Ponyville Noire: Tails of Two Private Eyes

by PonyJosiah13


Case Four, Chapter Six: Blood and Fire

The next morning, Daring rose early, roused from bed by the sunlight streaming in the window onto her face. After a quick shower, she headed down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She had just finished up the first batch of scrambled eggs when she heard hoofsteps stumbling down the steps. Smirking, she grabbed the coffee pot and filled up a mug just as Phillip dragged himself into the room, yawning heavily and scratching his chin.

“‘Preciate this,” he mumbled as Daring slid the mug of hot coffee across the counter into his waiting hoof. He inhaled the scent of the cup’s contents for a moment before taking a long drink.

“No worries,” Daring said. “Can’t work on an empty stomach, after all.”

Phillip grunted in agreement and scooped some eggs and hay bacon onto his plate. “Right. Might be worth our time to split up today,” Phillip suggested. “One of us can go with Trace and the other with Red. Check on the truck and on Phosphero simultaneously. Can take a look at Phoenix Life later.”

“Sounds good to me,” Daring agreed.

Once their breakfast was finished and cleared away for later cleaning, the two of them donned their vests and hats and stepped outside. The day was gray and overcast, with the scent of incoming rain on the southern wind.

“Trace lives south of here, near the Dockside District,” Phillip stated, already running for a southbound trolley car as it pulled up to the curb. He jumped inside and Daring quickly followed him, both of them tossing some bits to the conductor.

They got off on Daysong Avenue and proceeded up the short, newly paved street. Trace lived in a comfortable suburban neighborhood, with small single and two-story houses painted in calming, earthy tones separated from one another by well-trimmed lawns that were decorated with fallen leaves of gold, red, and brown. A pair of squealing fillies with pigtails dived into a pile of leaves as their parents watched proudly from the front porch.

Trace Evidence’s place wasn’t hard to find: no other house in the neighborhood had a light golden-brown Hayson Commander parked in the driveway whose paint gleamed with fresh polish. The unicorn detective himself was standing next to the open engine hood, speaking to another unicorn. His friend had a dark gray coat and slightly oily black hair that framed his face. His chin was heavily marred with stubble and his large brown eyes were magnified by his glasses, which were perched precariously on a nose that seemed far too small for them. He was dressed in coveralls that were so heavily stained it was nearly impossible to tell what color they originally were, and his cutie mark was a crossed wrench and a tire iron.

“Is he smiling?” Daring whispered to Phillip as they approached.

“Yup,” Phillip said.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Daring commented.

Trace, who was indeed grinning, looked up at their approach. “Hey,” he greeted them with a wave. “Lug Wrench, remember I told you about Phil and Daring?”

Lug Wrench turned around and grinned at the two detectives, holding out an oil-stained hoof to shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his voice carrying a tinge of a Fillydelphia accent. “From the sounds of things, you’ve got half of the underworld running scared.”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Phillip said, shaking his hoof.

“Well, you’ve got quite a few fans now,” Lug Wrench said. “I’ll be looking forward to hearing more about you!” He shook hooves with Trace. “She looks good for now, but I suggest that you rotate those tires after the next couple thousand miles or so. The wear’s starting to show quite a bit.”

“Thanks, Lug,” Trace said. “Meet later at the houseboat?”

“You bet!” Lug smiled. With a final nod, he turned and walked down the driveway, swinging himself onto a waiting motorcycle. Kicking the motor to life, he grumbled back down the street towards main road.

Trace dropped the hood of the engine back down as a familiar rust-colored Diplomat 600 pulled up to the curb. Red Herring leaned out the window, holding up a set of papers.

“I got lucky,” he declared, tossing the papers to Trace, who caught them in his magic. “Judge Gavel was sober enough to listen, but still nursing a hangover and didn’t really want to deal with me. I was in and out in five minutes.”

“The subpoena for Phosphero’s workers. Good,” Trace nodded, already turning back to his wearily stoic self.

“And I’ve got the address for the truck owner,” Red continued. “They live on the eastern side of Ponyville, near the Dockside border.”

Trace turned to Phillip. “How do you want to play this?” he asked.

Phillip turned to Daring and gave her a “what do you want to do?” shrug. Daring thought for a moment.

