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Chapter 207: Interlude — The Culprit
🕑 Added 2025-03-31 11:00:17 +0000 UTCHi! Hope you all had a nice weekend. For some of you, the upload time my have changed by an hour; this is because of daylight savings in my time zone! So whatever now is, is the time at which uploads will continue to happen.
But now, far more importantly...... it's time for some revelations!!! coughs
The past few days have shown me that if there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s waiting. What I especially dislike is waiting around other people because it gives me the urge to feast.
I curl my throbbing leeches closer to me — each pulse makes me feel seen. They are too large to hide, spilling over the side of the chair from underneath my skirt like tails.
I already drank today. I already drank.
I wish I’d cut them off this morning. I would have needed to drink even more as they grew back, but it could have spared me this embarrassment. What would have also spared me was a more competent detective. I glare up at her as she prepares; she gathered us here, insisted on me joining. Can’t wait to see her fail.
Montaparte. A name I’m going to remember. She’s here to present her findings. This time, she says, she found the ‘culprit’. Hah. I’d like to see her try. That little witch, way in over her head.
“Now for our second attempt,” she says with what I assume is supposed to be a charming smile. But nobody who evacuates me from my room for a farce can charm me. “Last time,” she continues, “regrettably, all I could share with you was my lack of findings. But this time, I will relay the one and only truth that is acceptable on this train.”
She actually smirks. What is she in such a good mood for?
“First off,” Montaparte begins, looking around at everyone and doing a headcount, “I want to ask a question of Omi.”
Omi jolts up from her seat at the back and stares at her. “I—Yes? Yes? Yes?” One of her partners — the shark, or whatever — reaches for her hand to give her a squeeze.
“Why did Log and Fentanyle fight the night of the murder?”
“I knew it,” the engine caretaker barked. “It was that lot after all?”
“One second, while I lay the foundation,” Montaparte replies, gesturing with an open hand for him to calm down.
“W-well. It’s because we… because uhm.” Omi takes a deep breath, looking down at the shark girl for reassurance. “I already shared this with Theora and her friends, but… Fentanyle wanted me to break up with my girlfriends. Log wanted to… to fight for my honour.” She looks around nervously, as her partners give gentle nods.
A lie, bold-faced, at this stage, in front of everyone. Without hesitation, too. I know because each of my leeches echoes the thumps of her heart through her veins.
“‘I already shared this with Theora,’” Montaparte echos. “That likely means the Sun knows the truth?”
“I’m not lying!” Omi insists.
Montaparte gives a shrug. “For today’s purposes, it is irrelevant. The reason I ask is something else.” She gestures at her chalk board — infuriating, truth be told, because it is not a chalkboard, but a chalk board. It’s made out of chalk and written on with blood, of all things, rather than being made out of steel or graphite. Looking at it already annoys me. Who comes up with that? I gaze over to the culprit — a demoness standing to the side, in the shadows of the great Montaparte. It’s all so vexing. I flex my leeches closer to me, trying to keep my mood contained.
The people sitting around me are shuffling, their blood sloshing through their veins an unwelcome, constant distraction. Well, not all of them have blood, thankfully. Qyy or whatever her name is, her shuffles are of paper pages, crinkling and shifting, much easier on the ears; it’s so calming. Meaning, I don’t feel them in my soft and thick extremities. So I try to focus on her as much as I can.
I wish more people like her existed in here. It’s a train connecting different realities! Why is almost everyone here made of blood?!
I missed a bit of monologue, I think, as Montaparte has now finished gesturing around the chalk board with soft spoken explanations, and turns back to us, her audience. Almost every passenger, and all of the staff had gathered here.
“Either way, I will now call the first witness,” Montaparte continues, and I grimace. Calling a witness? What, is this a trial already? “G’mina, please come here, if you so please.” She gestures toward a comfy little chair at the front of the lounge, formed from blood crystal — difficult to hold back from, truth be told — and then, a child rushes to the front, shyly taking a seat on it.
“For those among you who haven heard,” Montaparte says, “we have found a little friend while searching through the storage compartment. Little one,” she adds, turning toward the child, “What’s your name?”
“G’mina,” the child says, eyes to the ground as their long black hair falls down into their lap. “I’m G’mina.”
“I hope you’re comfortable answering a few questions for me, G’mina?”
G’mina nods, still not looking up at the many onlooking pairs of eyes. They don’t really seem intimidated, though. Instead, they’re fidgeting with a little puppet made of marble as they throw occasional glances toward the demoness — who returns encouraging nods and smiles.
