Feral Night, page 12
Wait. This was the ghost realm of Stonerise? The place reminded her of the back of a shopping mall on a busy day. Where were the gravebeasts, including the muzzled one that had lunged past her? The crimson heavens above, and the castle carved from the deepest darkness?
A dim red tinge colored early evening sky—not the sanguine nightmare she’d viewed in visions.
Lukie tried to sense Tenebra—and couldn’t. She patted her pockets for her cache objects, only to find that she was dressed in a flowing, crimson dress like Anneth’s. No sign of her cassette or car keys. She touched her face—had she somehow crossed over as Anneth? A quick glance at a nearby puddle reassured her. Still in her body, only wearing the scarlet gown of a songbird. Why? Because they’d made a contract? And how can I use my powers without my artefacts? Or without being undead?
She hugged herself, panicking, throat dry. Alive again. Did this mean she could eat? Experience desire? No, I’m going to focus, not have fun. Save Dad. That’s what this is all about. She breathed in, counting to three and thinking. She was trapped here as an ordinary mortal, with these other souls. The Baron had done something similar—ensnaring his victims in an eternal party. Those that had enough soul stuff left had been aware of their imprisonment, yet powerless to defy the Baron’s wishes. Why had she crossed over as a mortal? Was it part of the ghost lord’s game? She looked about, expecting to see guards coming to arrest her. Instead, servants carried platters, guests entered the castle and coachmen led their horses toward the stables.
Now what? Hiking her dress—and wishing that the nineteenth century had been into trousers for women—she scanned the courtyard, trying to find someone she knew in the seething chaos of people and poop. No sign of Dad, damn it. She hoped to all the Seven Saints of the Hawkbow that he was safe. And where was Meven? He’d crossed over at the same time. Oh yes, and the muzzled gravebeast! Where had that ended up?
A dwarrow coachman with an overly waxed beard wolf-whistled at her as she strode past.
She gestured rudely at him and stalked off, earning another chorus of jeers.
So much for not standing out. She was dressed as Anneth—crap. Did they all think she was a courtesan? She gritted her teeth.
She ducked over to the kitchen side of the courtyard, where people labored over spit roasts and chopped vegetables. Most of the cooks and laborers were women. A man in ornate blue livery and a wig yelled at them. “We need more meat! Our guests are hungry, the delays are inexcusable!”
A girl, a blend of human and ogre, collected a heavy dish full of roasted beef cuts. While she had an ogre’s thick brow ridges, she lacked the stature of one. And as she walked from the kitchen, she stumbled and struggled to rebalance the platter in her hands.
The man in the wig ran to her. “You bumbling fool! Drop that, and you’ll be whipped for a month.”
“It’s heavy, sir—”
“You’ve got ogre blood, Piggins. Put it to use!”
“Sir!”
Piggins recovered her balance and headed toward the castle under her hefty load.
Lukie clenched her fists and considered punching the supervisor. Oh yeah, she was ‘alive’ in this place. No supernatural strength.
Had these people been stuck in an endless loop for two hundred years? That would suck for all the workers. She imagined being on a Cubermarket shift that never ended and shuddered.
She finished her rough circuit of the bailey, finding no one she knew. She drifted toward the castle entrance, where the bunting and poles marked an outdoor gathering place for the nobles.
A sizable platform, like an executioner’s stand, dominated the left side of the area. It supported a heavy bronze gong that reflected the last sunlight like a fading bloodstain. A servant in blue livery and a powdered wig held out a padded stick and thumped the first stroke.
Bong, bong, bong… Seven times the instrument rang. Six o’clock.
Thirteen chimes would ring at twelve a.m. and the new year would be born.
A small group cheered and clapped as the sounds tolled through the courtyard.
Two nobles stepped away from the gathering, catching Lukie’s attention, reminding her of a couple arguing in a restaurant. A yellow-gowned woman in a half-cat mask towed her male companion aside. “Alben, stop complaining.” Her emerald eyes glittered with predatory anger. “For once.”
