My name is Toni

Detective Sergeant John Stephen Rogers of the NYPD was teased for his name and respected for his long years of service on the Force. Not just for cracking murder cases, but also those that fell outside the purvey of "normal". But when he arrived at the Crime Scene, his twenty years of experience could not prepare him for the abominable sight of a young woman crucified to the wall, her body nothing but ash charred remains. The apartment living room was plastered with verses and holy imagery; while several white hot iron crosses continued to sizzle here and there, staked into the floor and a few in the woman's chest.

"You gonna handle this, Sarge?" The Coroner couldn't help but stare, whispering to Rogers.

"Yeah, I got a couple of... sub-contractors... who deal with this shit." He replied.

He took a moment to walk past CSI and the Coroners, to find a quiet hallway to dial a number on his mobile phone.

"Hello? Clay? I got a real grisly... freak show murder case over here. Hot iron rods, crucifixion imagery, the works...  Call me back as soon as you can okay..." He finishes the voicemail with the address, a swanky apartment building in the Tribeca neighbhorhood. The celebrities and the wealthy elite lived in that area would make this murder paparrazzi hot potatoes; it'd be plastered all over the papers, the news and the internet in a matter of hours.

After finishing making that call, Rogers pored over other "experts" he had on his contacts list...

Does your house have one of those dark corners? The one that always seems darker, and maybe colder than anywhere else? That one area that sends a chill down your spine as you hurry past it on your way to the bathroom late at night? Clayton, hadn't noticed it before, but his penthouse had one too, and on this night it demanded to be noticed.

Slowly, but surely, the dark corner of his bedroom swallowed the other shadows around it, until it grew into a deep, and heavy shapeless figure. As the figure grew bigger, the incoherent whispering coming from the corner grew louder, and louder until it was enough to stir Clayton Callahan awake.He awoke with a started gasp, almost uncannily aware of the danger he was in. He stared, transfixed as the dark form solidified itself into the shape of a woman. Naked, and beautiful at first, she smiled at Clayton. It was a motherly, caring smile, painted across the face of what he felt was surely a predator. He attempted to speak to her, to ask her what she wanted from him, but he couldn't seem to find his voice as she just stood there, watching him.

He might not have been able to find his voice, but he could still find his gun. He turned to his night stand, and opened the drawer. His pistol was right where he left it. He pulled it out and aimed it at the figure and prepared himself to squeeze the trigger. The smile faded from her face, and suddenly Clayton found the gun hot, too hot to hold on to. It began to sear his flesh, forcing him to drop it.

It was then that the creature took her first step toward him.

"The snake still slithers in your veins."She whispered.
With each step towards him, her body began to decay into ash, and the smell of burning flesh, both his and hers, filled his nostrils.
"Dont.forget.what.you.are."
She struggled to speak as her form faltered.

She reached an outstretched hand to him, as if asking for his help.

And that is when Clayton jolted awake again.

"Hey, pal. we're here."  The cab driver was gently shaking him to get him up, and out of the goddamn cab. "All these cops and reporters. Looks like a crime scene. Are you sure this is where you wanna be?"

Clayton hissed at the sunlight that filled the vehicle. His head was pounding worse than any hangover in recent memory, and his mouth tasted like iron. Whatever fucked up dream he was having, he almost preferred it to the reality the cabbie just pulled him back into, even though he was happy it was just a dream.

"Yeah, this is definitely it."He replied.

"So what are you, some kind of cop or something?"

"Nothing that exciting." He kept his answers short, and gave the driver a couple of bills from his wallet, "Keep the change."


He stepped out of the cab and pushed his way through the sea of media and onlookers and walked straight up to the front door of the building.

"Hold it!" One of the police officers snapped at him, "Nobody's getting in without a badge. Got that?"

"Believe me, I'd rather not go in there either, but I owe Rogers a favor." Clayton replied with his politest "leave me alone" smile.

"Ah. You're one of the consultants, huh? What exactly do you specialize in, anyway? Weird shit?"

"I'm an antiques dealer."

The cop gave him a puzzled look, and Clayton gave the cop a shrug. They stared at eachother in silence for a brief moment before the cop gave a shrug of his own and opened the door to let him in.

A whole lot of young tweens made up the crowd downstairs, and cops were struggling to keep them at bay. They were all yelling a name, and one chubby girl broke through to try and grab Clay by the shoulder. "Oh my god oh my god... is it Toni? Is Toni okay?? I HAVE TO KNOW IF TONI'S OKAY!" She asked him rather hysterically, before a couple of cops manhandled him away.

"...Are you using force on a minor?? how dare you. HOW DARE YOU." Those cops had an SJW on their hands. They'd be busy all morning it seems.

