Accord

The sun set on the City. The moon rose. The Obelisk fell from the heavens and drove strange creatures out from their comfortable concrete burrows. The dead, who painted roses on their cheeks and played at marionettes in city hall, now frantically fortify their walls of code and human servants around their investments; the wolves bay with laughter from their crags in the woods, crushing the straw-dry grass beneath their paws, while other beasts don chameleon skins and tremble in their apartments; the fragile peace among the witches strains and frays like old copper wire; the fair folk switch out their masks of poisoned politeness for ones that hiss, and circle each other like dancers with blades in their heels; and still more peculiar things, beings that sold their soul or burned their flesh away for power, or who trail disaster behind them like the train of a wedding dress, converge on the City like so many turkey vultures, ready to pick whatever bones it exposes.

The City’s always had a place for its freaks; the only change is which kind comes into vogue. Every industry, from the pornographers to the politicians, wants in on the market share. Activists rattle their signs in the streets. Killers with eyes too focused to take in the whole map set traps for single prey. And woven through it all, spreading like a fungus, is the Truth.

Welcome to San Francisco.