He woke up in his bed with a massive headache. He rolled over to look at the clock and saw that it was only nine in the morning. Not bad for a . . . it was Tuesday right? So, it was Tuesday, nine in the morning, and he had only died three time so far this week. Not a bad way to start off October.

Shamus thought back to what had happened the night before. He remembered a large amount of bourbon, so that meant he was with someone from the financial district. All the bankers drank bourbon for some reason. It was as if they drew their power from it the collective amount that was consumed by them down town. He sat up slowly in bed and gazed around the bedroom blearily. No clothing on the floor except for his own, so it wasn’t a female. This much he knew was certain. His reputation as a ladies man was more than just a story. He had a gift that was passed down from father to son that truly worked.

All right, so financial district and no woman. ‘Hello?” he called out, echoing back at him. Okay, so no one was home either. He slid out of bed gingerly and headed to the bathroom. He needed some aspirin and he needed it yesterday. True, he had the handy ability of not being able to die (given to him to the elves for his 35th birthday as a thank you for saving them from the Inquisition), but unfortunately, he was not given the ability to avoid a hangover. And since he loved to drink, the whole immortality thing was starting to seem like a bummer. After all, after being alive for a couple of hundred years, alcohol was the only thing that seemed to keep him interested in the world, and kept the world interesting to him.

He looked into the pale blue eyes that were looking back at him in the mirror. Their baby blues stood out amongst the red from their red, bloodshotness. Shamus tried to also straighten out a flatten the tufts of curly red hair on his head. This was going to be a rough morning already, he could tell. He had to sober up enough to get back to work. After all, being one of the top detectives on the Philadelphia police force required him to be available during most of the day time hours.

“So another day to be able to find this magical chosen one, eh Shamus,” said Shamus’ reflection as he wolfed down several aspirin. To most people this would have been unusual, but it was a double mirror- it reflected both sides of reality. The one we live in, and the one our reflection lives in.

“Sure do,” he muttered. “Been looking for him for the last several hundred years. Saying that today is going to be my lucky day got to be old back in the 1700′s.”

“What’s the big deal anyway,” reflective Shamus asked. “I mean, so what if we never find him? What’s the big deal?”

“One day I’d like to be able to go home and visit my parents.”

“Bah, they’re dead. The graveyard’s been turned into a shopping mall.”

“Well . . . . ” Shamus paused. “Then I guess I’d like to get a coffee and read a good book above where they’re currently resting.”

He walked away before his reflection could say anything else. The last thing he wanted to do was to hear what other smart ass answers he had to say to himself. It was time for another lovely day in the city of Brotherly Love. He sent a quick email to the Conclave with the usual report. “The Chosen One has yet to be found, but I get closer every day to finding his location and whereabouts.” This was known as his Tuesday report. Tomorrow’s report would read “All leads seem to be leading to a dead end. Consulting the Creators in town for an idea.”

Shamus ran out the door and almost tripped over Tom Aldor, CEO of the local bank. Suddenly everything came flooding back to him. He slid $10 into Aldor’s pocket. He would need it to pay for the cab and then to call for someone to help him get his stuff from his girlfriend’s house. She was going to kick him out once she received the pictures of what the two of them did last night. Shamus was, after all, a ladies man . . .

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The sun had reached about mid way through the sky when the first police car and ambulance rushed through the city streets. Two older men who lived across the street from where they ended up looked at the confusion that was going on.

“So what do you think happened Artie?” the old gray haired man asked his neighbor.

“Looks like someone got killed I think, Bill” Artie answered. This was a big declaration for a man that had been ruled legally blind by the state for the last twenty years. He could, if anything, see his feet in front of him on a good day. On a normal day, he had to rely on his memory to lead him through his normal daily routine. For instance, he knew that it took 58 steps to get to his front door from where he and Bill were standing. After they got done talking, he knew it would be 275 steps to the local water ice stand to get his daily treat. But for right now, the main thing on his mind was the sound of, from what he could tell were three police cruisers and an ambulance.

“It don’t look like they haven’t got anyone yet, though Artie,” Bill declared. “They haven’t got anyone out in handcuffs. But it looks like they definitely have a dead body.” Bill, in his day, was a high school history and civics teacher. He had enjoyed a successful career melding young minds for about thirty years. He had been about twenty years removed, but tried to keep himself in tune with everything civics related. After all, what went on in this city was his concern. So, in his mind, nothing went on in this city without his knowledge. He knew that if there was a suspect, they would have brought the paddy wagon to transport the suspect to prison. However, he saw the coroner’s department roll out a gurney with a sheet covering what was, based off of his eyesight, most definitely a dead body.

As the two of them couldn’t see anything more interesting happening, they both went on their normal course of the day. Meanwhile, inside the CSI team had finished their initial investigation of the area, gathered the items that they needed, taken the pictures that were necessary and were ready to move on. They were just waiting for the detective assigned to this district to come and make an initial analysis of the scene.

