Prologue: Monochrome

The rustling of paper increased, then became a roar as the world dissolved around her; the white was everywhere, in her eyes, on her skin, seeping into her bones and when she breathed in, it curled inside her lungs like smoke.

She exhaled.

And the world rushed in around her, snapping back into focus. She blinked, dizzy, trying to stabilize herself on her now towering heels.

Wait, what? She wasn't wearing heels today; she specifically wore her inventory shoes…

She looked down and blinked, then looked back up, rubbing her eyes. This was impossible, yet here she was, in black and white.

Black and white?

Myka blinked once more, just to be sure and when the color did not return she knew she had been well and truly whammied.

She examined herself more closely. Her casual work clothes had been transformed into a blazer jacket and a tight skirt, both cut snugly. Her hair had been pulled back and she felt the weight of a hat resting on top of her tamed curls. Pearls hung from her ears and around her neck, and she reached up and touched them as she peered around the monochromatic room, desperately trying to ascertain where she was.

Where they were. For as she looked to her left, she realized that she wasn't alone.

Helena stood next to her, stunning in the crisp contrast of a black and white world. Her hair was pulled back, the bulk of it concealed under the trilby perched on her head at a jaunty angle. She wore a man's suit, crispy tailored to Helena's slim figure, looking as natural in it as she did everything else. She too looked faintly puzzled, but she still met Myka's eye with a winning smile.

"Helena." Myka tried to keep her voice calm and failed miserably. "Did you perfect time travel when I wasn't looking? Because if I'm not mistaken, this is 1940."

Helena grinned at that, waving away Myka's concern with a lazy hand. "Darling, do you think I would even dare without your explicit permission?"

Myka, even though a thousand nagging questions buzzed at the base of her skull, smiled back. The wheels turned in her head as she continued, "No, of course not, the 1940s were in color, much like the rest of history…"

"Yes, that much I can attest to," Helena replied dryly over her shoulder, turning and walking away to poke her head out of a nearby window. She pulled it back in quickly. "Chicago," she reported. "Whatever happened, we seem to have found ourselves in Chicago, circa 1940."

"Wait, so what happened? How did we end up here?" Myka asked, her eyes still wide with near panic.

"Well," Helena reflected. Myka could practically see the gears spinning behind her eyes as she pieced everything together with an almost annoying calm.

"Yes, I had the elephant, and the sparks came at me, four at once, and it shot the lightning into the stacks—then paper. Manuscript pages." Myka thought aloud as Helena watched, her face inscrutable.

Myka turned to the desk in the center of the room and saw papers lying there. She picked them up, rifling through them. Kiss Me, Forever by Anthony Bishop the first one read, with a pencil notation on the side inquiring 'Is this a good title?'

"Dreadful title," Helena sniffed, but Myka ignored her, saying excitedly, "I loved Anthony Bishop! He was a '40s crime novelist, hard boiled, I read every single one of his books when I was a kid!"

Helena raised an eyebrow at that. "Was this gem of literature one of those volumes?" she asked.

"No, this was his last one. I don't think he ever finished it…" Myka trailed off.

"Well, that would explain the avalanche of blank pages." Helena gestured to the remaining empty sheets on the desk.

"He went insane from writers block and killed himself," Myka added, and Helena nodded.

"Thus turning the manuscript into an artifact. Not that I've ever taken such drastic measures mind you, but trust me, I can relate."

"I'm sure," Myka smiled.

"Right-y ho then. The question remains. What are we to do?"

Myka shook her head. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Then we are fortunate indeed," Helena smirked.

Chapter 1: The Client

Helena had been gone for fifteen minutes and Myka was starting to get worried when the office door, its glass window painted with Private Investigations, swung open. "I walked ten blocks," Helena reported, sounding a little winded. "No sign of anything chromatic for as far as I could see. And everything smells of fudge."

Myka sighed. "Nothing in here either. So what's our next move?"

Helena was saved from answering as a shadow appeared behind the glass in the door. The door swung open, revealing a young, blonde woman, dressed much as Myka was in a skirt and blazer, a hat perched on top of riotous curls.

"I hear you're the best in town," the woman purred.

"I've heard that from many," Helena returned, her voice low and seductive as she sized the other woman up.

Myka's outrage bubbled in her throat, but the blonde woman pressed on, "Please, I didn't know where else to turn. My husband has disappeared, and I think it has something to do with this." She held up a photograph, portraying a handsome man carrying the very same elephant statue Myka had been using to clear the static from the Warehouse.

