The Onyx Gauntlet
Fictionistas prompt: A detective disguises themself as a celebrity to enter an elite club of criminals
The Gatekeeper stands at the golden doors of the Onyx Gauntlet, ready to destroy any poser that dares come too close.
Graysen Thornbeck’s spent the majority of his time as a junior detective wondering what—or, more accurately, who—the Onyx Gauntlet houses. Sure, there’s the official answer, that is, the patrons and their identities are anonymous and can only become members through invitation, but anyone with half a mind can figure out the pattern of patronage.
Gangsters. Mob bosses. Black market dealers. The most powerful members of Orensithe’s underworld, all gathered in one place to make deals and moves outside of the public eye. Not that anyone can prove that.
Graysen should know. He’s tried several times, with each lead coming up dead.
But tonight, all of that could change. Because Graysen intends to be the first imposter to walk into the Onyx Gauntlet and come out alive.
Graysen squares his shoulders, makes sure for the last time that everything is in place, and approaches the golden doors.
The bouncers on either side of the Gatekeeper instantly step forward as his arrival draws their attention. They’re both stone-giants, tall, black suits straining against muscle that could tear a skinny human like Graysen to shreds, skin ashy gray. The one on the left puts out a hand, an intense look on his face.
“And where do you think you’re going?” he demands, the low voice grinding like gravel.
Graysen looks the stone-giant up and down with as much arrogance as he can muster. “Who is this, some newcomer?” he pointedly asks the Gatekeeper behind them. “Don’t tell me he’s never heard of Dez Vilgore.”
Because of course, thanks to an illustory medallion, that’s who he looks like. Dez Vilgore: darling of the Orensithean elite, with a high class and family name that goes back from before the formation of the Triding Concord. Gorgeously elven, with sweeping blond hair, amber eyes, and a fortune deep enough to buy the vote of even the most virtuous senator, Vilgore is a beloved member and the only public supporter of the Onyx Gauntlet.
The Gatekeeper stares back, at least, Graysen thinks they stare back. It’s hard to tell considering the smooth, black helmet they wear covers the entirety of their face. And now that he’s close enough, Graysen can’t help but take in the rest of their armor—the shimmering, black scale-mail that supposedly comes from the hide of a dragon they slayed themself, the infamous obsidian knuckles melded into the flexible covering of their gauntlets, pulsing with silver enchantments. How many people have they killed with those knuckles, Graysen wonders with a barely held back shiver.
The Gatekeeper does not reply, but the other stone-giant does. “My apologies, Mr. Vilgore,” he says. “Just being cautious, that’s all. Your key?”
Graysen huffs. “Of course.”
This is the moment. It’s time to find out how badly he’s been played. Graysen trusts his instincts, but that doesn’t mean his heart isn’t racing as he reaches into the illusory jacket that makes up his disguise, past the silver medallion around his neck, and closes his fingers around the key. Graysen takes it out and hands it over to the bouncer. It’s a small thing, barely the length of a humanoid palm, dark as night with an emerald embedded into one of the teeth. It’s his—quite literal—key to getting inside the Onyx Gauntlet. And thanks to whatever strange magic the Gatekeeper possesses, they cannot be faked.
The bouncer takes the key with a nod and hands it over to the Gatekeeper, who makes not a single sound as they observe it. A drop of sweat runs down Graysen’s neck, hidden behind his illusion.
The Gatekeeper goes to the doors, smoothly inserts the key into the lock, and turns it. For a moment nothing happens, and Graysen is sure he’s fucked.
But then, the golden doors part.
~
Graysen steps into a new world.
He’s instantly hit with the smell of liquor and sweat, lights flashing with the pulse of a deep base coming from speakers reaching from floor to ceiling. On one side of the massive room is a dance floor, filled with writhing bodies and tangled limbs, and the other is a bar and lounging areas populated with people Graysen struggles to recognize in the dim lighting.
How many of them are here? The criminals he hunts, the ones that escape the law no matter how many aces he pulls out of his sleeve? What clues of their activities are within these walls, among the throng of insiders and trusted companions?
Graysen wants to know more than anything, but he has a mission. He doesn’t have long until people start to realize who he is, and doesn’t know how long the illusion lasts or if he can keep up his bluff. He has to find them.
He’s less than a moment away from moving, intent on beelining for the bar, when someone hidden in a stray shadow suddenly wraps an arm around his waist and pulls. Graysen yelps, heart rate spiking as he panics and thrashes in the iron grip, but he’s quickly shushed by a low voice. “Hello there,” the voice purrs, a lock of silky hair brushing his cheek.
“Who are you?” Graysen snaps, desperately trying to calm his racing pulse. “What do you want?”
“Can can call me Saraine. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m glad to see you made it through our little Gatekeeper, Graysen Thornbeck.”
Graysen freezes. He moves just his eyes, catching a glimpse of simmering red eyes.
“You’re the one who sent the letter,” Graysen realizes. The one who sent the key, the medallion, and the challenge to find the sender within the Onyx Gauntlet. “Why?”
“Because,” Saraine says with a wicked smile, eyes swirling like bright embers in the darkness. “I killed Dez Vilgore. And I need your help covering it up.”
Very cool atmosphere here.