“I’ll go with Trace,” she said. “We’ll go to Phosphero.”

“Ripper. I’ll go with Red and interview the truck owner,” Phillip nodded.

“Sound good?” Trace asked Red, who nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Phil?” Daring asked softly.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning towards her.

“Good luck boop!” Daring immediately cried, booping Phillip on the nose. Phillip stepped back, his nose scrunching comically in response to the touch, then glared at Daring. Daring sniggered.

“Okay, let’s go!” she chirped, flying over to the passenger side of Trace’s Commander. Trace gave Phillip a somewhat sympathetic look, then climbed inside.

Phillip walked over to Red’s Diplomat and climbed into the passenger seat, strapping his seat belt on. Red shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb; in the rearview mirror, Phillip watched Trace and Daring pull out of the driveway and head in the opposite direction.

“Something funny?” he asked Red, catching the pegasus’ smirk in the corner of his eye.

Red grinned at him as they pulled out of the avenue and headed east. “So, did you fuck her yet?” he asked.

“Piss off,” Phillip growled, his ears turning scarlet as Red Herring laughed heartily.


Phosphero Heating Company was situated in the middle of the Everfree District, in a grimy-looking brick building with a large shop window with the company’s name and logo splashed across the glass. Trace and Daring pulled up to the shop and parked at the curb. Both of them exited the car and walked into the store.

The receptionist behind the desk, a gum-chewing earth pony mare with a citrus-colored coat and pinkish-red hair done up in a mini-beehive, looked up and scowled as they entered. “I told you coppers before, you either come back here with a warrant or whatever or you—”

Trace cut her off by pulling out the subpoena and slapping it down on the desk. The receptionist stared at them for a moment, then stared up at him, open-mouthed. He tilted his head to the side a bit and raised an eyebrow.

The receptionist closed her mouth and huffed, standing. “Freaking cops,” she snarled, walking into the back of the store. She shot Daring a glare as she passed her. “Not bad enough they treat us like dirt, now they’re coming around here with thieves.”

“Hey!” Daring barked at her, her right hoof stabbing with pain. The receptionist ignored her, disappearing into a filing room.

Daring grimaced and massaged her foreleg. “You okay?” Trace asked.

“Fine,” Daring spat, gritting her teeth. Fuck this mark! Fuck her! Fuck ponies calling me a thief when I’m trying to help! she thought angrily.

The mare came back, carrying a box of files. “Here,” she said, slamming the box down on the table. “Records for repairs for the past two weeks. Fucking enjoy yourselves.” She stalked out of sight.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Trace deadpanned, opening up the box. He pulled out several of the files in his magic, floating them in front of his face. He swept a beam of his magic over the files, causing several of them to separate from the rest of the stack.

“So Twilight’s spell works,” he muttered with a small grin. Discarding the rest of the papers, he focused on the ones that he had separated. “These are for the houses where there were fires,” he explained, stacking the papers in midair with his magic. “Hmm...got it. Looks like all the houses were serviced by a Quick Fix. Let’s see...yup. There’s his address. He lives on Fair Winds Way, that’s about eight miles from here.”

“Nice,” Daring nodded. Trace placed the files back into the box and he and Daring exited the house. They walked back to the car and climbed in. Trace started up the car.

“So,” Daring asked, trying to focus on something other than the still-lingering pain. “How do you know Lug Wrench?”

Trace stared at her for a moment in confusion, then started to pull away from the curb. “I met him at the Midnight Oil,” he explained. “We got to talking about cars. Hit it off then and there. I meet up with him to tinker with my car from time to time.”

“Cool,” Daring said, nodding and staring at the window, watching the houses pass by as she cast around for another conversation topic. “You got any other friends? Anypony else you hang out with?”

Trace was silent for several seconds, then said, “Red.”

Daring blinked at him. “You have any family?” she asked. “Special somepony, kids?”

“No. Why do you care?” Trace asked, his voice becoming defensive.

“Just asking,” Daring asked, feeling another stab of pain through her hoof.

Trace frowned, then reached over and turned on the car radio. His eyes focused on the street and he began to turn the station dial, trying to find a station to settle on. Passing over a talk radio show and a classical music station, he paused at the sound of harmonica music. He sighed contentedly and settled back in his seat.