"Well, we know what came through with us," Myka breathed.

Helena didn't answer but ushered the blonde woman to sit, perching herself on the edge of the desk as Myka stood beside her.

"So Miss—" Myka began.

"Please, Mrs. Mrs. Rebecca Carson."

"Mrs. Carson. How can we help you?" Myka asked.

"Thank you, you're very kind. I would love a cup of joe."

"I'm sorry?" Myka was stymied but Helena cottoned on quick enough.

"I think Mrs. Carson would like you, my assistant, to get her a cup of coffee," Helena smirked.

"If it's not too much trouble," the blonde woman simpered.

"Yes, I'll take a cup of tea, as well." Helena was grinning now, enjoying this far too much. "Two sugars in mine."

"I'll put a little something extra in there, just for you," Myka murmured and swept off across the room, looking for anything like a coffee maker. She busied herself while tactfully eavesdropping.

"So your husband liked elephants?" Helena inquired.

"Yes, he was an archeologist," the blonde said, her voice breathy. "He brought this one home. He said it had—" She leaned forward, looking deeply into Helena's eyes, "magical powers." Helena scooted back on the desk as gracefully as she could. "He was terrified it might end up in the wrong hands and now, now he's gone, and I just don't know what to do."

"Relax, toots. Wells here is the best shamus in town," Myka said, handing Mrs. Carson a mug.

"I beg your pardon?" Helena asked indignantly, accent more pronounced than ever.

"Excuse us a sec, will ya?" Myka didn't wait for Mrs. Carson to answer as she steered Helena into the office doorway.

"Myka, what on Earth?"

"The artifact! It must have been pulled in here with us and you and I have been put into these roles—private detective and his gal Friday!" Myka whispered, gesturing excitedly.

"Assistant," Helena corrected with a smirk.

"His gal Friday, or you can solve this case by yourself, Wells, while I brew your tea. Our artifact is what this story is about!"

Helena blinked at that. "A mystery then? Like a Conan Doyle story?"

"Precisely. The manuscript must have been a result of Bishop's writer's block—"

"And now we have a case to solve. We must finish the author's story in order to make our escape!" Helena finished. "We have to find the artifact!"

"Yes, but how?" Myka nibbled her lip. "We don't have any goo, no Teslas, no backup."

Helena couldn't help herself, it seemed, as she leaned forward and pecked Myka on the lips. "Darling, we do have one thing in our favor," she said with her characteristic smirk. "We're us. There are none better." She turned to Mrs. Carson. "Madame, we have decided to offer our services."

Mrs. Carson blinked and Myka hastily added, "You've got yourself a gumshoe."

Chapter Four: The Ambush

They walked down a long and dimly lit hallway, headed for the exit. "How you holding up, dollface?" Myka drawled, her eyes sparkling.

"Why do you insist on talking that way?" Helena inquired, her hands thrust in her pockets as she – and there was no other word for it – sauntered.

"It's an Anthony Bishop novel! It was written in a time and a style when everything was just a little gritty, a little dangerous; it's called noir. You remember when Pete made you watch Casablanca? It's like that."

Helena kept walking. "So we must get into character, then?"

Myka nodded. "Bishop's novels are superb! They had an elegance, a beauty!"

Helena paused before a wooden door. "Myka Ophelia Bering, are you enjoying this?"

"No!" Myka protested. "I had a dog, doesn't mean I want to be trapped in one." But the glint in her eyes argued otherwise.

Before Helena could contest the point, the wooden door swung open, revealing a beefy man in a fedora on the other side. "Hello, handsome," Helena purred. They moved to enter the office, but before they could take a single step, everything went black.

Myka came to, tied to a chair. "Helena, wake up!" she hissed and Helena stirred, raising her head and blinking groggily.

"Oh, how uncivilized," she moaned as Myka glared at the man in front of them.

Dressed in a white suit that was doing nothing to hide his rotund figure, the bearded man smiled and boomed, "Welcome to the Indigo Club! My club. I must apologize for the way you were escorted here. The boys can be a bit overzealous." The boys, such as they were, shifted uncomfortably behind them.

Helena chuckled darkly. "And what is it that you require that we remain bound so?"

"What?" The man looked at Helena, puzzled.

"What do you want from us, ya pound of rotten potatoes?" Myka snarled as she translated. There was something about the way Helena spoke that the people in this novel were simply unable to understand.

"Tell me why you were at Mr. Carson's office," the man ordered.

