air like a promise. A staff member greets us with a practiced smile. “How can I help you ladies?” Gin’s already halfway through pulling out her phone. “We’ve booked two appointments at 8:30—Gin and Thara.” I nod as she scrolls to the image. The staff member leans in as Gin flashes a picture of a tiger, its stripes bold and eyes fierce. “I want a tiger similar to this,” she says, “covering my back. Something powerful.” The staff member hums thoughtfully, then turns to me. “And you?” I hesitate for a second, then speak. “Something between a butterfly and a fairy. A set of wings, covering my back.” He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Delicate or bold?” “Both,” I say. “Like they belong to someone who’s survived something.” He nods slowly, already sketching ideas in his mind. Here’s the next scene, continuing with Thara’s voice—grounded, quietly defiant, and laced with foreshadowing: --- The staff member leads us to a pair of chairs, the walls around us lined with framed sketches and inked skin frozen in time. He flips open a sketchpad, pencil poised. “So,” he says, glancing at me, “what’s the reason behind getting this tattoo?” I pause, watching Gin scroll through tiger references beside me. The question hangs in the air longer than I expect. “It’s a reminder I can fly,” I say finally. He nods, not asking for more. But I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. Not wings for beauty. Not for whimsy. For survival. He begins sketching—long, sweeping lines that arc like breath, delicate veins branching like memory. The wings take shape slowly, each stroke whispering something I haven’t yet heard. Gin leans over. “It’s going to look amazing.” I smile, but something inside me stirs. Like the ink already knows where it belongs. The artist nods, already reaching for the color palette. “Alright then—let’s make it sing.” Gin settles into her chair first, her tiger sketch transferred onto tracing paper, bold and wild. I watch as the stencil is pressed to her back, the shape curling over her shoulder blades like a predator ready to pounce. Then it’s my turn. The stencil of wings is placed gently across my back—arching from shoulder to waist, delicate veins branching like rivers. I glance in the mirror. They look like they belong there. Like they’ve always been waiting. The first needle hums to life. I brace myself, expecting pain. But what comes is warmth. A strange, pulsing heat that spreads through my spine like something waking up. The artist doesn’t notice—he’s focused, layering soft blues into the upper wings, blending into lavender, then pink. Tiny white flecks shimmer like stars. I close my eyes. And for a moment, I see something else. A forest. A waterfall. A pair of glowing eyes watching me from the dark. I blink. It’s gone. “Doing okay?” the artist asks. “Yeah,” I say, voice steady. “Just… feels like more than a tattoo.” He chuckles. “They always do.” But mine is different. I can feel it. Something has begun. Hours pass, and the hum of the tattoo gun fades into memory. Our backs sting, but it’s the good kind—the kind that says something’s changed. We step out into the sun, the salty breeze from the beach brushing against our skin as we wander between boutique shops and cafés. Gin stretches, her tiger ink peeking through the edge of her shirt. “I want to invite you to my pool party this weekend,” she says, grinning. “It’s for my 23rd birthday.” “That all depends on work,” I reply, half-joking, half-resigned. The dead don’t wait, and neither do murder scenes. “Yeah, I know,” she sighs. “But still—come if you can. I want you there.” I nod. “Let’s get lunch first. I’m starving.” We duck into a small café with mismatched chairs and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. I don’t know it yet, but this moment—sunlight, laughter, the ache of fresh ink—will be the last normal one before everything shifts. Here’s a continuation of your scene, keeping Thara’s tone sharp and intuitive, with a hint of unease creeping in: --- My phone buzzes just as Gin and I settle into our café seats, menus untouched. I glance at the screen. **Boss.** Of course. I swipe to answer. “What do you need, boss?” His voice is clipped, all business. “We’ve got a corpse. Dead in a shed that houses trains—old maintenance yard near the river. You’ll be on site first. We’re at least an hour out.” I straighten in my seat, the warmth of the sun suddenly feeling too soft for the weight of his words. “Got it,” I say. “Any details?” “None yet. Just you, the body, and whatever it wants to tell you.” The line clicks dead. Gin watches me, concern flickering behind her eyes. “Work?” I nod, already rising. “Train shed. Dead body. I’m first on scene.” She sighs. “Of course you are.” I toss her a smile, but it’s thin. The tattoo on my back pulses once—like a breath beneath the skin. Something about this case feels different. And I haven’t even seen the body yet. Here’s a continuation of your scene, keeping Thara’s perspective sharp and observant, with subtle tension building: --- We arrived at the yard just as the morning fog began to lift, revealing rusted tracks and rows of silent train cars. The shed loomed ahead—steel, shadowed, and quiet in a way that felt wrong. A man in a high-vis vest approached, clipboard tucked under one arm. His face was lined, eyes tired but alert. “I’m the crew chief,” he said. “Name’s Darren. Melvin Walker is—was—one of our oldest conductors. Been with us nearly thirty years.” I nodded, letting him speak. “He was scheduled to deliver a shipment of coal down to Townsville at 2:15 a.m. But…” He gestured toward the shed. “It’s obvious he didn’t make it.” I followed his gaze. The shed door was ajar, just enough to suggest someone had gone in—and hadn’t come out. “Anyone else on site when he was supposed to leave?” “No. He preferred working solo. Said the night shift kept him focused.” I stepped toward the shed, the tattoo on my back pulsing faintly beneath my jacket. The air felt heavier here. Like something had been left behind. “Alright,” I said. “Let’s see what Melvin has to say.” The shed is dim, lit only by the slant of morning light cutting through warped metal panels. Dust hangs in the air like ash, and the silence is thick—too thick for a place that once moved with engines and men. I step carefully, boots crunching over gravel and rust flakes. The body lies slumped near the back wall, half-shadowed by a stack of old crates. Melvin Walker. His name feels distant now, like it belongs to someone already fading. I crouch beside him. The bite marks are deep—jagged crescents torn into his wrists and neck. Not clean. Not surgical. Feral. Either a dog, or something larger. Wilder. Wolf? I scan the room. No blood trail. No signs of struggle beyond the wounds. Whatever did this was fast. Precise. Or… practiced. I reach for my gloves, the tattoo on my back pulsing faintly beneath my jacket. