“Darkness is mother to all Mysteries. She has never been silent, yet who is a more impervious keeper of Secrets? Light, ever exuberant, is father lambent of all resplendent illusion and reverberant noise. His effluvium is not fruitful; his vision does not approach her originality. Era is evoked. Not as song or prayer, but fathomless whisper.” – Unearthed Preachments, Andhanaha Matriarchs

  “We got the call just before dawn,” said the young, maroon-haired and talkative officer driving the car. “Local rancher reported a strange tunnel on his property and some mauled calves. Said some beasts ripped the poor things clean open. We thought it was just feral dogs, or a fox, and came to check it around seven.”

  “And the truck driver? When did he see them?” asked Stravinsky, flipping through the slim report.

  “Around four, they were crossing the road away from the ranch. He only reported it to Port authorities hours later. They reached out to us while we were already on the hunt. We spotted the first one in the peatlands to the West. Two more showed up right after. Big, fast and nasty, but not too smart. Dropped them right there. SO Dorst called City after we couldn’t figure out what they were.” He tapped the wheel giddily and glanced at Stravinsky. “You’ll see, sir. I swear they weren’t even beasts, more akin to nature spirits. Or gytrashes. I didn’t know we had them anymore.”

  “Anyone else see them before the attack?”

  “We’ve had reports of missing pets and nightly disturbances. Mostly from the western communities, up the Ayun. Nothing like this. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you the land’s been haunted. It’s the poisons from the City, floating up here. No offense.”

  Stravinsky nodded understandingly. “Institute notified? They’re closer than we are.”

  The officer shrugged. “Wouldn’t know, sir. What are they? More fancy suits?”

  The Junior Investigators sat in the back. Lowry followed the conversation, muffling her amusement and frequent yawns with a hand. Rivash looked through the tinted window and saw a sign indicating that they were at the midpoint between Eisenstadt and its seaport. Soon the cruiser turned off the main road, gravel popping under the tires before touching damper ground. Three vehicles, two of them police, were parked nearby. A canvas tent was pitched on the embankment beside.

  “Here we are,” announced their driver and cut the engine. “I’ll get you Dorst.”

  The Bureau agents stepped out after him, stretching their legs after the two-hour train ride. To the south, Eisenstadt’s erratically crenelated silhouette. To the north, a smaller seaport mottled with cranes. Both were gray and silent. The only familiar sound to them came from the trucks on the nearby highway. Little more than a managed hum. In front of them, almost all around, were peat fens.

  Lowry stretched her legs and tilted her head back to look at the blank sky. “Feels like we’re lodged between worlds,” she remarked. “I’ve never heard less.”

  “I already miss our kind driver,” retorted Rivash, tapping her shoulder. “Wouldn’t mind another of his stories now.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she admitted.

  A more solemn and serious figure approached from the tent. He carried a steaming mug and waved them over with his free hand. Stravinsky met him halfway and presented his credentials. “Senior Investigator Stravinsky. These are JIs, Lowry and Rivash.”

  “Senior Officer Dorst,” the man said, nodding. “I appreciate you three coming all the way out. Follow me.”

  Dorst sipped his coffee and led them over the squishy, grassed ground. “We photographed them where they fell before we slid tarp under. Figured best not to move them too much until you had a look. They didn’t seem local. Or natural.”

  “Good work,” Stravinsky said. “Any sign of more out there?”

  “None so far, but I still have men doing sweeps. To tell you the truth, some of them are a bit uneasy about it. People around here believe all kinds of things. Like the fen’s coming alive again. Gullible people like at least naming the things they can’t explain.”

  “Like gytrashes?”

  “Heh… Pete’s good people, but he’s one of the gullible ones. Boy sure can talk. I barely let him behind the wheel.” Dorst coughed, cleared his throat and raised a finger. “My money’s on the eco-cultist. Maybe even one of the underground sects of saboteurs you have in the city. Last month someone tried to blow up a new transmission tower. They hate anything that might be useful for a good, outskirt community like ours. Glad it’s finally being taken seriously.”

  “Environmentalists?” asked Stravinsky in a neutral tone.

