Kylian and Brett: An Urban Fantasy

Chapter 1 Kylian stood at the end of the bar, studying the artist, hoping he was as good as had been claimed. From what he could see and hear, the man was living up to expectations. Brett Wescott had a reputation for being able to capture his subject so that, despite his rather flamboyant style, anyone who saw the painting would instantly recognize the person. He also had a talent for creating quick sketches of people from verbal descriptions. Sketches that looked exactly like the subject—at least according to the tourists who found him either in Jackson Square or one of the bars along Bourbon Street. Kylian had been told that Wescott did that as a way of supplementing his income when necessary. To look at him, no one would think Wescott was an artist. He certainly doesn’t fit the stereotype. He was at least three inches taller than Kylian’s five foot nine, and looked more like an athlete than anything else, with his muscular build and broad shoulders. Kylian was interested in him for a reason. There was a particularly vicious killer haunting New Orleans. Until yesterday, no one had seen him in action—or if they had, they hadn’t lived to tell the tale. That had changed late this evening when a homeless teen, looking for a place to crash, happened on what appeared to be a murder in progress. Realizing what was going on, the teen fled, but not before the killer had looked up and seen him—and been seen by the young man. The teen had flagged down a patrol car to report the murder before vanishing into the night. Kylian had been called to the scene by Emile Leger, the head of the task force which had been formed because of what the news reporters had dubbed ‘The Phantom Slayer’ murders. He and Emile had worked together on several occasions over the past century, in San Diego and Denver among other places, where Emile had been a detective with local police agencies. Now Emile was in New Orleans because, as happened with all long-lived paranormals, he had had to relocate and take up a new identity to cover the fact he wasn’t aging. As he always did, Emile had joined the police force, working his way up to detective. When Emile had been assigned to head the ‘Phantom Slayer’ task force, he’d called Kylian, asking him come to the city to assist in finding the killer. Kylian and Emile had a special bond, as Emile was Kylian’s half-brother, born over three hundred years after Kylian. Emile’s mother had been a human who had died in child-birth. Kylian had returned home to France to help raise Emile because their father, an ancient elf, had rejected him—blaming him for the death of his most recent, and dearly beloved, wife. As soon as Emile turned twenty-one, Kylian had brought him to the States, and then introduced him to a man he knew who worked for the newly-formed New York City police force. The man had felt that Emile would be an excellent addition to the force, recruited him, and the rest was history. Kylian himself ran a covert agency he had formed in the late seventeen-hundreds to stop paranormals from preying on the human population. All his employees were elves or shifters—each one with their own personal reasons for wanting to work with Kylian. Kylian knew there were other such organizations throughout the world that did essentially the same thing. His was unique in that it concentrated purely on paranormals who killed humans. He and Emile were certain that the Slayer was a shifter, although they had yet to determine who he was. There was a reason why they believed that. The ME had determined that all the victims had been strangled before they were brought to the murder sites. Once there, the killer had mutilated the corpses using a knife and, according to the ME, a set of claws that he thought the killer had bought for that purpose. “Probably something he got from a tourist shop, or a taxidermist.” At Emile’s behest, the ME had withheld the information about the claw marks. As Emile had told him, “Keeping that out of the news will help us weed out the crazies who like to confess to a crime.” In reality, after seeing the bodies, he was more than certain that the mutilations had been caused by a wolf shifter. Kylian had agreed once Emile had told him about them. “I’m doubly certain it has to be a shifter,” Kylian had added, when Emile had taken him around to the cemeteries where the bodies had been deposited. “Several of the cemeteries are surrounded by high walls or fences, and have locked gates. It would be virtually impossible for a human to scale them, carrying a body, without someone seeing them, no matter how late at night they did it. Teleporting the body in, however…” * * * * “The first thing we have to do,” Emile said when Kylian joined him at the most recent murder site, “is find the boy who saw the killer leave the body here.” “Locating the kid won’t be easy,” Kylian replied. “He’s undoubtedly gone to ground to keep the killer from finding him, and in this city, there are too many places he could hide.” “No s**t. I’m hoping you can help. If we at least had a sketch of him to show around, it would be a big help.” When Kylian lifted an eyebrow in question, Emile told him about Brett Wescott. “He refuses to work with the police. Says it goes against his principles, whatever the hell that means.” Emile paused to talk to one of the crime scene personnel before continuing. “Officer Pasternak—” he pointed to the man in question, “—was one of our men who talked with the kid. Time is of the essence, and as you can see, I’m tied up here. And getting one of our sketch artists on it might not happen until tomorrow, or later. The department keeps them too damned busy. If you can talk with Pasternak and pull the kid’s image from his mind, then find Wescott—” “At which