The Zodiac Retribution

I. The Massacre

Detective Ashton had never set foot
inside the Starkport Castle until today;
what she heard of its elegant interior décor
was now replaced by borrowed time, blood and decay.

A dedicated and self-driven woman in her thirties,
Ashton is of average height and build;
she's inconsiderate at times, yet sharp and perceptive,
and when the call came in, she was thrilled.

Detective Heath rushed in after her,
spilling coffee, nearing half past eight.
Ashton felt embarrassed to be paired up with him
because he was often fashionably late.

He's a middle-aged man with grey streaks in his dark brown hair,
and is sporting a khaki trench coat, standing six feet tall.
"I had company over last night and overslept.
I was sobering up when I got your call."

"This week's model?" poses Ashton,
smirking at the thought of Heath ever being sober.
"That didn't last", he retorts.
"The minute I told her I was married, it was over."

Ashton squints at her partner's response,
making mental note of what he just said.
"Married to my work, Ash! Relax -
I'm a womanizer, not sick in the head!"

Tragedy struck the Starkport Castle the night before;
several attendees of an annual Masquerade celebration
became victims of a gruesome attack
that left behind grief and devastation.

The sight of the main hall in its current state
would strike fear in even the bravest of hearts;
cold bodies had populated the once-gracious floors,
and some were divided in parts.

"According to the curator", Ashton tells Heath,
"The attack was systematic and intricately planned.
Stab wounds and hand prints consistent in diameter and size
suggest the victims were killed by one man."

Heath adds, "Whoever did this was in a hurry,
perfectly severing vital arteries of each of his victims.
Like a shroud of mist, his arrival was swift,
and accounts of his escape are conflicting."

But this specific event felt different,
not simply in size or scope;
the modus operandi appeared ritualistic,
molded to signal the loss of all hope.

Around the bodies laid condiments -
plucked raven feathers to be specific;
the walls had warning signs scraped and smeared,
making the scene of the crime truly horrific.

"Over here, detectives!" shouts the curator,
who appears frazzled and spent;
Ashton and Heath see the shock in his eyes,
brought on by this traumatic event.

He points to a south wall near the main hall,
stained with blood in clear-cut lines.
A torn Bernardino Luini painting hangs,
vandalized with a blood-smeared sign:

BRING US THE GIRL
OR FEAR
THE COURT OF RAVENS

"These zealots killed innocent people", explains the curator,
"and wanted to make their message clear.
They're nothing but dim and misguided fanatics
seeking respect from the public out of fear."

"I've heard of the Court", says Heath,
who at first believed they were just a myth.
"But what girl are they referring to,
and frankly, does she even exist?"

The curator reveals his theory.

"From what I've heard, about ten years ago
the castle hosted its annual Masquerade Ball;
but midnight never came and, as a betting man,
this is where infinity answered a call."

Heath and Ashton attentively listen to the curator,
as he argues in favor of a truth that's been fed:
"I believe the lapse originated here,
cast by a mysterious girl in red."

The curator catches a subtle reaction from Heath,
who remains stoic, but recalls that night all too well.
"Where were you the day the Earth stood still?"
to which Heath softly mutters, "...Hell."

The Lapse was a much debated, widely publicized
and theorized global phenomenon;
millions reported being in a state of conscious stillness
for what felt like an eternity, as helpless pawns.

The curator explains the relevance.
"These fanatics think the girl responsible represents death;
they find her existence unnatural and
claim that she caused great harm to their health."

He pulls out a small item from his vest pocket
and shows it to Heath and Ashton;
a photo from that fateful night of a colorful cast -
evidence of a happy attraction.

The curator points the ill-fated girl out to them,
who wore a red dress and held a mask of crimson rust.
"I believe that her first name was Savannah.
Rumors indicate she had cursed blood."

"Keep the picture. Find and protect her;
on the back I've marked her last known address.
This poor girl is clearly a victim of circumstance,
so absolute discretion is all that I stress."

"Thank you. We'll take it from here", Ashton says,
taking the photo from the curator.
"Ash, make the call", Heath commands.
"And sir, take a sick day and hire a renovator."

Neither option is presently affordable, the curator thought to himself.

Two Hours Later...

While aiding in cleaning the castle,
the curator hears a knock at the door.
Rushing to the entrance, he welcomes the guests,
though he's never seen them before.

"Detectives Simmons and Caine. Local PD.
We apologize for arriving later than expected."
With a puzzled look, the curator tells the men,
"Oh, but I've already spoken to detectives."

"Sir, we're the only ones assigned to this case",
says Caine, who's got no time for games.
"What about Detective Heath? Ashton?", the curator inquires.
"The agency has no detectives by those names."

"Sir... who exactly did you talk to?" asks Detective Simmons.
The curator stumbles; the duplicity was now clear.
With shock on his face, he assumes the worst:
"...To murderous fanatics, I fear."