  “Yessir. Green people, as I prefer to call them. They must be getting desperate to use beasts for their dirty work. I guess it beats bombs and flyers. Heh! They’re right up here.” They followed a trodden trail to a small clearing of reeds where a drowsy officer stood watch. Dorst dismissed him by gesturing back toward the tent. “This one fell first,” he said pointing at the dead animal at his feet. It was roughly dog-sized and of similar shape, but with leaner legs, a more vulpine and rounder face and almost no tail. Its fur was silver with tilleul streaks and spots, now all filthy and matted. The bullet wound on its chest was brown and black. “I shot that one myself,” he added, pointing further along. It was several meters away and identical to the first. “Like I said, we didn’t move them except to get the tarp under. The last one’s nearby.”

  Stravinsky nodded and started putting on plastic gloves. Rivash prepared the camera while Lowry went through a list of questions with Dorst. They crouched beside the nearest carcass and began examining it. The snout was long and strong, the tilleul streaks on its head similar to a badger’s. Stravinsky eased the jaw open. The teeth met unevenly, the front shaped for puncture while the rear rows broadened into flatter surfaces. Both the snout and teeth were muddy, filthier than the rest of the body. “Here,” he said to Rivash after the new angles were done. “See the rimation at the flank? The muscle beneath is somewhat segmented.”

  “Like it was grafted or assembled?” asked Rivash while searching for the same in the front legs.

  “Not exactly. The skin and fur are too continuous. More likely the result of some inner components or constitution. Judging by the size, I’d say it’s no more than fifteen kilograms. If it is the result of a single evocation, or even convocation, we’re looking at masterful Artistry.”

  “Not many places in Eisenstadt who could pull it off.”

  “They don’t have to be from around here. Check the other one.”

  Rivash nodded and stood up, “Also, the colors remind me of something… There’s someone over there,” he said, looking beyond the reeds.

  “Uh, her,” huffed Dorst, turning his back to Lowry. “She might as well be one of them.”

  “One of them?” asked Stravinsky, standing to take a look.

  “The green people,” Dorst reminded him contemptuously. “If she gets in the way of your work, let me know. I’ll be in the tent.” He went away muttering.

  “He’s also got theories,” said Lowry. “Time to introduce ourselves?”

  *

  The third one was in a small, shallow crater. A puddle of black stuff seeped into the soil. Ribs and white chunks poked out, dulled and partially digested. A woman in khaki was observing it and scribbling in a packed notebook. Her curly Soshanaha hair shifted with her small, self-absorbed movements. She didn’t look up until their boots cracked the edge of the reedbed. Then her eyes flicked between them, sharp behind her speckled glasses.

  “Oh, Bureau. Finally.” She tucked the notebook under her arm and rose. “Associate Researcher Kira Tarash, Institute of Arcane Inquiry.”

  Stravinsky provided their details. “When did you arrive on scene?”

  “About two hours ago, right after the officers cleared it. This one was already undergoing slow dissociation when they let me through.”

  He edged closer, testing the puddle’s rim. “On its own?”

  “Yep. I saw acid ruptures along the central cavity. It’s all gone now, but I took photographs. Possibly leakage of digestive acid or planned obscuration. Anyhow, she melted herself.”

  “The other two were males. Is that why they didn’t undergo the same process?”

  “My earliest conclusion. I observed that the entry wound was almost identical to one found on the male counterparts. It couldn’t have been caused by structural damage. Although it still doesn’t make sense.”

  “Dissolving females… They don’t look like swamp creatures to me. Do you have any idea about their purpose or origin?”

  “I’d say they adapted, albeit poorly, to this habitat. I don’t think they’ve been here for more than two months.”

  “The timeline matches. Are they strictly carnivorous?”

  “Judging by the two males, no. Omnivorous designs are preferred in Kainomancy. Makes things easier.”

  While Stravinsky and Tarash continued their exchange, Lowry shifted her weight and glanced sideways at Rivash. He was staring. His eyes were fixed on Tarash, not quite studiously, and he did not notice Lowry’s smirk or nudge. Undeterred, she leaned into the conversation, waiting for a natural pause. Then, casually but loud enough to interrupt, she said, “Actually, Rivash was making a point about it when something else caught his eye. Something about the color palette. Might be relevant now.”

