Silver Strings, the dauntless investigator of dark things, chased many strange clues during his long career, and indeed in his retirement. Today he had made his calculations and sent a particular invitation to a special guest, the Lady Windlemare, the respected patron of the arts. She came alone, uncharacteristically without an entourage, and as she entered his humble dwelling she took a long and curious look at the rune decorated lintel and threshhold of her host’s home.

He greeted her slowly, his silver hair age-whitened. “Welcome, my Lady, so glad that you saw fit to grace my humble abode with your presence. Please sit, I have hot tea, cress sandwiches, with more on the way…” Behind him near the table, a copper teapot bubbled in the fireplace.

She took up a cress sandwich and took a doubtful nibble. “I shall decline, thanks, though I am sure you put much effort into it… You clearly wished this to be a secret meeting, would you be kind enough to give the reason?”

Silver helped himself to the fare. “Straight to the point then. One case I was never able to solve in my long career was a series of odd deaths. I came to believe that a Grutie was responsible.”

She shook her head. “That would be a rare creature to catch; for a fact I thought they were legendary. It’s those oddly specific rules that mark such supernatural tales. If you invited one into your house, you would have three chances to feed it something so satisfying that it would forgo feasting upon your flesh. But they are notorious for being picky and insatiable.”

“You know the legend, I see,” he smiled. “I’ve been tracking this Grutie for years now. A pious hermit left half skeletal, a hedge witch who suddenly vanished, a family slain around their supper table. Each about three years apart, roughly as long as it takes a Grutie to start to feel that hunger again, the one that drives it to risk its disguise and seek equine flesh and not regular food… May I invite you to sample my tea? I put so much effort into its preparation.”

She seemed frozen between indignation and something deeper, her tongue touched her lips. “I have no zest for games, and I do need to decline this tea; its scent is common and distressing. And I do not care at all for the way that you gaze at me, and have half a mind to end this interview. Your age has much reduced you, and if you suspect me of being this monster, your wits are weaker still.”

“I see. Yes, old and tired I am. I don’t have the strength to try to drive off a windigo anymore, or lay a banshee. I am reduced to picking my battles as I grow more silver.” He reached out with the teapot again. “Come now, just a taste, to drink a cup would assuage all my doubts.”

Her eyes flared and she snorted; her body seemed to tense like a stalking cat. “Once more I decline, and with that, one way or another this interview comes to an end. If you have no further ridiculous accusations–”

“No one ever suspected you, due to your station, and I had no direct proof,” he muttered sadly. “I suppose that in the end I can't make you drink it."

"But you don't have a choice of whether to breathe."

He bucked the copper pot over the fire and the red-hot andirons, causing a burst of noisome steam and mystic smoke that filled the house. She gasped in shock, then horror grew in her eyes; her face seemed to flow and bubble like the surface of a muddy pond as a stream of fresh clear mountain water flowed into it. Her fangs grew like stabbing knives, face and limbs stretched with tendons snapping like cables as she howled in sheer agony rather than insatiable hunger.

Silver Strings sank to the floor as his own strength left him. “Gave you three chances. The potion in that tea is bad enough against supernatural creatures, but that hot iron gives it an extra kick. I won’t survive it myself, but I had to be sure you wouldn’t either. When they find us later today, they’ll see just what you are now, and they’ll know to dispose of your body so you won’t ever come back. I left instructions…

“But there’ll be no fourth course for you, this time.”