Feral Night, page 6
They glanced at Lukie. What did the elf think of blended people like her? Their expression remained inscrutable.
Tamlyn pursed his lips. “Alright. How’s Lukie going to get there? If Sienna sees Lukie again, she’ll panic.”
“Meven? Please, when ready—” The Steward gestured at the other revenant.
“Yes.” The death knight leaned against the wall.
“Excellent.” The Steward slipped the wand into an inside pocket of their robe. “I’ll let you know when it’s time. You’re in the lead. Mrs. Carpenter trusts you.”
Tamlyn gave Lukie a quick, guarded expression and left the room, followed by the tall elf in their flowing robes.
“Do those magic items work?” Lukie eyed the desk drawer again.
“Mostly.” Meven smirked. “Although, I’ve seen another occultist set themselves on fire trying to attune to an ancient crystal. The older the relic, the more unstable it is.”
“Is it safe to leave all that stuff in this room?”
“It’s warded.” Meven twitched his hands together. “No hominin or revenant can open it.”
“Something bothering you?”
“You don’t have all your cache objects, do you?” Meven studied the desk. “There’s always that sense of absence when missing an artifact.”
“I see. The Steward has one of your items. And you need their permission to feed, like I do.” Lukie touched the cassette in her jeans pocket and wished again she possessed her photograph. “Do they treat you okay?”
“Oh yes. I’m very capable. They wouldn’t want to mess around with their biggest asset. I’m better than anything in that junk drawer. How are you treated?”
“Tam? He’s great. We were at school together. We’re friends.”
“A person who enslaves you is not your friend.” Meven shook his head.
“It’s not like that!” Lukie protested. “When I first returned, I went berserk and nearly killed someone.”
“But you’re in control now,” Meven said. “Why not return your item?”
Being circumspect, Lukie explained how a nameless preserver had taken her cache artifact and had transferred Lukie’s feeding commands to Tamlyn.
“I never heard of a binding working that way.” Meven blew out his cheeks with a snort. “It requires the controller to have one of your objects. You sure he’s not lying to you? Concocting a story to avoid blame?”
“Tamlyn wouldn’t lie,” Lukie protested.
Meven sighed. “Magic needs a source. If not a vestige, a relic. You won’t go far in the Indigo World if you trust everyone you meet.”
“How does your patron feel about you being bound?” Lukie changed the subject to something else she was interested in. Tamlyn wouldn’t deceive her.
“As long as we give them what they want, we can keep them off our back. I’m fortunate my current employment allows me that flexibility.” Meven paced. “Remember, your handler is not your friend. And be careful around your patron—you’re only a tool to accomplish what they can’t in the living lands. There’s a lot of stuff to juggle in our situations, but if we play our cards right, there’s freedom to be had in the margins.”
Lukie bit her lip. Her relationship with the Dark Detective had been rocky, but things were good between them now. Perhaps Meven wasn’t as fortunate with his patron as she was with hers.
“I recommend—Wait, we’re on.” Meven raised his arms in the air and a gauzy fog enshrouded Lukie’s vision, rendering the outside world in black and white.
“What is this?”
“The Cloak of Shadows,” Meven said. “One of my powers. It’ll conceal us if you don’t bump into others or try to get their attention.”
“Do all our abilities have names?” Lukie thought of her magic as something she did rather than anything specific.
“It’s helpful to articulate them,” Meven said. “Power is like poetry. A gift to be teased and explored through words and meaning.” He opened the door to the chaplain’s room and strode through the hospital corridors.
Nurses in scrubs walked by, oblivious. A tired man in a rumpled shirt scowled at a vending machine, shaking it and ignoring the two revenants.
Hiding from others in plain sight was a cool power, more practical than her ability to read the memories of a location or driving stranded souls to the Lanes of the Dead. I need to think of amazing names for those. Hmmm.
Meven entered a large hospital ward, where drawn curtains separated the sections from each other. Lukie glimpsed unconscious individuals, buried beneath wires, machines, and feeding tubes; some of them alone, others with anxious people by their side, holding their hands and whispering stories. Meven stopped in front of a curtained canopy and slipped inside.
