It's All in the Wolf's Bane

Detective Sarah Parker found the plate first.

Not in the dining room where Marcus Webb had eaten his final meal, not at the crime scene in the walk-in freezer where his body lay cooling—but here, isolated on Luna's Den's prep counter, radiating heat like a branding iron despite being empty for hours.

She'd worked enough supernatural cases to know when something was wrong with the laws of physics. The ceramic should have been room temperature. Instead, steam rose from its surface in the November afternoon, and when she held her hand six inches above it, the heat made her palm tingle.

"Been like that since we found him," said Luna Blackwood, the restaurant's owner. Silver hair, amber eyes that tracked Parker's movements too carefully. Definitely not human, though her registration papers would tell Parker exactly what species later. "My busboy tried to clear it with the rest of the table setting. Burned right through his gloves."

Parker pulled out her phone and took photos from multiple angles. The plate itself was elegant white ceramic, hand-thrown from the look of it. A few scattered crumbs clung to the rim—dark crumbs that seemed to absorb the kitchen's fluorescent lighting rather than reflect it.

"Tell me about Webb's dining experience last night," Parker said, still photographing. "Start to finish."

"He arrived at eight-thirty. Alone, as usual. Requested table twelve in the back corner—said he needed privacy for his notes." Luna's voice carried traces of an accent Parker couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe, or something older. "Ordered the Hunter's Special, house salad, mineral water. No alcohol."

Parker made notes. Webb's body showed no signs of intoxication, so that tracked. "How long was he here?"

"Left around eleven. Paid in cash, didn't leave a tip." Luna's expression darkened. "But before he left, he did something he'd never done in four previous visits."

"Which was?"

"He finished his meal. Every bite."

Parker looked up from her notebook. Luna was staring at the empty plate with obvious unease, her fingers drumming against the prep counter's steel surface.

"That's unusual?"

"For Marcus Webb? Unprecedented. He was..." Luna paused, choosing her words carefully. "A very particular food critic. He'd ordered the Hunter's Special four times, and each time he'd take a few bites, make faces, scribble furious notes, then storm out. Last night, he cleaned the plate."

A pale man appeared in the kitchen doorway. Expensive wire-rimmed glasses, old-fashioned three-piece suit that belonged in a 1920s photograph. When he moved, he moved too quietly.

"Viktor Carmichael, sommelier," he introduced himself with a slight bow. European accent, definitely pre-war. "Detective, you should know—Mr. Webb's behavior last night was... extraordinary. I served him myself. Usually he'd barely acknowledge the wine suggestions, but last night he kept asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

Viktor glanced at Luna, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "About truth. Whether wine could lie, whether flavor could deceive. He seemed to be testing something."

Parker felt the familiar itch between her shoulder blades that meant she was missing something important. "What exactly is the Hunter's Special?"

The kitchen went quiet except for the hum of refrigeration units and the steady tick of the wall clock.

"Traditional preparation," Luna said finally. "Roasted venison, seasonal vegetables, wild mushroom reduction."

"And?"

The silence stretched. Viktor adjusted his glasses. Luna's amber eyes fixed on something beyond Parker's shoulder.

A woman with sea-green hair emerged from the walk-in pantry, moving with the fluid grace that marked her as aquatic supernatural—selkie or nereid, Parker guessed. She carried herself like someone comfortable in deep water.

"I'm Coral, sous chef," she said. "Detective, the Hunter's Special is... traditional in the old sense. Pre-integration traditional."

Parker waited.

"There's an herb in the preparation," Coral continued slowly. "Something that enhances certain abilities in those who possess them. Most customers experience it as a particularly flavorful meal. But for someone with specialized talents..."

"What kind of talents?"

Luna stepped forward. "Have you ever met a truth-eater, Detective?"

The term landed in Parker's memory like a key in a lock. She'd read about them in the supernatural casework briefings—humans who'd developed enhanced abilities to detect deception, usually through taste or smell. The files mentioned they were often employed as investigators, psychologists, or...

"Food critics," Parker said.

"Exactly." Luna's voice was barely above a whisper. "And if Marcus Webb was what we suspected he was, then last night's meal would have been... overwhelming."

Parker looked at the heated plate again, understanding beginning to crystallize. "The herb you mentioned. What is it?"

"Wolfbane," Coral said. "Just a pinch, prepared according to my grandmother's recipe to neutralize the toxicity while preserving the... enhancement properties."

Parker's pen stopped moving. She'd seen wolfbane toxicity cases before—usually involving humans who'd tangled with werewolves and tried amateur poisoning. "You're serving aconitine to customers?"

"In trace amounts," Luna said quickly. "Properly prepared, it's harmless to most species. But for a truth-eater, it amplifies their abilities a hundredfold. My grandmother used to say, 'It's all in the wolf's bane'—not just the preparation, but the intention behind it."

Parker studied the three staff members, noting their body language. Luna's protective stance, Viktor's old-world formality, Coral's nervous energy. All of them were afraid of something, but not of her.

"Show me where Webb was sitting," she said.

Table twelve was tucked into an alcove behind a decorative screen, with a clear view of the kitchen pass but isolated from the other dining tables. Parker examined the chair, the floor, the table surface. Everything had been cleaned and reset for tonight's service, but she could see scorch marks on the wooden tabletop—small burn marks arranged in a perfect circle where a plate might have sat.

"These burns," she said. "When did they appear?"

"This morning," Luna said. "When we found him, the plate was still sitting here. Too hot to touch, exactly like it is now. We had to use tongs to move it."

Parker's phone buzzed. Dr. Elena Vasquez, the forensic witch.

"Sarah? I'm in the parking lot. Fair warning—I'm reading significant residual magical energy from inside the building. Whatever happened in there, it's still active."

Through the restaurant's front window, Parker could see Elena climbing out of her battered Honda, medical bag in one hand, a leather satchel that probably contained less conventional investigative tools in the other.

"Elena," Parker said as the forensic witch entered, "we've got a heated plate that's been radiating energy for twelve hours, possible wolfbane poisoning, and a victim who may have been a truth-eater."

Elena's expression grew serious. She was a small woman with graying hair and surgical scars on her hands from years of handling dangerous evidence, but Parker had seen her face down demons and banshees without blinking.

"Show me," Elena said.

They gathered around the prep counter. Elena pulled on specialized gloves—not latex, but something that shimmered with protective enchantments—and held her hands above the plate without touching it.

"Definitely bound," she said after a moment. "Something's tethering this plate to the deceased. The question is whether it's intentional or accidental."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning either someone cast a binding spell to trap Webb's spirit, or his death while actively using truth-eating abilities created an automatic spiritual anchor." Elena looked up at Luna. "How much wolfbane was in his meal?"

"Same as always," Coral answered. "A pinch, maybe half a gram."

"But he finished the entire portion this time," Viktor added.

Elena's face went pale. "How much food?"

"Eight-ounce portion," Luna said. "Why?"

"Because if a truth-eater consumes a full dose of properly prepared wolfbane, their abilities don't just amplify—they transcend. They can taste truth across dimensional barriers, see through illusions that exist in parallel realities." Elena stared at the plate. "If Webb died while in that state..."

The kitchen lights flickered. The plate's heat signature flared brighter, and Parker could swear she saw movement in the scattered crumbs—a subtle shifting, like something trying to reform.

"Elena," Parker said quietly, "what exactly happens when a truth-eater dies before finishing their spiritual meal?"

Elena was already backing away from the counter. "That's what we're about to find out."

Behind them, Luna Blackwood's amber eyes began to glow.