“This place is primitive, Ruby.” The man’s voice was loud; he didn’t care who overheard him. He wore an orange jacket, white silken shirt, and lemon ascot. “Beasts on one side, kitchen on the other.” His irises shimmered an intense, crystalline shade of blue. “The duke doesn’t even have the decency to locate his kitchens and workshops at the back.”
“It’s a medieval castle, dearest Alben,” the woman retorted. “Not your father’s manor house. Everything must fit into the bailey. It was good enough for my ancestors.” Her molten copper locks glinted in the fading sunlight.
Those traits—metallic hair, and crystalline irises—were a sign of the Stormfields’ ancestral nobility, the Eltharim. Even in the modern day, with its peerage reduced because of political upheavals and strife, the Eltharim dominated the upper classes of society, attending the poshest schools and becoming influential politicians, lawyers, and bankers.
“And speaking of beasts, put your mask on.” Ruby elbowed Alben in the stomach. “It’s not midnight yet.”
He slipped on a silver wolf mask. “When I’m the duke, I’ll move the household from this wretched place to somewhere more civilized.”
“If you inherit,” Ruby muttered. “There’s my cousin Baeren—”
“Baeren the Bear. Don’t make me laugh. He’s barely got enough wit to get out of bed.” Alben laughed and adjusted his sleeve. “Let’s head to the Great Hall. There are quite a few people to meet with tonight.”
Alben, and a reference to Baeren. The two rival heirs for the dukedom.
Lukie hiked her dress, moving forward to follow the couple into the castle while they were bantering—
“Oh, a songbird!” Alben called, beckoning Lukie.
Lukie stopped, plastering an inane grin on her face. Time to run—
“No,” Ruby snapped. “We’re spending the evening in conversation with our relatives. You’ve got Lerren and Lerrenia at home, for the Precursor’s sake!”
Ears burning, Lukie slipped away from the main entrance of the castle. Around the side was an open door, its small stature dwarfed by the immense stone walls about it. Servants in blue livery marched inside, carrying food and drink.
Piggins plodded in front, her vision obscured by the meat cuts covering her platter. As the blended ogre girl navigated the churned, muddy ground, she bumped into another servant.
“Oy, watch it, brute!” A boy, holding a tray of wine glasses, scowled. Dark hair flopped over his eyes. Beside him trudged a younger lad with a reddened face.
“Sorry, sir—” Piggins muttered.
The dark-haired one kicked the girl in the shin.
Piggins gasped, and the platter slipped from her hand.
Unable to help herself, Lukie rushed forward, steadying the dish. “Be nice,” she growled at the rude boy.
“I’ll not be told what to by some half-breed—” The dark-haired boy snapped, while the red-faced boy interrupted: “She works upstairs, you dolt! You’re not fit to lick her boots.”
“That’s right.” Lukie placed her hands on her hips. “You’re going to leave Piggins alone! Or you’ll be punished.”
The dark-haired boy swallowed, throat bobbing, and he and his companion moved quickly away.
“Are you okay?” Lukie asked Piggins.
The girl rebalanced her load. “Can I go now, miss?”
“Can you tell me who’s the lord?” Lukie asked.
“That’d be the duke, miss. And after tonight, the duke’s heir as well, miss. Excuse me.” Piggins trudged ahead, entering the castle through the side entrance.
Lukie ran after Piggins. “I’ve got another question,” she panted. “Do you remember any other place or time?”
“I don’t understand, miss.”
“Were you always from here?” Lukie rephrased, trying to see if Piggins knew she was in a play.
“I’m from Breachstone Village, miss. Please excuse me.” The blended ogre girl hurried into a cramped stone corridor that ran into the structure’s interior, joining a hectic congestion of servants.
Lukie frowned, annoyed at being treated as a schoolteacher. Still, that happened when you wielded external authority as a weapon. And Piggins lacked the awareness the other ghosts had displayed in the Baron’s lair.