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  Stravinsky looked at her, puzzled. “He did?”

  “I–uh,” Rivash stuttered and coughed. Tarash turned to him with interest. “Yeah. I mean only that… The colors seemed muted by the environment. There were still shiny parts, around the back, that were gray. Their green isn’t really the same shade as the vegetation. So… Not something you’d expect to develop in the wild or outside the City. Actually, the whole color scheme… It reminded me of the thousand Eisenmark bill. Tilleul and silver. It’s rare, but iconic.”

  “Meaning what?” demanded Tarash.

  “Hardly fit for this place, or any wilds,” Rivash said, surer now. “If the pigment had a purpose, it wasn’t meant for camouflage. It was meant to impress in a specific social context, like a luxury pet.”

  Tarash tilted her head, thought about it, then made additions to her notes. “That’s a very good observation,” she said with a smile. “Maybe you should share your thoughts sooner next time.”

  Stravinsky gave him a sterner look. “You’re thinking they came from the seaport, then, not Eisenstadt. It makes more sense that they would be smuggled through there before escaping or being set loose. Unlikely that they could have drifted up here from the city.”

  “But isn’t it a bit odd for exotic pets to carry acid sacs?” challenged Lowry. “Who would buy such an animal?”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t meant for sale. She had other value: reproduction. The acid was probably a failsafe. Easy way to dispose of unwanted remains and safeguard its Secret. Must have cost a lot… Tarash, do you think it’s possible that she could have already given birth, out here?”

  “Can’t be certain without a deeper understanding of their physiology, but it would explain the raid on the cattle ranch. Flesh into flesh. Another thing: I strongly suspect that the arcofauna contain insectoid elements. Beetles, to be precise. Many also have color palettes corresponding to the banknote JI Rivash mentioned.”

  “The defined joints, shiny coat, acid sacs and acclimation to this habit,” listed Stravinsky. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I believe it is possible they have a burrow nearby. Perhaps along the stream.”

  “Sounds like we should split up and search the area,” Lowry interjected again. “I’ll go with the SI; in case my leg gets stuck. You two don’t mind?”

  They took a moment to check their bearings, exchanging short nods before parting. Tarash gestured northward, Rivash following her through the tall sedge. With Lowry beside him, Stravinsky turned southward.

  “I had to,” she said after suffering his silence for a while. “Every man needs help sometimes. Rivash regularly. He gets stubbornly shy and just needs a push to shine.”

  Stravinsky sighed, the setting the tone for his words. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the investigation. How did you know?”

  “That he had something useful to say? I didn’t. But usually he does,” she inhaled the humid air and scratched her nose. “You have to inspire Rivash, give him some courage. Even if he does fumble it with the girl or gets folded by a Senior.” Stravinsky raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She smirked, seeing his confusion. “You’d know if you were with us that night. Pretty sure the DL thought I was a fool or a liar.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said and turned his eyes ahead.

  They moved with only the occasional squelch of mud marking their headway. Thickets and ponds seemed strewn at random, with little variation otherwise. Eisenstadt did not seem to come closer, despite an hour of advancing toward it. The field only split into lines of crooked channels. The streams made noise. Plastic bags colored their water. Stravinsky walked over them with his hands behind his back, pausing now and then to scan the terrain. Lowry trailed slightly behind, watching her steps and little else.

  “Sell the males now, keep the female for future stock,” Lowry muttered, mostly to herself. “SI, do you really think they’re just designer pets?”

  “Makes more sense than nature spirits or green people. But let’s not settle on anything just yet.”

  “You’re too generous to the country yokel. What gives? You born as one of them?”

  “No. Urbanites like us are usually more skeptical of arcana, and, by proxy, the Bureau. People out here, and in most places, are more superstitious. It makes them more open to our involvement, although they always seem to have their own ideas on the matter. You have to have understanding for both if you want to work. The ground is never neutral.”

  “Gotcha,” she observed and left the matter alone.