point, I play tourist and ask him to draw…my runaway brother. Got it.” “Then why are you standing here?” “It might help if I knew what Mr. Wescott looks like.” “Good point.” Emile described him to Kylian. From there, Kylian had talked to the officer about the teen witness—delving into his mind for what the kid looked like—then he’d gone in search of Wescott. Since it was late, after one in the morning, he’d gone straight to Bourbon Street, moving from bar to bar until eventually he’d located the artist. * * * * Brett listened as the woman described her mother, after telling him, “She hates how she looks in photos so she won’t let me take any of her.” That was often the reason given for someone wanting him to draw their—whomever. That or because a loved one had died, or to see if he really could capture the person in a drawing using only the customer’s description of them. Like an ‘I bet you can’t’ dare. He got a kick out of the expressions of disbelief on those naysayers’ faces when he handed them a sketch that accurately portrayed the person they’d described. While he worked, he glanced at the people standing nearby, most of them with drinks in their hands as they watched what he was doing. He heard one man whisper to his companion, “I bet he couldn’t do one of Mazie.” She laughed in response, replying, “I don’t think he does animals.” “I can, actually,” Brett told them before returning his attention to the woman. He finished the sketch, handing it to her. She gasped, telling him, “This is perfect.” He knew it was. Being telepathic, he was able to read her mind as she talked to see exactly what her mother looked like. What he did was what he considered a party trick, although he’d never reveal it to the people who paid him for his supposedly uncanny ability to transfer their words into a drawing. He put the sketch into a folder, handing it to her after she’d paid him, then took a drink from the glass of water sitting by his elbow on the bar. As he did, a man approached him. He was slightly shorter than average, with long black hair and deep gray eyes flecked with silver. “How much to do a drawing for me?” the man asked. Brett told him, getting a nod of agreement from the man as he sat on the now-vacant bar stool next to Brett. “I’m looking for my brother,” the man said. “He’s a runaway, and I think he ended up here in New Orleans. The last photo we have of him was taken when he was in middle school, which isn’t helping me find him.” He smiled briefly. “Kids grow up and change too fast.” “Describe him, please, Mr.…?” Brett paused. “You can call me Kylian,” the man replied. “I suppose you mean the shape of his face, his nose, and mouth.” “Yes.” As Kylian began to tell him, Brett tried to pick up the image from Kylian’s mind—and failed. What the hell? Okay, I may be in trouble. * * * * Kylian felt Wescott trying to read his thoughts. So that’s how you do it. Interesting, although maybe not so surprising. He dropped his shields just enough to let Wescott see the image he’d gotten of the kid from Officer Pasternak—while verbally describing him. The artist might be a conman, to some extent, but that wasn’t Kylian’s business. He drew what people asked him to, which was what counted, Kylian supposed. He did wonder, as he talked, if Wescott pulled more than the visual of the subject from a customer’s mind. He could have quite a racket going if he used what he found out for, say, blackmail. * * * * Brett scowled when he picked up the tail end of Kylian’s thought before the man’s mind went dark—except for the image of the kid he’d called his brother. For some reason, Brett wondered if there was more to it than Kylian had said. The fact he’s able to block me tells me there could be. He doesn’t want me in his mind and he knows, somehow, that’s what I’m doing. He finished the sketch, then showed it to Kylian. “You’re good,” Kylian told him, paying for it. Brett smiled, pocketing the money before tearing the picture from his sketchpad and putting it into a folder that he gave Kylian. “So I’ve been told,” he said. “I hope it helps you find your—” he paused to stress how dubious he was, “—brother.” “So do I,” Kylian replied. He thanked Brett then walked quickly out of the bar. Brett closed the sketchpad, putting it, and his pencils and the folders, into his messenger bag. When someone asked if he was leaving, he almost replied snarkily, “What does it look like?” He thought better of it and took off after Kylian. He stepped onto the pavement outside the bar, glancing around to see which way the man had gone. With the crowds on the sidewalks, despite the late hour, he wasn’t terribly surprised when he didn’t see him. “Looking for me?” Kylian stepped out of a doorway to a tourist shop. “Now why would I be doing that?” Brett replied. Kylian smiled. “I could tell you, but not here.” He made a vague motion to encompass the people close to them. “I have to take this—” he held up the folder with the sketch, “—to someone who’s offered to help me find my brother. If you’re willing, and I suspect you are, why don’t we meet…? Well, you name the place.” “How long will it take you?” Brett asked, intrigued by Kylian’s suggestion. “Fifteen minutes or so.” Brett nodded. “Let’s meet on the plaza in front of the Cathedral. It should be private enough at this hour.” “Excellent. I’ll see you in a bit.” With that, Kylian strode away. Brett went in the opposite direction, to the plaza. With time to kill, he stopped to chat with an artist he knew who was still there, taking down his artwork from the fence around Jackson Square preparatory to leaving for the night. When his friend took off, Brett settled on a bench to wait for Kylian. He wondered if the man would show up, or if it had been a ploy on his part to keep Brett from following him.