bitten_notshy: ([spec] upside down + tired)
The interviews in Dyachenko's office had been slow, uphill work at first, even with Starkad helping as he could. They'd ruled out almost everyone in Starkad's old court for one reason or another before moving on to look at the people the wampyr had known but rejected.

It was the same story: This one had left town. That one had a perfect alibi. And so on.

After a few fruitless hours, Jack started in his seat at a sudden mental leap. "It's not about the vampires," he realized as he massaged his temples. "It's about Irina. Her lovers, her patrons, her friends. And the second murder only happened when we came back to Moscow and started asking about her. Someone must have thought she would be slipping away."

Emma nodded, easily picking up the train of thought as she turned to the girl. "Who wants you and cannot have you, Irina? And has for the last five years?"

Irina's eyes scrunched shut as she shook her head, obviously thinking hard about the question.

"If it helps," Dyachenko added, "we know it was someone left-handed. And someone who could make a good pass at forging Lesya's hand -- her employees got a message 'from' her after she died."

Something seemed to click into place at that. "Well," Irina said hesitantly, "I know a forger."

****

Jack and Emma almost did not follow along with the police as they went after Dmitri Sergeyevich, a professional forger. He wanted to be a painter, and failed at anything beyond copying; he'd also wanted to join Starkad's court and Irina's bed, and had been denied at those turns as well. And now he could add murderer to his list of failures.

They went, in the end, because Irina asked for the support, and Jack could not say no.

It was worth it. If they hadn't, Jack wouldn't have seen Starkad lift Dmitri by his throat to coolly inform him that he was nothing before stepping away, as if the slight effort to kill him would be wasted.

The scene replayed in Jack's head as they got back to the hotel. Soon, as soon as Sebastien was here, he'd go back in the 21st century with Emma. Tomorrow was for those goodbyes. Tonight he just wanted to rest.

[OOC: Loosely based on The White City. NFB. For SP with [livejournal.com profile] icecoldfrost and possibly one other. And this is the very end of Jack's canon for now yay!]
bitten_notshy: ([neg] disdainful in jacket)
Jack could not honestly say he was surprised when Dyachenko asked if he recognized a ring that had been found tucked into the dead woman's pocket. It was a vampire court ring (with an odd pale-blue sapphire that he knew belonged to Irina's former patron, Starkad. (Of course, Jack thought, slightly irritated. Someday he was going to help solve a crime that had nothing to do with vampires. Or werewolves, for that matter, hard as that might be to pull off these days.)

Dyachenko had named the woman as Olesia Valentinova Sharankova. Jack only dimly recognized the name -- he'd known her by the nickname Lesya, and only slightly at that -- but she'd owned the gallery where Irina most often exhibited her paintings.

The one unexpected thing about any of it was, the ring wasn't hers. Which made it look even more like the entire thing was a set-up.

After a day's fruitless searching, Emma had finally persuaded someone to get a message to Irina. A bit later, the response came: She would meet with them.

It was rather ingenious, the way Irina had holed up in Lesya's abandoned flat. The police were done with it, and no one else seemed likely to disturb the rooms for some time. Jack reminded himself to congratulate her as they tapped at the door late Tuesday morning.

[OOC: For she who is here and two NPCs. NFB.]
bitten_notshy: ([neu] dancing)
In which we visit an apartment building and make a terrible discovery )


***

In which a good detective is encountered. )

***

In which future plans are made. )

[OOC: NFB, NFI. Preplayed with the adorable [livejournal.com profile] icecoldfrost. Still loosely based on The White City.]
bitten_notshy: ([neu] walking away)
Many things had changed in the four years since Sebastien had brought Jack to just after he turned 16. Russia had stepped even closer to outright war with England, and Jack ... was now a monster-in-waiting who mainly lived a hundred and ten years in the future.

One thing had stayed the same: The city’s January cold was a terrifying thing. It tore through Jack’s clothes and clawed at his skin, as if the combination of a good coat, thick wool sweater and scarf, and the warmest underthings 21st century technology could provide posed no challenge at all.

He huddled into his scarf some more, peering out just to satisfy himself that Moscow's onion domes against the cold sky were still beautiful. (They were.) And then he tilted his head toward his companion.

"The coffee shop we’re going to should be just past the next corner." Unless, of course, it had closed.

But Jack was hoping Kobalt -- and, more precisely, the crowd that gathered there -- would prove to be another thing that did not change.

[OOC: For she who is there. Loosely adapted from The White City by Elizabeth Bear.]

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