“Piano Mare?” Daring asked, recognizing the song.

“My favorite song,” Trace replied, pausing at a stop sign before continuing through the intersection. Daring watched as his lips began to move in time with Big Shot’s lyrics, his counterpoint barely audible.

Daring stared at him for a few moments, then laughed quietly to herself and settled back in her seat. Barely realizing that she was doing so, she began to quietly sing along, her voice joining with Trace’s.

They reached their destination, Fair Wind’s Way, a narrow street lined on both sides by modest but well-constructed and cozy suburban homes. “Number eighteen,” Trace muttered to himself as they started down the street, his eyes panning across the left-hoof side of the street. “Yeah, there it is,” he said, pointing at a two-story blue house that they were approaching.

“Think that’s him?” Daring asked, pointing at the white pickup truck parked in front of the driveway. A blue earth pony with a white-yellow mane and beard wearing a set of greasy overalls was climbing out of the truck, wiping his face with a hoofkerchief. The stallion looked up and saw their car approaching. His amber eyes locked onto Daring’s and widened.

Immediately, he climbed back into the truck and started it up, peeling away from the curb in a screech of tires and a cloud of exhaust fumes and flying gravel.

“Dammit,” Trace growled, punching the accelerator to the floor as he switched on his car’s lights and siren. They tore after the truck, chasing it up the road as pedestrians and other cars swerved out of the way.

Trace grabbed the hoofset for his radio. “Bishop Nine to Dispatch,” he said into it.

“Go, Bishop Nine,” a crackly stallion’s voice replied.

“10-80, vehicle pursuit,” Trace reported. “Suspect vehicle is a white Chevroneigh pickup, license Whiskey-Needle-seven-X-ray-two-five. Turning northbound on—”

“Trace, look out!” Daring screamed. A small brown griffon chick, confused and excited by all the noise, had just jumped out into the road in front of them. Trace slammed down on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the side, causing the vehicle to swerve wildly around the child as her horrified mother snatched her out of danger. A passing van had to mount the curb to avoid crashing into them, its driver honking loudly in alarm as they passed.

“Celestia’s fucking beard!” Daring yelled as they swerved after Quick Fix’s truck, her heart having leaped up into her throat. She clenched her teeth tightly, as if afraid that her heart might try to jump out of her mouth.

“Turning northbound on Creek Street,” Trace continued to report into the radio. “Officer requests immediate assistance.”

“10-4, Bishop Nine,” Dispatch replied. “Interrogative, suspect armed?”

“Unknown, but proceed with caution,” Trace replied, blazing right through a stop sign amidst irate honking and screeching brakes. Daring braced herself against the dashboard and tried to remember the Hail Faust.

“10-4. All Everfree units, 10-80, suspect vehicle white pickup, license plate…” Dispatch continued to relay their information as they sped after Quick Fix. The truck approached a four-way then, without slowing down, swerved hard to the left, narrowly missing a city bus.

“Brace yourself,” Trace warned Daring. He accelerated, aiming his car right at the pickup. Daring yelped and pressed against the dashboard with her hooves, gritting her teeth, her entire body tensing up in preparation for the impact.

A moment later, Trace slammed his car head-on into Quick Fix’s pickup truck. The impact caused Daring to smash her forehead against the dashboard, dazing her. The pickup truck was forced off the road and ran right into a lamp post, coming to an abrupt halt. The horn on the truck became stuck, blaring out incessantly as smoke rose from underneath the dented hood. Pedestrians on the sidewalks ran for cover as Trace’s car halted, its siren going silent.

The door to the truck’s cab opened and Quick Fix stumbled out, turning towards the car; Daring finally noticed that his cutie mark was a screw through a nut. Trace climbed out at the same moment, already drawing his pistol.

The blue earth pony’s eyes focused on Trace and narrowed. The trapped pony sprinted towards Trace, one hoof diving into his coveralls.

Daring realized what was going to happen a second before it did. “Trace!” she cried, trying to make herself move, but her head was pounding and her limbs refused to respond to her commands.

Without waiting, without pause, Trace opened fire, four rounds streaking through the air with sharp pops. Quick Fix’s body jerked violently with every impact and he stumbled, falling onto his face. A box cutter skittered out of his hoof, sliding across the asphalt. Quick Fix's body skidded to a halt just as Trace’s final cartridge struck the pavement; his body twitched once, and then lay still. His blood slowly spread across the concrete.

