Life sucks when you're dead, but even a z-word has to make a living somehow. Mortimer Gaunt, aka the Dead Detective, has gotten very good at existing in the cracks of the city, taking jobs when he can, from whom he has to, and it's worked pretty well so far. But when you're a respirationaly-challenged legbreaker addicted to stolen emotions in a world where monsters lurk in every alley and gods sit in their penthouse apartments playing games with the lives of mortals out of sheer boredom, keeping your head down is not a long term solution. Someone's out to put Mortimer back in the grave, and they're not being subtle about it. People are dying. Innocent people. That pisses Mortimer Gaunt off. And when Mortimer Gaunt gets pissed off, bad things happen.
Life sucks when you're dead, but even a z-word has to make a living somehow. Mortimer Gaunt, aka the Dead Detective, has gotten very good at existing in the cracks of the city, taking jobs when he can, from whom he has to, and it's worked pretty well so far. But when you're a respirationaly-challenged legbreaker addicted to stolen emotions in a world where monsters lurk in every alley and gods sit in their penthouse apartments playing games with the lives of mortals out of sheer boredom, keeping your head down is not a long term solution. Someone's out to put Mortimer back in the grave, and they're not being subtle about it. People are dying. Innocent people. That pisses Mortimer Gaunt off. And when Mortimer Gaunt gets pissed off, bad things happen.