Prologue:

A Chapter by Night Owl

The prologue of Part I of the story. This is centered around Catherine's meeting Finn Evans Crowley in the year of 1929.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: CIRCA 1929.

She stood under the street light, colored in almost grayscale by the dusk of night. Smoky wisps rose to stain the skies from a cigarette neatly tucked between her index and middle fingers. Where color did bleed through, evidently a dark cavalier hat sat on her head. Gorgeous amber hair framed her forehead in a fringe, coming down past her porcelain cheeks and beyond her chin. Her hair sat against her shoulders, joined in its radiance by her slightly pursed lips that gleamed with vibrant crimson lipstick. She dressed in such a way that the night would otherwise mask her if not for the arcing light above; a Victorian-era, dark and overflowing dress. She was very much like a living doll: symmetrically sewn together to a perfect and impossible standard, and yet there she stood, lifelike... in a New York City ghetto. Dull brick buildings aligned the sidewalks, resonating with the eeriness of her bleak surroundings.

She knew not the hour, only what it could possibly mean for her " either the unbearable loneliness of a silent night, or in a worst case scenario, the imminent danger of a lurking nightstalker. She had not sensed the presence of any other person in the last three blocks she had traversed, and those were lengthy walks in themselves. Unbeknownst to her, there was a rule of thumb about this neighborhood: the curfew to be back indoors was at ten at night. Beyond these hours, it was considered a death wish to frequent the streets. Whether it be a theft, a rape, even a murder, terrible streaks of conflict plagued the neighborhood, and yet she so boldly defied what was considered the norm of the neighborhood in confidence; it was either that, or contrarily, it was done in ignorance.

It was a mesmerizing sight to behold. I longed to show her that she was, in fact, not alone. She would come to realize the possibility in due time; the sounds of sirens cut through the silence ever so slightly, their blares faint from some blocks away. Time was short: she was alone, as good as vulnerable, and the sirens would only grow louder in time. I could feel doubt stirring my innards. I sunk my teeth deep into the flesh of the unexposed bit of my bottom lip, took a deep breathe, and raised one foot forward. I cut through the shadows of the alleyway I frequented and into the still dimly lit street. Still, she did not move; she must have not noticed me just then. I felt my anxiety working against me, tense not at the feeling of exposing myself to the world, but at the very idea of even approaching her. She was incandescent in the night, even in the dark drapery that framed her body and further assimilated her into it. Anticipation crippled my body; undoubtedly she would see me, she would call for help, she would pull a snub-nose from her purse in self-defense, she would flee. With these thoughts and possibilities wrapping themselves around my mind, it took me a short while to realize that a light, posh voice was questioning me.

“Hello? Is there somebody there?”

I felt myself perspiring beneath my clothes, but quickly re-adjusted my demeanor. With more pronounced clacking from the heels of my shoes, I made my presence known with slow, gradual steps. Her expression changed little, if at all, while I made my invisible approach. Finally, my shadow carved its way into the light cast above us and her head tilted up when she had noticed. Still, it was as if she were hesitant to make eye contact; the brim of her cavalier hid her eyes. It was unclear if she was looking up to me at all, which I preferred. I could feel my eyes burning holes through her skull. To alleviate the tension, my lips parted themselves for a deep, quiet breath " and then I spoke up.

“Good night, madam.”

“Good night.” She may as well have interjected, it sounded almost dismissive. “This is no place for a young lady to be alone. Do you have any idea what hour it is?” I asked. She responded after a brief pause. “Quite frankly, no. I’ve lost track of time. I’ve been trying to hail a taxi.”

“A taxi? At this time of night?” I asked with a raised brow of inquisition.

“I did mention that I’ve lost track of the hour, yes?”

There was a subtle snark to her responses. Less noticeably, I could realize she actually showed no open signs of fear at my suddenness. Whether she was fearless or naive, I did not quite know. Utterances tickled my ears again, and I realized while in deep thought, she spoke again.

“Are you feeling fine, sir?” I raised a brow at her question. ”Why do you ask?” I retorted.

“You’re bleeding…”

My eyes bulged and my diaphragm may have very well collapsed. I trailed my eyes down my own chest and to my feet, to realize this is where she had been looking all along: the soles of my dress shoes left behind faint trails of blood. The trail was easily more noticeable under the street light, and it only reminded me that more blood secretly stained the black of my tuxedo.

“Oh my... “ I uttered with an insincere look of shock.

Before I could explain myself, she removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and raised it to my cheek. I could feel something sticky, thicker than just perspiration, leaking into the fabric. Her head finally raised, and I felt a solemn and empathetic gaze from her crystalline blue eyes.

“Forget the taxi, I’ve keys to an apartment not farther than two blocks from here. A friend’s from in the neighborhood, she’s out of the country on a trip. We should get you checked out.” She had suddenly become so worrisome of my condition, and her sincerity brew guilt in me. “That’d be nice.” I managed to say, but my guilty conscience bled through: You know you aren’t hurt, Finn. You know this isn’t actually your blood... She raised her free and cigarette-less, gloved hand to me. At her insistence, I took her hand. She led me from the street light and back into the shadows. I could not help myself: I was bloodied and in debt to her, but the whole truth could very well bring those sirens over in our direction. My tongue slipped, “Thank you… what’s your name, miss?” She did not respond for some time, and so I continued. “I’m Finn, Finn Evans Crowley. I’m almost...” For the whole of the five minute journey she did not respond to my small talk, and I found myself blurting out, “I’m sorry to drag you into this mess.” Finally, with her hand leaving my own and the other offering me her cigarette, she responded: “It’s Catherine. I’m glad to make your acquaintance.” With both hands freed, she fetched into a purse settled at her hip, removing a key just as we stopped in front of an apartment complex. I listened to the key shifting the pins of the lock in place and just as suddenly, the door creaked open. Catherine lead me in after her, and shut the door behind us. Scanning the many doors in the hallway, she led me with a beckon through the dark complex for about a minute before we stopped. There, I heard the jumbling of keys again and the sound of rusted hinges. A light flickered on in the room and through a portion of the hallway in which we stood. Catherine motioned for me to take a seat in the living quarters of the apartment, opposite where she herself would sit. Once seated, a smile cracked along her lips for the first time, and what she said next was as flattering as it was shocking. “I memorize that name… Finn Crowley. You’re the infamous thief, aren’t you?” I felt my fingers tighten into fists, and she raised her palm up at me. “Relax, love…” Her demeanor became eerie. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

next chapter

© 2016 Night Owl

Author's Note

Feedback appreciated, this is a work in progress after all.

Any images, or any other sources used are for non-profit reasons and all respective credit is due. Thank you.