The Demon's Dagger: A Noir Urban Fantasy Novella (Alexander Southerland, P.I.) by Douglas Lumsden

Author:Douglas Lumsden [Lumsden, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2022-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

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After an hour of digging around online, Crawford thought he had a pretty good handle on the history of the notorious Varadkhar family, even if much of it was based on rumors, supposition, and legend, rather than verifiable facts. Over the last three thousand years, the scions of the Varadkhar family were allegedly responsible for the assassinations of kings, potentates, leaders of rebellions, business tycoons, and organized crime figures all over the globe. One of the Varadkhar killers was supposed to have singlehandedly saved Lord Agni, the ruler of the Realm of Sindhu, from a cabal consisting of nine highly skilled rebels who had launched a quest to overthrow the immortal Dragon Lord’s rule. According to the story, the Varadkhar assassin, armed with an enchanted weapon known as The Demon’s Dagger, had laid the heads of four human warriors, a gnome, a dwarf, two trolls, and a human sorcerer at Agni’s feet. Crawford’s eyes grew wide with the realization that, if the story was true, those heads had most likely been removed by the blade that was now hidden within the walls of the Tillman Hotel.

Crawford had also scanned the internet for stories about Mitzli and Chicahua Varadkhar, and he’d found plenty of interest on both.

In international law enforcement circles, Mitzli was something of a bogeyman. Suspected of being responsible for the deaths of a number of politicians and crime lords in at least five of the Seven Realms, he’d never been caught in the act or left behind enough evidence to warrant an arrest. Known as “The Rakshasa” after the demonic figures of Sindhu folklore, Mitzli Varadkhar was a shadowy, reclusive figure, who never willingly allowed himself to be photographed or recorded. The few pictures of him on the internet were so indistinct that Crawford wouldn’t have recognized the man if he were in the same room with him. No assassinations had been linked to “The Rakshasa” for at least eight years, and it was believed by some that the old man had retired. If he had died or been involved in anything unusual in the past few months, the news hadn’t reached the internet.

Chicahua was a different story. Not that he was a celebrity, but he was a jetsetter who spent his family’s fortune in casinos and resorts on every continent, and who found his way into the gossip columns from time to time. Crawford had found a picture of him on the arm of a Tolanican singer on the red carpet of some awards show. In the caption, he’d been identified as “a smoldering savage called Chicahua Varadkhar, an international gadfly rumored to have underworld ties.” But most of the attention had been given to the attractive singer, whose gown covered less skin than it exposed and probably cost enough to buy an island in the South Nihhonese Ocean.

None of the cops who’d carried Chicahua’s body out of the hotel had recognized him. He hadn’t been dressed like an international gadfly, and his smoldering features didn’t belong to the face of anyone they’d been looking for.

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