An orchestra echoed in the distance. Curious, Lukie trailed after Piggins to the castle’s great hall. In old movies, these places were full of people seated at trestle tables, eating meat with their hands. Here, the expanse was dominated by a wooden dance floor formed of polished planks that fitted over the stonework. Dancers swirled in time with music played by a small ensemble: a pianoforte, a cello, and a violin quartet. The acoustics were terrible—they needed some amps in this place, a bit of electric guitar, and a synth to liven the set.
All the people dancing were Eltharim, wearing half-masks on their faces in the shapes of wolves, bears, cats, and hawks. Others stood on the edges, in groups, deep in conversation. Their gem-colored eyes and metallic hair colors glittered in the dim oil light. Their skin color varied from pale to brown, as the gentry often married into the aristocracy of other nations to increase the chances of their offspring inheriting Eltharim traits. They gathered like a flock of parrots in their bright jackets and gowns: peach, teal, crimson, plum, powder blue, and lime green. Another sign of society’s hypocrisy—humans could breed with other ethnicities, without social consequences. Everything was fine, unless different hominins mixed.
A servant strode in front of her, supporting a platter full of tiny cakes with white frosting and topped with red berries. The smell of the baked goods tantalized her. I wish I had pancakes now! Were they invented in 1803? Anyway, where is everyone? None of these people are Dad, Anneth, or even Meven.
The warm lights of the party drew her. She’d always loved big, colorful celebrations. And all of those fancy guests in the bright costumes—Karra would have enjoyed this.
She walked toward the gathering.
“What are you doing?” A woman with a gray wig and an owl mask approached her, holding a stick with a mounted pair of spectacles on top. Her silver hair glittered like strands of diamond.
“I was—”
The owl-masked lady glowered. “It is not appropriate for you to be here. Go upstairs until you’re called for.”
Lukie meekly nodded and continued along the hall until she found a narrow flight of stairs in the keep’s corner. Despite her determination to maintain a low profile, the woman’s rejection stung, and her hands clenched as she imagined throwing the owl-masked woman against the wall with her undead strength.
Chapter 17
The Redbird
Lukie squeezed through the tight spiral staircase and emerged onto an upper floor, lit with occasional lanterns.
From what the servants and that owl woman had said, Anneth must be close.
Where was Dad in all this? And did she really want to find Anneth, after forcibly returning the courtesan to this horrible reenactment? If she’s aware, I’ll explain everything. She’ll understand.
“Get out of my way!” An old man limped toward her, propelling himself forward with a silver-topped cane. His beige skin hung loose on his frame. Lukie pressed herself against the wall. A thick, bodily reek assaulted Lukie’s nostrils: pus and decay barely concealed under layers of cologne. Dark, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. Stains covered his plum frock coat. He studied her with glittering sapphire eyes and raised his club, crashing it down toward her.
Lukie ducked, raising her arms to defend herself. She shrieked as the blow cracked against her forearms. The old man shuffled on, chuckling to himself. She glared at him, wanting to drain him like the Baron.
No, I won’t be him! Lukie rocked herself, moaning. The sharp pain was unlike anything she’d experienced while undead. It’s so hard to adjust to being alive again. Even if it is some illusion! Why would the ghost lord make their realm this way? She’d become too acclimatized to her dulled senses. She checked her arms, finding them tender. Nothing broken, no skin torn, although the blow would leave horrible bruises. Who would randomly club a blended person they’ve just met? I hate that guy. The nineteenth century sucked.
Ahead, Anneth peered from a doorway further along the corridor. She resembled an expensive department store saleswoman, with thick make-up, braided hair, and glittering jewelry. “Come here,” she commanded. Lukie’s palms sweated as she approached the courtesan. She tensed, ready to bear Anneth’s accusations for dragging her back to this horrible place. Instead, Anneth gripped Lukie’s arm with steely fingers. “Only a light blow. The duke grows feeble in his dotage. Hmmph.” She pulled Lukie into her quarters. A lounge dominated one side, with pressed flowers and watercolor paintings lining the shelves behind it. A large, double-poster bed took the other half of the room, partially concealed by a crane-patterned, silken folding screen from Jadetower.
“That was the duke?” Lukie winced, slumping into a velvet-cushioned chair near the door. At least Anneth hadn’t remembered the horrible things Lukie had done to her.