“Alright,” Montaparte says warmly. “In that case, let’s start with the first question. How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“How long have you been riding this train?”
G’mina looks up at Montaparte, squeezing their toy a little tighter. “I’m… I don’t know. A while, I think. I was scared I’d be found, so I kept in the dark…”
“Why were you scared to be found?” There was an edge to Montaparte’s voice, though it didn’t seem directed at the child.
Looking down again, G’mina mutters, “Because I don’t have a ticket.”
“What was that?” Montaparte teases. “Please repeat that so the people in the back can hear.”
“I don’t have a ticket!” G’mina shouts into their lap.
Montaparte turns toward the crowd, opening her arms, intoning with pretend-vexation in her voice, “G’mina did not have a ticket. Scared, she kept in hiding in storage compartments.” She crouches, to get down to eye level with G’mina, tilting her head to look up at her. “And you were worried you would get asked to leave if you were found?”
G’mina nods at the leading question, adding, “I boarded the train because they told me Liff was far away now… so I wondered if I could reach her by going far away.”
Montaparte arched an eyebrow. “Who is Liff?”
“My friend… she stopped coming to play one day, and when I asked around, everyone told me she wouldn’t come back. She went to a far away place.”
“And you were hoping you could meet her again if you went far too,” Montaparte surmises, nodding. “Now that we’ve established how you became a stowaway, please share with us how you spent your time here?”
“I—” G’mina bites her lips, turning to Montaparte and looking right into her eyes. “I was in the storage compartments. I had to move at night, when everyone was asleep, if I wanted to switch places. There’s a pantry in compartment one for food, and there’s bathrooms in carriage five. So I spent most nights there, but not all of them.”
“Did anyone ever see you?”
G’mina nods. “Someone found me and helped me out sometimes. I don’t know what their name is or what they look like, it was too dark. But sometimes they would give me food too and warn me.”
“Alright,” Montaparte says. “Back when I found you, you were hiding in storage compartment five, in the front side.”
“Mhm! It’s the easiest hiding spot. Because I can run away.”
“How so?”
“Well… there’s a broken mirror hidden in the back of a bottom shelf. When I squeeze in, I can reach it and slip through.”
“Wait, what?” the old man blurts out. “We still had a mirror in storage? That must have been there for ages.” He turns to Raquina. “You knew about this, girl?”
Raquina closes her eyes, taking a sharp breath. “I’ll go check right now, and take a look at the inventory.”
As she rises, Montaparte holds up a hand. “I would appreciate it if you stayed until the end. I’m about to finish laying the foundation, and will get to the heart of the issue.”
“No, I need to check this now,” Raquina replies, already rushing out of the carriage. She brushes past me and it takes my all to not jump her and suck her dry on the spot. Being panicked makes people smell so much tastier.
As I recover, Montaparte clicks her tongue in mild annoyance, then turns back to the child. “Be that as it may. You’re saying you could slip through a mirror in compartment five, to run away if someone was about to find you?”
“Yes. Or just to get around,” G’mina confirms.
At that, Montaparte rises up to her feet, smiling at the crowd. She turns back to the child, nods and says, “Thank you for your help, G’mina. You can go to Dema now, we’re done here.”
G’mina quickly acquiesces, running into Dema’s arms.
After making sure that the child is taken care of, Montaparte takes a long breath. “A few days ago,” she begins, “I explained to all of you how nobody among the people who could have killed Fentanyle” — she gestures to a list of names on the chalk board — “could have actually entered the Lavish during the sensitive time frame. That was, of course, with the assumption that no other ways of entry besides from carriage one, the diner, and here from the lounge, actually existed. That assumption, as we just learned, was flawed.”
Pfft. This bumblebee couldn’t even check the storage compartments properly! No wonder it took ages to get anywhere. I lean back in my chair. Finally. This will be over soon, and then I can get back to my own business.
“There exist three necessary requirements for someone to commit a murder,” Montaparte says, her tone solemn and guarded. “One. Opportunity. In our case, this means the murderer needed access to the Lavish at the time of the murder. Two. Capability. The person needs to have been able to kill a pillar of the world with intrusive magic. Three. Motive. No crime so violent and definite would be committed without cause. I will now prove to all of you beyond any reasonable doubt that there exists only one person on this train who fulfils all requirements.” She turned toward the demoness. “Dema.”
“Wha! It wasn’t me, I swear!”
“Please come forth as my next witness.”
