Prologue: The Case of Carrington

### Prologue

Ten minutes till the clock hit four in the afternoon, and yet the sun still had to be seen. A grim afternoon with the cold of winter, and the relentless rain shattered on the roof of the Carrington residence.

"Please, enter," said Mr. Carrington as he opened the door. Two men followed him into the living room where he asked them to be seated.

"I prefer you show me your son, Mr. Carrington," said Sir McKee, a short man who walked with a stick. Despite his old demeanor, he was bulky, his rough face adorned with a thick moustache, and his eyes instilled fear.

Mr. Carrington nodded and led them to the stairs. The wooden floor creaked softly with each step.

"Are you not coming, Sergeant?" Sir McKee asked, noticing his companion remained behind. Sergeant Moynihan, despite his reputation for being hard on his subjects and fearless, was glued to the spot.

"I've already been there, Sir."

"Well, I have not. It would be reasonable for you to come so we can discuss the matter as it is in front of our eyes."

"My eyes have already been sullied once, Sir. I have no need for a second."

"I respect your decision, Sergeant. After all, there's no need to rush things after everything that has happened, right?"

"It is right, Sir."

"Mr. Carrington, show me the way," Sir McKee said, his voice tinged with worry.

The stairs spiraled, each creaking step leading to dimmer light until they reached the upper floor. Sir McKee followed Mr. Carrington, who marched toward the end of the corridor, ignoring the series of doors like in a hotel.

"Why the rush?" asked Sir McKee as he slowly approached Mr. Carrington, who rattled his keys, unsure of which one fit the doorknob.

"We don't have much time. Take a quick look, and I will close the door," said Mr. Carrington, his voice shaky.

"No gun, please," Mr. Carrington wiped a few tears as Sir McKee put his hand on his gun strapped to his side.

"Precautions have to be made. Without them, I wouldn't be alive."

Mr. Carrington found the right key, and the doorknob clicked. Inside, something moved. Mr. Carrington and Sir McKee exchanged a quick glance. Sir McKee nodded. Mr. Carrington slowly turned the doorknob, his hands trembling.

Inside, a little boy, no older than ten, had his face buried in the intestines of a dog, its head nearly ripped apart from its body. The boy lifted his head. Mr. Carrington closed his eyes, tears rolling down. Sir McKee stared into the hollowness of the child's eyes.

"Close the door, Mr. Carrington," Sir McKee ordered softly.

Back in the living room, Sergeant Moynihan and Sir McKee sat on the couch while Mr. Carrington prepared tea in the kitchen.

"So, what now?" Sergeant Moynihan broke the silence.

"I don't know. The wizards at King Burry may be able to help," said Sir McKee.

"What about Mr. Whitlock? He handles cases like this," suggested Sergeant Moynihan.

"Mr. Whitlock will have no business here in Burling. Nothing will change my mind."

Mr. Carrington returned with a tray of tea, his hands still trembling. "Thank you for coming. I hope you find a solution to cure my son."

"It's my usual business. I will come again," said Sir McKee as he and Sergeant Moynihan stood on the porch.

They walked silently on the cobblestone pavement. The sun had still not appeared, and it was nearly five in the afternoon although the rain had stopped. Burling was once a city that thrived at night, but now all the houses were shut tight, hotels no longer booked guests, and the night was filled only with the wind and the neigh of horses.

"Sir... Look..." Sergeant Moynihan pointed to the road. A few meters ahead lay several corpses, their limbs torn apart. "If you do not contact Mr. Whitlock, I will."

"Do what you want," said Sir McKee as he indifferently walked past the corpses.