“Who else would hurt a pretty little songbird?” Anneth scowled.
“Are you alright?” If the duke was the sort to attack a blended elf in a corridor, what had Anneth endured working here?
“I’m well used to it,” Anneth gave a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Let us have tea. Hide those arms—the duke does not care to see blemishes on his prizes. My make-up skills were honed concealing the bruises he made.” She bustled to where a teapot and cups rested on a small side table. “The servants bring hot water regularly. Some of my guests are elderly gentlemen, who prefer conversation to pursuits. They want the appearance of having been with me.”
“What’s your name?” Lukie asked.
If we’re here to find names, I can start with hers. And it’ll be easy if she tells me directly—
“Here, they call me the Redbird,” Anneth reflected. “A nickname from the duke.” She snorted. “A mockery of a true songbird—those in the City have their own mansions and are feted by clients whom they have the freedom to choose. Here, I have this little room and adhere to the duke’s every whim.” She poured the tea with expert precision and handed Lukie a cup. She grasped her own teacup and settled on the opposite chair.
“What’s your real name?” Lukie asked.
“Forgive me, child, but that is not an appropriate discussion for those who have just met,” Anneth explained. “Perhaps when we are better acquainted.”
So much for things being easy. And was not giving away your name an 1803 custom? Lukie scratched her head.
“Why are you here? Now, do not hold back. I sense there is something fey about you.” Steam curled from Anneth’s teacup.
“I don’t know what you’ll believe.” Lukie sipped her drink. A mild, floral flavor crowded her mouth. So good to taste things again.
Anneth laughed and stared at the fire. The flames danced in her piercing green eyes, like the wild stare of her ghost form. “I am a witch. I fancy I appear around eight and twenty, but I am far older—elven blood curses us with a longer life, even if those years are unwanted. My nurse trained me in herbs and the old ways. I can sense the lost magic of the world when it congeals in items, and I know there’s something odd about you.”
Does that mean she’s an occultist like the Steward? Lukie held her tongue, trying to figure out if Anneth really had forgotten their previous encounter, or was acting. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she had to rely on the charity of a woman she’d hurt. Still, Anneth was her only ally in this madness. How do I explain this to her?
Anneth leaned forward. “There is little you could say to me that I would not believe. I have known such strangeness and horrors.” Her fingers tightened around the gold inlay of her teacup handle. “Tell me.”
Lukie breathed in. Anneth’s demeanor was sharper and more confident now that she was no longer an amnesiac ghost. “I’m looking for my father. He’s here somewhere.”
“What is strange about that? Come, you are no ordinary visitor.”
Lukie studied the tea leaves in her cup: an unreadable blob. “You and I have met before. Away from here.”
“Go on,” Anneth steepled her hands together, leaning forward. A consummate listener.
“Well, uh, I went to visit my father. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. And then he, uh, vanished, and you appeared. You asked me for help. You remembered nothing—not even your name. I thought Dad would be in the place you’d come from. That’s why I’m here—to find him.” Lukie finished her vague summary, not wanting to cause Anneth to recollect her time in living lands and recall the injustices Lukie had committed against her.
“I could see why I would want to forget everything about my nature,” Anneth mused. “I know you are holding back. Do not fear me, child! Let me assist, and perhaps you can tell me more about this other world later. Magic is personal. It requires sympathies and connections, even if these are not always apparent. What would it connect your father to me? Is he like us?”
“No, a human.”
“One of the gentry?”
“No, he’s a car mechanic. He works in a garage. On the weekends, we go to the Surf Club to listen to the local bands…” Her voice choked, and she wiped her eyes.
Anneth handed her a red handkerchief. Lukie dabbed her face dry with the cloth, and placed it on the table like a used tissue.
“What is a car mechanic?” Anneth asked.
“He fixes things. Like carriages, I guess.”
“Ah, a wheelwright. Perhaps he is in the workshop. It’s tucked away near the stables. The duke keeps many tradesmen on staff for these events.” Anneth gestured and pointed to the window. “This foul keep always needs repairs.”
