Greyburne’s has a rich history of providing goods, services, and more to extraordinary individuals. Some of them you may know. Others you won’t, but you’ll wish you did. A few of them have agreed to allow their stories to be published here. To set the record straight, as it were, and to share their journeys, though they were not always glamorous, nor even flattering, with you.
. . .
P.T. Lyfantod thinks someone’s out to kill him. With skeletons.
His plan is simple. Step one. Smash them to bits and shoot the pieces. They’re creepy. Step two. Try not to scream or do anything else unmanly. Lyfantod is cultivating an image.
Lyfantod needs a path out of his long blunder of a career. Ideally his life would look like a cross between a Sam Spade novel and a D&D Player’s Handbook. He’s not there yet, but he does own a trench coat. And a sword. Between all two of his clients—one the owner of a serially missing cat and the other allergic to invoices—he can barely cover his drinking habit, let alone his rent. Neither seems likely to be involved with skeletons. Skeletons are interesting.
Grigoriy Vodorov, Necromancer, finally manages to make contact through a ghoul stashed at the top of Lyfantod’s staircase. He’s not been trying to kill Lyfantod. He’s been trying to hire him. Lyfantod isn’t thrilled. He does manage not to scream.
Vodorov has lost a magic ring. One that grants the power to raise the dead. Hence the recent rash of zombie attacks. The city is on the verge of riot. Vodorov insists he’s not responsible. He’s also powerless to stop it.
Lyfantod refuses Vodorov’s money on principle, but Vodorov has him pegged. He can’t stand by while people die. Nor can he trust the ring to the Guild—the zealous, trigger-happy keepers of the peace.
Lyfantod will find the ring. That’s what detectives do. Truth and justice will prove far more elusive.