The black dragon roars,
the hooded cult chants,
and a grotesque demon arises from their efforts.
A blinding flash of white light,
as the enigmatic detective
blows down the basement door
with a surge of his divine aura.
His left hand, gloved in white, corrects his messy blonde hair
and his right, adjusts his gray tie
to maintain his authoritative figure
despite his boyish face.
His white overcoat,
a modicum too large,
shimmers with heavenly command.
His wary green eyes
from demon to dragon to cultists.
His right hand then drifts from his tie
to the silver rapier at his side
and his left pulls out his badge.
The demon charges,
it’s form not constant
but fluid with the shadows of
the basement chamber.
Rapier drawn and glowing white,
the detective pierces a circle into the floor
at the exact moment
the demon lunges,
landing in the trap.
A silver hand of goop reaches out and pulls
the monster back down,
a return to its torment.
The cultists panic!
Daggers are thrown,
swords are drawn,
spells are cast.
But it’s nothing
the detective, slightly smug in his demeanor now,
has never handled before.
With an elbow to the gut,
the final cultist drops.
The detective glances up at
the black dragon,
of the last several months
of his tireless work.
With an expression akin to a smirk,
the dragon erupts
through ceiling after ceiling
and soars into the night sky.
It opens its mouth,
preparing to launch a beam filled with death
but is interrupted by a lance of light,
flung from a star shining bright.
The dragon falls back into the basement.
And the detective sighs,
his work done.
He reaches out into the night
and observes the star-filled sky
that had been beautifully shining
above the basement the entire time.
He then turns and begins to exit the way he entered,
preparing himself for his beloved apple cider,
for surely even the
Polaris among mortals
deserves a treat after work.
But he stops.
He turns to the child with a sincere smile and
holds out his gloved hand.
The child observes the star,
wondering if she should accept his offer.
She then turns her neck up and looks at the night sky.
In mere moments, she looks down again,
down at the dusty novel,
ready to take his hand yet again,
for the stars above her are obscured
by the clouds of debris
of yet another war.