The cops on the ground let Clay pass, while keeping the crazy kids. Once inside, The apartment complex in this neighborhood featured a two storey-high, mirror ceiling atrium with lavish interior decor. Alot of people were being held in the lobby for questioning, most of them hollywood celebrities, older stock market dudes with their Norweigan model girlfriend / wives, and tech millionaires and Instagram "celebrities". Many of them loudly objected to the police procedures.

A cop brought Clay to the elevator and pointed him in the right direction. "Sergeant Rogers is waiting for you in the Penthouse, mister Callahan. Good luck. I hear it's one of those... Overnight sensation Instagram models. Kids these days, lookin' up to any floozy who'll make a sex tape..." He said with a bit of snideness, leaving Clay at the mercy of the lobby guy.

The lobby attendant standing near the elevator lobby looked at Clay like someone who didn't belong in his nice clean lobby.

"And who might you be? I was informed by the Detective to expect two... ecclectic characters." He asked in a total snobby voice.

"Tell ze Detective, I am here as requested." A totally outlandish character showed up just a minute after Clay, trailing right behind and catching the attendant's attention. Wearing a long flowing red dress, a fur coat and sporting sleek, long raven hair, the tall slender lady introduced herself in an equally breathy French accent.

"Madame Mystic, Mistress of the Magical Arts. You may address me as Madame, Mistress, or Madame Mystic. I 'ave 'eard... a terrible tragedy has occurred here zat requires my expertise. Be a good bell boy, and take my coat to ze coat room... carefully, it is... Cashmere." She said to both the inconsequential man and Clay.

"Whatever. Do try not to... get your mystic arts on the carpet." He said smugly, kind enough to send them into their elevator.

Elevator closes, and all around mirrors, Clay's and Madame Mystic's reflections stretching out into an infinite hallway illusion. The Penthouse was still nearly two minutes away. It seemed the Madame liked to hear her own voice. "And. Who might you be? An american investigatur? A lone Dick, who zinks they are going at it all alone? hm? Oui?"

The doorman's bad mood was a bitter cherry on top of the day's weird sundae, and it did manage to make Clayton the slightest bit self conscious. Maybe he could've shaved before running over, and maybe his Hawaiian shirt and jeans were in poor taste. They certainly seemed to make him stand out.

But, as his luck always had it, someone else came along and stuck out more. She was apparently the French love child of Cruella DeVille and Miss Cleo, and she would not stop talking. Which was ok with Clayton because he pretty much stopped listening as soon as she mentioned her name. Madame Mystic. Where had he heard that name before? He just couldn't figure it out.

Before he could ask her anything, she had her questions for him. Or maybe she was flirting. He couldn't figure that out either. He raised an eye brow at her dramatic line of questions, "Me? I'm just, an antique dealer, Miss... Mystic was it? What is that, French?" He asked her, skeptically, or maybe he was flirting. There was a lot he couldn't figure out.

"Antique dealer. Quaint. Well, my grandmother was also an antique dealer, Monsieur Clay, but she did not traipse around supernatural crime scenes..."

The elevator bell rang, announcing their arrival at the penthouse. The elevator doors opened up to an ante room larger than most single detached homes. The walls were clad in marbled tiles and lit with fine crystals, and adorned with B&W paintings of a hypnotically beautiful young woman in various poses, probably the resident of the house. Or the resident's companion. A few of the portraits were signed stylistically 'Toni'.

"Hmph. So young, yet so much wealth and fame. The tragedy. Do you know who is this... Toni, Monsieur Clay?" She commented.

"Madame Mystic. I'm glad you could make it."

"Monsieur Rogers."

"Clay... you still look like crap as always. Thanks for coming anyway. We should go for coffee some time." He gave Clay that signature firm Rogers handshake. He then ushered them into the crime scene.

The moment she crossed the threshold, a faint sizzle could be heard from Mystic's hand. She recoiled and held her hand, as if she had just put her hand to an open flame. "Ugh. It reeks of 'holy' magic in here." The burning aura had been triggered on one of the crosses in the ground.

"...I just don't understand it. This kind of firepower you deploy against demon cults or vampire covens... Not some Instagram model. The body is female, so we assume the girl on the wall is Toni... no last name, like Cher... a new face to the modelling scene, seems she's become completely popular." The detective took out his phone to show Clay who Toni was, and boy was there alot of her on social media.

"Look at this. She showed up out of literally nowhere. over 2 million Instagram followers in 4 months. Sold out runway shows, private party appearances, endorsement deals with tons of brands. Then..." He thumb points to the charred body behind him.

Hours later, the crosses still burned anything demonic that approached the room, and this included Madame Mystic and her hand tattoos. "Zis is high level magic. Only a Master Cleric could cast these conjurations."

"Master Cleric... those aren't easy to find... the only one I know is..." A thought popped up in Roger's head, and he looked at Clay in sudden realization. In NNew York, only one man remained who could do this, a name far more feared and respected throughout the occult society. Reverend Don Earlman, of Hell's Kitchen.