  Narrow grooves and channels exhausted the ground of the peatland. The lines were once cut cleanly, but now the edges sank and slumped. Water filled the old extraction sites and sedge reclaimed the mounds. Elsewhere, the land looked mauled. Series of shallow pits opened at random and uprooted reeds were strewn about.

  They veered left through a denser patch of brittle growth. Footing shifted from oozing sponge to hardened grit. Just beyond a toppled drainage sign, something low and peeled jutted out of the sedge. Stravinsky slowed to study a wrecked skiff nesting in the reeds. The spine was visible but broken, ribs forming rows of crescents. Ants marched along the gunwales and through plentiful openings. He stepped closer. Water pooled below the slats; its stagnant surface littered with drowned gnats and tiny yellow husks. Leaning in, he noted the inoffensive smell. Not rotten stench at all from the trapped puddle. It must have rained.

  The handheld on his belt rang and he unclipped it. Pressed against his ear, all he could hear was a rough static followed by the words, “…down… saw… maybe more… hear?” More crackling and no response to his questions. He returned to the phone to his side and turned to Lowry.

  “Something happen? Rivash alright?”

  “Sounds like they found something. Let’s head back.”

  *

  The terrain shifted with every step, the odor of unearthed peat thickening. Wetlands curved in lazy channels to the east, threaded with narrow streams, their banks cluttered with dead sedges and blotches of pale shrubs. Watercress floated across shallow eddies, while tiny insects flicked just above the surface, riding the heat from stagnant patches. Cranes and dunlins traced high loops above the field.

  Tarash walked to his right, scanning the streams and their banks. Rivash matched her precise stride with occasional stops to evaluate the footing. The tall rubber boots and khakis made her much more poised for the peatlands. She had refused his offer to share the load from her bulky backpack.

  “We’re looking for raised soil or trampled reeds,” she reminded him. “Maybe under a root system. Smaller than you’d expect, meant for the juveniles and not the adults. Not exactly like a fox den. If they really are coleopteroid.”

  “I’m guessing that last word means beetle-like?”

  “Well-inferred. I didn’t mean to throw jargon around.” She chuckled before speaking again, “You know beetles were once associated with the afterlife?”

  “No. Not specifically.”

  “Not just in Sikasyan mythology and funerary rites. In certain arcane traditions, there’s this old belief that beetles are not just recyclers but navigators. Scarabs, in particular, are considered symbols of completeness. They move through growth and decay, uniting life and death. Affirming their sacred bond.”

  He tilted his head. “So they’re popular in Necromancy?”

  “Observed and respected, yes. Some Toranah arcosophists claim that Necromancy was partially revealed to humans through the work of beetles, fungi and earthworms. Detritivores, to generalize. The idea is they digest redundancies, purifying the self. The Plenamortic Codex itself states: One need not wait for death to shed life.”

  “Wonderful creatures. I always thought that Eisenstadt needed more recyclers.”

  “And they’re not just spiritual guides and guardians. I’ve seen countless arcofauna designs using their evolved feats. Some arcoflora as well. Human arcanists aren’t that creative, when you think about it. If something works, we imitate it ad nauseam. No wonder, considering that a quarter of the animal species described are beetles. Isn’t that neat?”

  “It is neat. I didn’t know that either.”

  “Sorry. I’m talking too much,” she admitted awkwardly. “Screeding out, as we call it at the Institute. People usually stop me before I really start going.”

  Rivash shook his head. “It’s alright. I don’t mind learning new things.”

  “Still…”

  “No really,” he said pensively. “This is better than any lecturing I received before. Plus, I’m pretty sure it counts as interorganizational cooperation.”

  “If you say so, Junior Investigator Rivash.”

  “I do,” he said looking at her and stepped wrong. The earth was not where it should have been. Instead, something soft and mucky. He managed to swing left, towards the stream. Boots, rear and hands landed in cold water with a dull slap. Tarash yelped and started to help him. “Slowly,” he whispered, pointing.

  There, just beyond the narrow water, something stared back. A round face, dark-eyed and deathly still. It peered from a patch of disturbed soil, refusing to blink. Tarash saw it and crouched quietly. Wind moved reeds. The gaze held a moment longer, then receded into shadow. The hole was barely noticeable afterward. Rivash tapped his soaked pants for the phone.