Daring sat frozen in the seat as Trace calmly walked up to the body, kicking the small knife away and nudging the still form a couple times. Shaking his head, Trace holstered his weapon and walked back to the car. Giving Daring a brief, regretful look, he took up the hoofset.

“Bishop Nine to Dispatch, 10-52. Ambulance needed at Wheat and Daffodil…”


From his passenger seat in the Diplomat, Phillip could see the cranes that lined the northern docks of the Maresippi River outlined against the gray sky. Red paused at a stop light, then proceeded through once the lights turned green.

“You’re good at sax,” Red commented without looking up.

“Hmm?” Phil grunted, turning towards him. “Oh, thanks.”

They sat in silence for several more seconds, then Red added, “I used to play the harmonica, you know.”

Phillip didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “You any good?”

Red shrugged. “Like to think I was,” he said. The silence blanketed them both again for several seconds while they cruised past several blocks.

“We shouldn’t do small talk anymore,” Red stated as he paused at another red light.

“Agreed,” Phillip nodded.

“Our address is right up here,” Red said, pointing as he turned down a side road. They pulled up to a two-story brown and white house near the mouth of the road. Phillip immediately spotted the heavily scratched and tarnished silver pickup truck sitting in the driveway.

“That’s the one,” he nodded as Red pulled up to the curb. Both of them exited the car and walked up to the front door. Red rang the doorbell.

The door opened and a pale purple unicorn stallion with long yellow and brown hair looked out. He had green eyes and the cutie mark of a hammer and a length of wood. “Yes?” he asked.

“Carved Timber?” Red asked.

“Yes,” the stallion nodded.

“Police,” Red Herring said, flashing his badge. “May we come in?”

Timber’s eyes widened slightly. “What is this about?” he asked nervously.

“We just want to ask you some questions,” Red replied.

The stallion seemed to consider them for a few seconds, then opened the door wider and stepped back. Red and Phillip stepped inside and followed Carved Timber through the hallway and into a sitting room. All the furniture in the room was obviously hoof-carved: the chairs with their cushions, the coffee table, the cabinet in the corner; all were beautiful pieces of art, made from contrasting shades of maple, ash, and birchwood.

A young robin egg blue pegasus mare with a long sandy blonde mane and the cutie mark of a pair of feathers was sitting on the sofa, playing with a pair of fillies. Neither of them could have been older than one: one was cardinal red, while the other was colored as blue as a blue jay. The mare looked up as the guests entered the room.

“My wife, Robin Wing,” Carved Timber said, gesturing to the mare. “And our girls.”

“Ma’am,” Red nodded to the mare. Robin Wing nodded in reply, settling back on the sofa.

Red flipped open his notebook and sat down on another chair. Phillip stood at the doorway, watching the scenario play out.

“How long have you owned that truck outside?” Red opened. “It looks pretty old.”

“Eight years,” Carved answered. “I keep as good care of it as I can, but it’s really starting to fall apart. I’ve really got to get it replaced.”

This, Red and Phillip both knew, was the truth: when Red had pulled the license plate information, he had also got the vehicle’s registration and owner information. The opening question gave Phillip and Red a chance to get a baseline for their subject’s body language when he was telling the truth. Now for the harder questions.

“Where were you two nights ago?” Red asked.

“Right here, at home,” Carved replied. “Robin and I slept all through the night.”

“Except at three in the morning, when the twins needed feeding,” Robin added.

“He was still here?” Red asked.

Robin blinked at him. “Yes, of course he was, sound asleep,” she said.

Red frowned and glanced down at his notebook, pretending to study his notes while he assessed his position and prepared for the next question. Phillip kept watching Carved Timber, observing the way his front hooves rubbed against one another as he spoke, the way he held his steady gaze on Red, blinking every couple of seconds.

“Only you have the keys to that truck?” Red asked.

“Yes,” Carved nodded.

“You haven’t loaned the truck to anypony else recently?” Red pressed.

“No,” Carved replied, a little too quickly. His hooves stopped rubbing against each other and became still in his lap. He stopped blinking and glanced up at Phillip for a moment before refocusing on Red, his gaze hardening slightly.