"Not that it's any of your concern," Helena sniffed. "We were searching for clues to his disappearance."

The men in the room all glanced at each other, puzzled. "What?" the man in white asked.

"We were looking for dope on who snatched him," Myka helpfully provided, "and you're looking for Carson too, aren't you, Mr…?"

"Barnabas. Caspian Barnabas," the man said. "You're quite astute for a woman."

"I went to college," Myka simpered; adopting her most doe-eyed expression. Helena rolled her eyes.

"I bet you did," Barnabas condescended.

"You're after the Jade Elephant," Myka continued.

"There is such a thing as too smart," the man rumbled.

"You wanna know a secret?" Myka said, smiling winningly.

The man leaned in, lips curling lecherously. "I'm awash with anticipation."

"Your goons went easy on me because I'm a dame," Myka murmured. "They should have tiedmy ropes tighter." Her left hook took the man by surprise, and he stumbled back as the goons set upon her.

It was a short, messy fight as Myka smashed her chair into one goon, then knocked another out with a quick one-two punch. Helena did her best to assist, tripping a third man as she wiggled against her bonds. Myka reached down and picked up a fallen goon's pistol, pointing it at Barnabas. "Now untie her, you big jasper," she ordered.

The third goon untied Helena and she stood, then whirled and laid the man out, her massive blow landing solidly on the man's face and he dropped like a rock. She cracked her neck and came to stand next to Myka.

"There's been a misunderstand here!" Barnabas said, his hands in the air. "You see, I am the proper owner of the Jade Elephant!"

Barnabas explained his rather sordid tale and asked for their help in recovering the missing artifact. When Helena was disinclined to believe him, he held out a $100 bill.

"Here, take this, for your retainer."

"We don't need your filthy—" Helena started, outraged.

"Eggs in the coffee, boss," Myka cut her off, smooth as silk. "Come on now, it'll be duck soup." Myka serenely stepped over a fallen goon and headed for the exit.

"I have no ruddy idea what that means, but you are enjoying this far too much!" Helena called as she hurried to keep up.

They returned to Carson's office, where Myka discovered a clue: a matchbook that advertised a hotel matching the author's mother's name. They strolled into the lobby of that establishment a short while later, with Helena marching up to the clerk and shoving her currency under his nose.

"I'd like a look at your guest log and no further questions on the matter, understand?" Helena growled.

The clerk took one look at the color of her money, then split.

Myka sighed. "Helena, it's the 40s. You could have just given him five dollars."

"Oh," Helena replied, looking bashful. "Should I call him back?"

Myka grinned. "It's fine."

They cracked open the guest log. "Someone's erased an entry!" Myka said.

"A moment please." Helena grasped the pencil on the counter and began to shade in the blank entry. A name appeared: Augustus Pitt Rivers.

"What on Earth is he doing here?" Helena asked, puzzled. "He retired to Lincolnshire!"

Myka blinked. "You knew Augustus Pitt Rivers!?"

"Not personally. But I attended several of his evening lectures. Fascinating man."

Myka let it go for the moment. "Carson is probably using that name as an alias. Come on, room 211!"

They rushed up the stairs, pausing before the door as the electrical lights on the wall beside them began to short.

"Seem familiar?" Myka asked before Helena kicked in the door. The room was dark, with a window thrown open and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. A man lay on the carpet, unmoving as Myka bent and turned him over, his eyes wide in death.

"He escaped!" Helena cried.

"I don't think so," Myka said. "This is Oliver Carson. And he's stone cold dead."

Helena sighed. "And now our missing object has become a murder mystery."

"One that we must solve. Or we're never going to get out of here."

Helena put her hands on her hips. "Why couldn't we have fallen into one of my stories?" she pouted.

Myka straightened and walked to her wrapping her arms around Helena's waist, trying to assuage her jealousy. "Now Helena—"

She was cut off by Helena's lips pressing insistently against her own, her tongue warm and demanding as it slid into Myka's mouth. Myka gasped and clutched at the back of Helena's suit jacket, and she felt Helena smile before she pulled away.

"Terribly sorry, darling, but I've been wanting to do that all evening. There's just something about that skirt that's positively… delicious." Helena's eyes sparkled wickedly.

Myka straightened her hat and pulled away, smirking. "Then quit your yammering, toots. The longer you jaw, the longer it's gonna take to see what this skirt looks like on the floor," she drawled as she walked to the door, an extra sway to her step.

Helena's jaw dropped.