  *

  They found them three kilometers to the North. Stravinsky and Lowry had picked up Dorst along the way. The man did not seem pleased. Rivash welcomed them, no longer damp but daubed in dried soil. Their attention was quickly funneled by Tarash, who bent over the burrow.

  “You found them,” said Stravinsky.

  “Two pups. At least,” affirmed Tarash. “Rivash slipped and saw one. They don’t seem too skittish, but I haven’t been able to bait them out yet.” She frowned at Dorst. “This barbarian might want to shoot them.”

  “Beasts are beasts,” echoed Dorst. “What does the Senior Investigator say?”

  “We need to capture them alive. They can tell us more about the adults. And if they are linked to any green people.”

  That drew a heavy breath from the officer. “If you say so.”

  Tarash nodded at Stravinsky. “The Institute has facilities for arcofauna containment. I’ll take responsibility for transfer and care. Is that alright with you?”

  “You can house them, but they remain under Bureau custody.”

  Stravinsky and Dorst rolled up their sleeves and began peeling back layers of sodden reed and wet soil of the burrow. The work was primitive and plodding. A sharp, feral scent rose with each handful, but the pups did not growl or bite. Tarash supervised them and recorded the structure they were dismantling.

  Meanwhile, Lowry caught up with Rivash. “We leave you alone for one hour,” she said, eying his sorry state. “And you’re already rearing a litter.”

  He gave a tired sigh. “I tripped and fell. That’s all.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “For her.”

  The first pup came out confused and curious. It looked unnaturally small and unreasonably fat, with hardly any unblemished spot on its silvery fur. Its rheumy eyes greeted Dorst with apparent distrust. Kira pronounced it male after it was handed to her. The second was harder to reach. Dorst wedged himself shoulder-deep into the burrow, grunting as he pulled. Another male, sputtering mud from its mouth onto the man’s shirt. He nearly dropped it.

  “Mongrel swamp-spawn,” he blurted and threw it to Stravinsky.

  The last came easily, almost willingly, peeking after its siblings before being scooped up. Tarash inspected it and gasped excitedly. “Female,” she said, entrusting her to Rivash. He took the tiny animal awkwardly, watching it uncurl over his forearm and begin licking the dirt from his fingers with a rough tongue.

  “I think she likes him,” mumbled Lowry to Stravinsky.

  *

  They made their way back to the temporary camp, all of them looking a little bit more like Rivash. Dorst kept talking about how simple problems like this shouldn’t be complicated. Stravinsky kept him distracted. Once inside the tent, Lowry, Rivash and Tarash formed around a crate where the pups were deposited. They continued to examine the matted evidence for a while.

  Stravinsky sat in a plastic chair and scraped mud off his boots with a stick. “The Bureau’s recovery crew will be here within the hour,” he said to Dorst. “They’ll take the bodies and any other samples. The Institute will house the pups, where they will be tagged, logged and watched.”

  “I still say it’s the green people,” Dorst said, performing a similar task. He gestured at the Juniors and Assistant. “Possessed, all three of them. Young people will fall for anything if it has a sweet face.”

  “About those pits in the fields. Do people still cut peat turves out here? For fuel or resale.”

  “Didn’t know city folk knew what that was. No, not much anymore. Used to be more common when I was growing up. These days it’s mostly folks without steady power. They take a little at a time, wherever they can get away with it.”

  Satisfied with the answer and amount of dirt still on him, Stravinsky approached the crate. He watched the pups wrestle each other and try to dig through the wood. The makeshift enclosure was completely begrimed from their efforts. He turned his sight toward the light hanging from a support pole. Light hummed cruelly, making him frown. Loud. He closed his eyes and recoiled away. So loud. Someone said, “You think they’re ugly?” although it sounded like shouting.

  Dorst laughed, clapping Stravinsky’s shoulder as he passed. His grin blurred into his face and his words slurred into nonsense. The buzzing trudged on; blinding and echoing behind his eyes. Why does it have to be so loud? He agreed with whatever was said and sat down, palm over sweaty brow.

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