Red and Phillip both glanced at one another, each coming to the same conclusion. “We’re going to need to take a look at your truck,” Red explained. “It may have been involved in a crime.”

“What?” Carved Timber burst out, sitting up straight. “Uh...all right.” He walked up to the cabinet and pulled out a set of truck keys, handing them to Red. Red and Phillip both walked out of the room, back down the hallway and to the truck.

Tossing the keys to Phillip, Red stepped back to allow him to work. Phillip walked around the truck, his eyes scanning it, checking the undersides and the tires. He bent down and examined the lock with a magnifying glass. “No sign of forced entry,” he grunted. Inserting the key, he opened up the door and began to study the interior of the cab. He measured the distance from the seat to the pedals, noted a greasy stain on the back of the rearview mirror, swept over the seat with the magnifying glass, and began to study the litter left behind in the cab. Spotting some ash on the floor of the cab next to the seat, he bent down and sniffed at it, then scooped some into a plastic bag he took out of his vest.

He walked around to the passenger side and checked the seat. He glanced down at the floor beneath the passenger seat, then pulled out a set of tweezers from his vest and plucked a set of flame red hairs from beneath the seat.

Red glanced at the hairs, then leaned in closer to Phillip. “Don’t turn around,” he whispered. “We’re being watched.”

Phillip did not react, save for pulling another bag out of his vest and tucking the hairs into it. “Where?” he asked.

“House across the street, top floor, window on the right,” Red said, turning around. Phillip followed him back towards the door, glancing across the street as he did so. He caught a flicker of movement in the window of the red brick house that Red had indicated, but the face vanished before he could get a proper look at it.

“Hmm,” he grunted, continuing back into the house after Red. Carved Timber was now pacing the living room, while Robin Wing was sitting on the sofa, holding the twins and staring at her husband with suspicion.

“Somepony’s been driving your truck,” Phillip said to Timber, who halted and turned to look at him. “A tall earth pony with black hair who smokes Silver Flake cigarettes, and who was accompanied by a mare with long red hair that he was scared of; no other reason he was sweating so much that late on a fall night.”

Carved Timber opened and closed his mouth several times, his eyes darting from Phil to Red to his wife, who was glaring at him.

“You lent the truck to him, didn’t you?” Robin asked accusingly.

“I…” Timber started to protest, then hung his head. “Yeah. I gave him the spare keys that day.”

“I told you I didn’t trust him!” Robin snapped. “He keeps coming and going at odd hours, and he’s always coming home with tanks of propane and stuff. It’s weird!”

“He said he needed help!” Timber protested. “His car broke down and—”

“Hey!” Red barked, interrupting the couple and bringing their argument to a temporary halt. “Who are you talking about?”

“Charcoal,” Timber said. “Our neighbor from across the street. He’s kind of an oddball, but he keeps to himself.”

Red and Phillip both glanced at each other, then turned towards the door. “We’re going to need to speak to you later,” Red said over his shoulder as they exited.

The two walked across the street to the red brick house. As they approached, Phillip glanced up and saw movement in the same window. Once again, he could only catch a glimpse of the pony’s face before it disappeared. Scowling, he walked up to the door and knocked.

“Charcoal, police,” Red called.

There was no reply. Phillip knocked harder.

“Charcoal!” Red shouted. “We know you’re in there! Open up—”

Red’s call was cut off by the sound of heavy hoofsteps from around the corner. Both ponies turned around and their breaths caught.

Striding around the corner was a tall gray earth pony with black hair marked with red highlights. He wore a thick black and yellow turnout jacket and black boots. His face was covered by a gas mask, the eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses. Strapped on his back was a fuel tank, with a fuel line slithering down to a gauntlet strapped to his right foreleg. Tilting his head to the side, the pony raised his foreleg at Red and Phillip.

“Oh, shit! Scorcher!” Red screamed, grabbing Phillip and diving away. As he did so, a jet of flame roared out of the gauntlet, the fire missing both stallions by inches. Hitting the ground a few feet from the attacker, Red and Phillip both fled around the corner, the flamethrower nipping at their tails.

