"Host Town"

"She disappeared nine months ago, left with a group of pillow case wearers, willingly, and not heard from since.  There's been several times where she was spotted at gas stations and convenient stores, seemingly well; I guess she hasn't had any punch yet..."  Sgt. Brill explained trailing off as he handed Nightjar a picture of the woman in question, smiling happily passed the camera that captured her visage.

19-20.

Not much older than Nightjar herself.

Nightjar wanted to help but...

"Not much I can do, you said it yourself, she left willingly, I can't fly her back, Sarge." Nightjar replied, handing the picture back to the police officer.  He inhaled sharply. "I'm not asking you to bring Melissa Krige back, I want you to find out where she is at." Sgt. Brill stated evenly, Nightjar crossing her arms and giving her wings a bit of a flap. "I was under the impression the group she's joined had a compound under regular surveillance in Polk county."  Nightjar said, cocking her head to one side.  The sergeant shook his. "Vacant.  Slow evacuation the detectives think, over the course of several weeks."

Nightjar shrugged.

"Then there is even less I can do, I'm not a bluetick hound, I can't sniff outta cold trail." Nightjar replied, Sgt. Brill producing a folder as if on cue  to her response.  "You'll find pictures where she was last seen, and some witness statements saying she and other members of the cult were sighted west of Otter Creek..." Nightjar cut him off.

"You think they all have fled into one of the ghost towns in Levy county." Nightjar didn't posture her sentence as a question, thumbing through the contents of the folder.  She sighed.

"I'll give it a look, Sarge, but I can't promise you too much..." Nightjar added looking up from the plethora of material in her hands, Sgt. Brill was smiling back at her. "I can help you with that," he said. "Aspiration, located on the western most tip of Levy just south of the Dixie county line.  It was a cannery, and fishing town that peaked in the mid 1920s.  Great Depression murdered it soundly, and the place has been vacant since 1937."

Nodding, Nightjar let herself slow fall backwards off the roof, falling several stories before fanning her wings, and gliding over the hotel swimming pool, swooping up and skirting a path before the New Smyrna horizon.  Sgt. Brill blew an overwhelmed whistle from his lips, then hastily made for the elevator.

"Just some new-agey kids..." he muttered to himself.

"Not like I'm sending her up against a doomsday cult or anything..."  Sgt. Brill found those last words unconvincing.

Missing person cases were a dime a dozen. Especially for young people. The chances of someone going missing from the moment they're born skyrockets up until the moment they hit 30. It could be for a variety of reasons. Kids are always getting into trouble or mischief. Young people had bigger targets painted on them as well. Especially if they were pretty. The Mauled Mask was dedicated to solving both mystical and mundane crimes, since the worlds often crossed streams. A mundane case turns into a magic case, a seemingly magic case turns into a mundane case. One was just as likely to find a demon as they were a gang of drug dealers when taking a wrong turn in an abandoned apartment.

In terms of the supernatural and mystical, however, missing persons were the most likely to bear fruit.
Particularly if there were cults involved. Thus, when the Mauled Mask picked up on the case of a missing girl who had joined a cult, it pinged his radar. Even if it wasn't supernatural, he enjoyed sticking it to those cult leaders who were always trying to sell something.

A classic 1972 dodge challenger, cherry red with two black stripes across the top, sits parked outside of the compound. Nightjar would be able to see it as she flew within range of the cult's old stomping grounds. The car had been left running. It seems someone was present but didn't plan to be so very long.

A trail of footsteps in the mud led into the compound itself. From there it seemed to trail between a few different buildings. The footsteps were easily recent. The latest prints seemed to lead into one of the old compound houses. Someone of authority within the cult, judging by how nice the house was in comparison to the averageness of the other houses. Should her eyesight be sharp enough, she might spot someone in the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Or at least the vague outline of them in the dim light of the moon.

Flying to the compound was the first order of business.

Nightjar assuming some sort of clue could have been left behind by the initiates of the cult that could help confirm the information of her folder and fortify the words of Sgt. Brill. Being between jobs, and in a position to take a brief break from her constant photography hustle, Nightjar could take her time and be thorough in an investigation; looking around couldn’t hurt at this point.

…

...and apparently someone else had thought the same!

The classic 1972 Dodge Challenger distantly below her stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest of the beige and white, desolate domiciles. Descending, Nightjar did her best to take in details before scouting a perch. The recent rain left muddy ground. The only car was the stylish Dodge. It purred like a big cat, clearly idling alive for its driver, and other potential occupants. She had to consider the following.

No one was at the compound and the car belonged to someone either lost, or looking to loot the vacated structures.

Not everyone had left, or something important was left behind, and someone had returned to retrieve them/it.

Landing on top of a roof Nightjar drew her wings in, she was still quite visible, but she wasn’t aiming for stealth so much as a good view of the whole compound. By picking a central homestead, she managed just that, turning about slowly in a 360 at the peak of the roof. At first, she huffed in defeat, not finding anyone wandering, but eventually zeroed in on the footsteps in the mud, following up to a larger house amid the smaller ones.

Two Stories.

Fresher paint.

The leader’s?

She spread her wings, and charged to the edge of the roof, leaping into the air with a flurry of flaps. Shooting upwards, Nightjar caught a draft of air, and navigated it into an orbit around the home. Again, she considered the possibilities.

A cultist?

A thief?

A lost motorist?

It was time for leg work. Nightjar glided to the wet earth in a graceful enough landing, and in an act of sheer politeness no one would observe, wiped her shoes off of mud on the welcome mat before casually entering the home.

She made no attempt at silence.

It was time to be loud, obvious, and startling to whoever might be inside.