So here’s a thing I’ve been thinking about (probably too much): modern urban fantasy detectives are basically chain-smoking, spell-slinging love children of classic noir gumshoes. Like, if Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe woke up in a world full of vampires, magical artifacts, and ghosts with unfinished business, you’d get about 80% of today’s gritty, snarky paranormal investigators.
Seriously—if you love stuff like The Dresden Files, Rivers of London, or even Netflix’s weird little gem The Order(RIP), you owe a big, grimy hug to noir.
Let’s go back a sec. Classic noir detectives—think Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon) or Mike Hammer—were loners. Cynical. Had questionable hygiene but, like, were somehow still magnetic. They lurked in alleys, drank too much, trusted no one, and almost always got emotionally wrecked by a femme fatale with legs for days and secrets for centuries.
Sound familiar?
Now imagine swapping out the fedora for a charm-laced trench coat, the revolver for a runed dagger, and the cigarette for… okay fine, they probably still smoke. Just maybe cloves or enchanted ones now. And boom: you’ve got Harry Dresden (The Dresden Files, Jim Butcher’s long-running series). He’s basically a noir detective wrapped in wizard drag—he works cases, gets beat up a lot, deals with shady clients, and has that whole “I’m tired but I care too much” thing going on. Also, his office literally has “Wizard” painted on the door. No subtlety, just vibes.
Another one? Peter Grant in Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London series. He starts off as a regular beat cop who accidentally sees a ghost and gets roped into a hidden magical underworld. There’s bureaucracy, ancient gods squatting in public housing, and a talking river goddess who could probably punch your soul out of your body. Peter’s dry humor and methodical cop brain are pure noir, but now it’s layered with arcane rituals and angry fae creatures.
You know what I love about this noir-meets-magic cocktail? It’s messy. Noir has always thrived in moral gray areas, and urban fantasy just throws glitter on those grays. Like, your local necromancer might be shady, but if he’s the only one who can stop a soul bomb from going off in the subway, guess what? You’re working with him. Begrudgingly. Probably while insulting each other the whole time.
Let’s not ignore the visuals, either. Classic noir is all rain-slick streets and flickering neon signs. Urban fantasy kept that aesthetic but added gargoyle sentries, haunted jazz clubs, and the occasional demon-possession incident in a 24-hour diner. It’s like someone took Double Indemnity and decided it needed more tentacles. I am not mad about this.
Also! Fun fact: the word “noir” literally means black in French. So noir fiction? Black fiction. As in dark, shadowy, morally twisted. Not just about literal lighting (though I do love a good backlit silhouette and a dramatic cloud of cigarette smoke). Source: Merriam-Webster, because I’m nerdy like that.
Anyway, back to feelings. One of the reasons I love this noir-to-now lineage is because it gives us detectives who don’t always win—but they try anyway. They’re the kind of characters who’ll go toe-to-toe with a cursed mobster or a succubus assassin even when they’re bleeding out and down to their last sarcastic quip. They’re compelled to do the right thing, even when it’s probably the stupidest option on the table. I vibe with that.
So yeah. Next time you’re watching some brooding private eye cast a spell while bleeding into his trench coat and muttering about justice, just know—he’s channeling the ghosts of noir legends past. And probably getting ghost-mugged in a magically seedy alleyway for his trouble.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reread Storm Front and pretend I don’t want to name my future cat “Mab.”
Stay strange and solve things.