Pressing his back against the wall, Red drew his pistol, paused for a moment to take a breath, then leaned out from behind the cover and opened fire. The flamethrower-wielding pony grunted in pain, flinching and clutching his lower chest, but kept coming forward. He fired another jet of flame at Red, forcing him to duck back behind cover.

“Go around,” Phillip snarled, drawing his baton with a snap of his wrist and hurrying around the back of the house. Red followed after him, firing a wild shot at the Scorcher as he rounded the corner. Another jet of flame chased after the ponies as they ran behind cover.

“Keep him busy,” Phillip said. “I’ll run around back and get him from behind.”

“Right,” Red nodded. He gripped his pistol with both hooves and leaned around from behind cover again, then paused. “Wait, where’d he go?”

Phillip looked around the corner as well. The Scorcher had disappeared from sight. Running back to the front of the house, both of them paused to look around.

“There!” Red shouted, pointing. The Scorcher had run across the street and was standing in front of Timber and Robin’s house. He raised his gauntlet and fired a long, wide jet of flames from it, igniting the entire front of the house. Fire began to race across the house, penetrating the interior. The Scorcher then turned and fled around the back of the house.

Phillip’s heart skipped a beat, and he raced forward, forgetting all about the Scorcher. Vaulting over the truck, he sprinted to the front door, which was already wrapped in flames, and turned, bucking backwards. The door crashed inwards, revealing that the hallway was already on fire. Coughing on the smoke that was stinging at his eyes, Phillip ran into the hallway. “Robin! Timber!” he shouted.

“Here!” Robin’s voice called. “Here, help us!”

Phillip pushed himself through the fire that was already invading the living room, destroying the hoofcarved furniture. Smoke was everywhere: he could barely see a foot in front of him, but was guided onwards by the sound of the screaming and wailing fillies. Placing a hoof on the wall to orient himself, he crouched low, where the air was slightly cooler and easier to breathe. The flames surrounded him, having seemingly paused as if taunting him with the knowledge that they could roast him and everypony in the room alive at any moment they decided.

His outstretched hoof caught another’s. Robin Wing clung to him tightly, her body trembling in fear as she clutched her children to her body with a wing. “Oh, Holy Mother, get us out of here!” she wailed.

“Grab my tail and stay low,” Phillip instructed, turning around. Robin Wing grasped his tail hard, forcing him to grit his teeth against the pain. Crouching low, he began to follow the wall back around the house. Sweat trickled down his brow, clinging to his mane; the smoke filled his lungs, making every breath harder than the last one, and the house creaked and groaned around them, as if threatening to collapse at any moment. He rushed forward, carrying the mare and fillies behind him, dragging one hoof along the wall.

The fire chased after him, trying to cut him off; the smoke blinded him completely, forcing him to squint. Grunting and panting, Phillip hurried forward, racing for the safety of the thin blue-gray light ahead. With a final leap, he pulled himself, Robin, and the fillies out into the fresh air, bustling them away from the burning home. He grunted as he stumbled onto the grass, his vision slowly returning; as the adrenaline faded away, he became acutely aware of the burns on his hooves and face and had to stifle a cry of pain.

Panting and sweating, Robin raced a safe distance away, instinctively holding her daughters close to her body with her wings, then whirled around as if suddenly realizing something. “My husband! My husband’s in there!” she screamed hysterically. “He went up to the bedroom!”

Phillip turned around, preparing to head back inside the house, when they saw movement in a second-story window. Red Herring was opening the window and leaning outwards.

“Get out, go!” he shouted to somepony inside. Carved Timber leaned out the window, took a look at the ground below, then jumped. He landed hard on his hind legs; there was a cracking sound and he folded to the ground, yelling in pain. Red jumped out and flew to the ground, and he and Phillip hurried to drag him a safe distance away from the house.

“Just a sprained ankle, he’s fine,” Phillip reassured a sobbing Robin Wing as she collapsed onto her husband. He turned to Red, who was sitting down, panting and coughing, wiping at his tear-streaked eyes with a wing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Red nodded. “You?”

“I’m good,” Phillip said, sitting down next to him. The sound of sirens filled the air as responding fire trucks and ambulances raced to the scene.

“Where’d the Scorcher go?” Red asked.

“I thought you were on him,” Phillip said.

“I thought you were,” Red replied.

Both stallions looked at each other, then growled. “Fuck,” they muttered in unison.