“Oh! Sure, I can do that.” She pats G’mina on the head and then rushes forth, taking a seat on the bloodstone chair… which is far too small for her. She seems unbothered.
“What would you say is your most important and defining ability?”
Dema beams. “I can make Bun Bun smile!”
Montaparte arches an eyebrow. “We practiced for this,” she whispers under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Oh, right,” Dema says with a raspy giggle. “I meant, I’m immortal. And I can share my [Immortality] with other people! In fact, just, like, a few days ago, I was wondering who to share my new slot with… It’s such a—a… what was the word?”
Montaparte extends her palm and offers, “Conundrum.”
“Conundrum!” Dema nods enthusiastically. “To decide, I mean. There’s so many options!”
Looks like Dema could have really used some more practice for this.
“Right…” Montaparte turns back to the crowd. “Now, you probably shared this ability of yours with the staffers, right? When you filled out your sheet.”
“Sure!” Dema nods. “I took a while to write down every single one of my abilities, ’cause that’s what you’re supposed to do! Raquina even said so.”
“So, only the staffers knew about your [Immortality]?”
Her chair teeters dangerously from side to side as she shakes her head. “Nah, I talked about it on the train, I’m pretty sure. Like, when I was in the lounge with Ulber, and also when I was talking to the others later.”
My leeches tense. Suddenly, my mood turns sour. I don’t even want to think about that right now.
“Where did you talk to them?” Montaparte asks. “And who was present?”
“Why… that was in carriage five, I think? With Bun Bun, Treeka, Omi, Rita, and Bell. Yep! I wanted to know their thoughts on who I should pick.”
“So, did you already make a decision?” Montaparte asks, and I perk up. Did she?
“Yep!” Dema chirps out, and my blood runs cold. No way. She already did? My skin prickles in a sudden burst of queasiness.
I’m hoping for Montaparte to ask who Dema picked, but I’m not so lucky. Instead Montaparte just nods and continues saying: “Now, Dema. Please walk me through a theory of mine, would you?”
“Sure!”
“Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that someone might have overheard you talk about your immortality slot, and knew a person who could use it,” Montaparte explains, and I swallow, hard. “Now, either the very next stop is where they get off the train, or perhaps any day could be the last. In other words, they’re pressed for time. But, there is an easy way to buy time.”
“Murdering someone?!” Dema gasps. “But… killing someone to save a life?”
Montaparte shrugs. “Stranger things have happened. Maybe they wanted time to convince you, or maybe they were hoping time itself would help you make the right choice. They kill Fentanyle so we’d be stuck with our own thoughts for a good while.”
“I mean,” Dema goes on to say, “that sounds fine and all, but doesn’t really make sense. Cause I already used my slot on Rita the night we arrived, before she even got worse.”
A gasp escapes my throat. She did? My vision blurs at the fringes. The tips of my fingers and leeches go numb. Rita is already safe?
Montaparte gives Dema an indulgent smile. “My little demoness. Did you tell anyone?”
Dema moves to respond, but then her mouth stays ajar for a moment. She closes it again, then tilts her head. “Wait! I forgot to tell! It’s ’cause Bun Bun was busy all the time and I wanted to tell her first!”
“In other words,” Montaparte says, her voice taking on a cold bite, “whoever killed Fentanyle didn’t even have to. It was a pointless act of violence, done every bit in vain.” She turns to the crowd.
I’m still reeling, trying to keep myself upright on the bar stool. Rita is fine…? She was all along?
“Now, even pointless actions still have consequences,” Montaparte says, turning her umbrella in her hand. “You shared the existence of your [Immortality] in the communal area of carriage five. A hidden teleporter was slumbering beneath you at the time, in the storage of that same wagon. Whoever was there could have accessed the Lavish that night, easily. Everyone knew where Fentanyle spends most of her time, and killing her, of all the people here, would be the most disruptive to the train’s journey.”
Goosebumps find my back. Something isn’t right here. Was there someone other than me in carriage five that night?
Montaparte’s grim gaze wanders around the crowd. “And with that, it’s time to act. We found our culprit. Because as it turns out, Fentanyle is not the only one who would do anything for her charge — it could have been that person, only. No one else checks all the boxes. Dema? Be ready to apprehend.”
Montaparte lifts her umbrella and points it right at me. I stare back at her confused as streams of blood reach out to me.
She declares, “It was no other than… Kaylay the Impertinent, Rita’s Knight!”
Wait, what?
Comments
Clara
Oops teehee