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Like something in the air is responding to me. “Melvin,” I whisper, more out of habit than hope. “What happened to you?” The shed creaks. A breeze slips through the cracks, carrying the scent of coal and something else—wet earth, fur, and something faintly metallic. I stand slowly. This isn’t just a case. It’s a warning. I step closer, careful not to disturb the scene. Melvin’s body is cold, his limbs stiff, but it’s the bite marks that hold my attention. Deep, jagged, and deliberate. Not random. Not panicked. Something fed. I scan the ground around him—no paw prints, no drag marks. Just the faint scent of coal and something feral. My fingers hover near his collar, and that’s when I see it. A small object tucked beneath his shirt. I ease it out carefully. It’s a charm—wooden, carved with a spiral and a pair of wings. Not something a train conductor would carry. Not unless he knew something. The tattoo on my back pulses again, sharper this time. Like it recognizes the symbol. I stand, turning toward the shed’s entrance—and freeze. Perched on a rusted beam above me is a cat. Black and white. Watching. Its wings are folded neatly against its back, feathered and faintly shimmering in the dim light. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares. I take a step forward. “You’re not supposed to be here.” The cat tilts its head. Then leaps down, silent as shadow, and disappears into the trees beyond the yard. I don’t chase it. Not yet. Because something tells me I’ll see it again. I crouch beside Melvin’s body, the scent of rust and coal thick in the air. His hands are curled unnaturally, and when I lift one gently, I see it—his index and middle fingers are broken. Snapped clean, like he tried to grip something too hard… or fight something off. The bite marks on his neck and wrists are deep, jagged. Not human. Not clean. Feral. Footsteps echo behind me. I don’t look up until I hear the voice. “What can you tell me, Thara?” My boss stands just inside the shed, flanked by two crew members. His tone is clipped, but he’s watching me closely. He knows I see things others miss. I rise slowly, brushing dust from my gloves. “Melvin didn’t die quietly,” I say. “The bite marks suggest an animal attack—possibly canine, but the spacing’s off. Too wide. Too deliberate.” The crew chief shifts uneasily. “And the fingers?” my boss asks. “Broken mid-knuckle. Defensive injury. He tried to hold something back. Or hold on.” I glance at the charm still tucked in my pocket. Wings carved into wood. The tattoo on my back pulses again, faint but insistent. “There’s something else,” I say quietly. “Something that doesn’t belong here.” My boss raises an eyebrow. “Like what?” I hesitate. “Like a warning.” I move deeper into the shed, flashlight sweeping across rusted tools and forgotten crates. The air is thick with dust and something else—something older. The charm in my pocket feels heavier now, like it’s absorbing the silence. Melvin’s body tells a story, but it’s fragmented. Bite marks. Broken fingers. No blood trail. No signs of struggle. Just absence. I crouch again, scanning the floor. There—scratches. Not claw marks, but symbols. Faint, etched into the concrete near his boots. I trace one with my gloved finger. It looks like a wing. Or half of one. I yawn, sudden and sharp. The adrenaline’s wearing off, and the ache from the tattoo is starting to settle into my spine. “You need to go home,” my boss says, stepping beside me. His voice is firm, but not unkind. I nod, standing slowly. “Before I go… do you need me to stay on this case?” He looks at me for a long moment. “It’s bad enough I called you just after getting a tattoo.” I smirk. “You didn’t know I’d be inked with prophecy.” He raises an eyebrow. “Prophecy?” “Never mind,” I say, already turning toward the exit. “I’ll keep my phone on.” As I step out into the fading light, the charm in my pocket pulses once. And somewhere in the trees beyond the yard, I swear I see a flicker of wings. I pull into the driveway, the engine’s hum fading into silence as exhaustion settles deep in my bones. The tattoo on my back aches—not painfully, but like something stretching beneath the skin, unfurling in slow, deliberate pulses. It’s been hours since the ink settled, but it feels alive, like it’s listening. I rub my neck, step out of the car, and— “Meow.” The sound is sharp, almost too clear in the quiet dusk. I freeze. There, perched on the low brick wall near the gardenias, is a black cat. Its fur gleams under the porch light, sleek and shadowed, eyes a piercing green that catch the light like glass. But it’s the wings that stop me cold—folded neatly against its back, feathered and unmistakable. Not bat-like. Not torn. Beautiful. Real. I blink. Once. Twice. Still there. It doesn’t move. Just tilts its head, watching me with a gaze that feels ancient. Like it’s not seeing me, but remembering me. “Right,” I mutter. “Definitely just tired.” I fumble with my keys, the door clicking open with a familiar creak. Inside, the air is still, the house quiet. I strip off my jacket, the ache of the day clinging to every muscle. The tattoo burns faintly now, not with pain, but with presence. The shower is hot, steam curling around me like mist. I scrub away the grime, but not the memory. The cat. The wings. The way it looked at me like it knew something I didn’t. I towel off, crawl into bed, and let the exhaustion take me. But just before sleep claims me, the tattoo pulses once—soft, like breath. Like a whisper. Outside, beyond the garden wall, the winged cat waits. And somewhere, a gate begins to stir.