“Where the hell is Shamus?” Hall muttered to himself. Hall was just getting done working a double shift and was dead on his feet. However, this was to be expected for someone who was the lead investigator on the CSI team. As he would often mutter to himself on a daily basis “Sometimes it sucks being this smart.” Once Shamus was here to do his thing, he could finally get home and see his wife and the kids that he rarely got to see any more. He hoped that this was going to come to an end soon.

Almost as if he was standing in Hall’s head, Shamus O’Neill yelled out from the door way,”So who’s the stiff we have on the docket today boys?’ Hall turned around and saw the 35 year old detective giving members of the CSI team a jovial round of pats on the back.

Shamus had recovered enough from his hangover from earlier this morning to be relatively alive and healthy. A double cheeseburger and a soda always seemed to do the trick for him, and fortunately, this was still the case. Hall didn’t care. He really couldn’t care less if Shamus had a headache, a tooth ache, or a belly ache. To him, Shamus was the source of all pain. The way he made things look so easy as he drank himself silly every night, the awards he continued to be given . . . Shamus O’Neill needed to one day fall off the face of the earth for all Hall could care. He watched that fat lucky bastard make his way around the room. Had he mentioned recently how much he had hated him?

Hall let out a loud sigh and held the paperwork out for Shamus. “35 year old male Caucasian, shot to the back of the head. No signs of forced entry. Could be someone he knew, could be a drug deal gone wrong. Larry over there says it’s suicide. I, myself, don’t care. I’m going home.”

Shamus gave a soft smile. Although he knew that Hall hated him with a blind stinking passion, he had to play nice and stay on his good side. Hall had many friends in Internal Affairs as well as in the higher ranks of the force. Shamus would pay terribly if he got on Hall’s bad side. The last thing that he would want is to have to head back to Germany in shame and report to the Conclave of his failure. After all he had an important task at hand. Why else would he have stayed in Philadelphia for as long as he had.
“Tell your wonderful wife Mary I said hello, will you Chris?” Shamus turned to say as Hall headed out the door. Hall grunted some response that was him either saying he would or telling Shamus where he could spend his afterlife. It was a little hard to tell which was the case.

As Shamus looked out the window to make sure Hall was gone, he turned to the boys in the CSI team and said “Now lads, I need some quiet to analyze what you all have found and try to get an idea on who our resident bad guy is this time around. Could I have you all step outside for a little bit while I let the room soak in?” Since he was a department favorite, they had no issue with the request, and each of the filed out to find some coffee and maybe do a breakfast sandwich run to Wawa.

Once he was sure he was alone, Shamus squatted down and rested his hand on the deceased’s head. He let his fingers run through his dirty blonde hair while Shamus closed his eyes. With his other hand, Shamus made the symbol of a circle in the air while he muttered some words to himself. Shamus then made a counter clockwise motion with his hand as he stopped playing with the dead guy’s hair. A cool breeze brushed against the back of his neck.

When he opened up his eyes, the room was slightly different then before Shamus closed his eyes. For one, the corpse was now a living breathing human being. The clock on the wall also showed that it was two hours earlier than what it really was. Shamus was used to this sort of a situation. Being a Temporal, he often played in the past. This was what someone who could control the flow of time would do on as needed basis. Temporals could go back and see what had occurred and go forward slightly in time to see what could happen. However, they cannot interact within the timeline that they are travelling forwards or backwards in. Such were the guidelines established by the Conclave years ago.

Shamus saw a tall brown haired man talking to the soon to be deceased. There was some discussion over a recent transaction and how the brown haired man was shorted. The discussion soon escalated, and as the soon to be deceased raised his hand back to strike the tall man, there was the sound of shattered glass and the soon to be deceased moved to the list of the deceased.

Shamus, however, did not focus much on the entire situation. He was, rather, focused on the tall brown haired man. He had seen him somewhere before but where? As his mind wandered, the brown haired man ran to the window, checked the pulse of the blonde man to see if he was dead, and ran quickly out the door Shamus entered earlier.

“Detective?” a voice from the present called. Shamus felt the world blur about him and he was back in the present time. He was slightly disoriented from the trip back, and looked at the young CSI with a confused, angry gaze.

“We were wondering if we . . . ” the young man stammered.

“The deceased was shot from someone outside or across the street. Canvas the area and make sure you check all of the buildings.” Shamus stormed out of the room without waiting to hear the young man’s response.

He had to get back to his apartment and send an email to the Conclave. He recognized that face. It was the person that he had been looking for for the last several centuries. His would have to change his normal Wednesday report. He had to tell them the news he had been wanting to report for so many years. He had finally found the Chosen One.