Lukie followed. Within, the Steward waited next to a hospital bed where an old man with a wrinkled, sunken face rested, wrapped in white sheets. A drip fed into one arm, and monitors and wires connected to different machines.
Dad and yet not Dad.
Catatonic.
Lukie stepped forward, wanting to hug him, but the priest gripped her shoulder. “See if you can sense his soul.”
Lukie twitched her fingers with impatience. I already know. But these people were trying to help and might have additional information. She clasped her father’s hand. No soul music. His mortal shell was empty of life and identity. “Dad? It’s me. I’m sorry I scared you and let that thing take you. I didn’t intend for anything bad to happen.”
And yet I hurt Karra and everyone else in our band. I didn’t mean to be a spoiled bitch princess and ruin their lives, but I did…
She swallowed, her throat dry. Crap. So many things to say. “I don’t know what to tell you, only I miss you. And I want us to live together again. There must be a way. If I can come back from the dead, anything’s possible. We’ll make it work, pick up where we left off.”
The Steward tapped her with their crystalline wand. An uncomfortable sensation, like reflux from eating too many fries at once, burned her throat.
“What was that?” Lukie asked.
“I’m checking for resonance. It might have felt awkward. The magic I use is incompatible with yours.”
Shouldn’t they have told me that before they poked me? She recalled the painful jab when the New Girl had prodded her with the antler.
“Can I see the urn?” the Steward asked.
Lukie proffered forth the clay vessel, reluctantly releasing Dad’s hand. The Steward tapped the urn with their wand. “Hmm. Meven, confirm that Zeran’s soul is absent.”
The death knight emerged from the shadows in the corner and touched Dad’s arm. “Nothing here.”
“I told you that!” Lukie said. Every second they waited was a moment longer Dad spent trapped in Tenebra. Why did I come here? I could have kept grilling Anneth until her memories returned.
“Although his body is full of spectral energy,” Meven added, tapping the old man’s flesh with his fingers. “Want me to drain it?”
“Yes,” the Steward said. They saw Lukie’s curious gaze. “Mortal flesh sickens if it holds too much extradimensional energy for too long. As a revenant, you can drain it easily and should do when necessary.” They cleared their throat. “And now that we have more information, I can give you better counsel.” The Steward tucked their wand away in their voluminous clothing. “Let us return to my room for a further discussion.”
Back in the office, Lukie waved the urn at the group. “Dad’s in that place where Anneth comes from. She has to take me there.”
“Only if she remembers,” Meven said.
“Yeah. But she didn’t feel lessened or soul chewed. How could she forget everything?” Lukie wondered. “Souls, memories, and identity are part of the same thing.” That was how Cage had explained it.
“It could be a unique property of their domain,” the Steward mused. “Or it could have to do with the shock of being torn away from Tenebra.”
“How does this work?” Tamlyn interrupted. “What’s in a ghost realm? How do they exist within Tenebra?”
Lukie wanted to bang her head against the wall. Why was everyone so slow? Dad’s soul was there, and they needed to figure out how to restore Anneth’s memories…
“Tenebra is the Underworld.” The Steward sat at their desk. “It’s not the natural afterlife of the world. It’s a tar pit, trapping souls weighted with too many regrets and baggage. There, a soul is as vulnerable as a mortal—it can be attacked, or worse, cease to exist. The only safe places within are the dominions of the ghost lords.”
Tam knows all this! I told him! Why is he asking this all over again? Lukie tapped her foot impatiently.
Tamlyn flashed her a look and a quick nod. What was he getting at? “Lukie didn’t see Zeran when she tried to enter the realm.”
The Steward shrugged. “Who can say what the true reality of a ghost realm is like? It is comprised of its ruler’s memories and warped desires. And yet it remains a safe place for souls away from the endless void of Tenebra. We must hope that Zeran is simply a prisoner and can soon be restored to his flesh.”
Lukie tapped her feet again. Come on. This time, Tamlyn ignored her and remained focused on his questions. “The dog monsters came from that realm. What are they, exactly?”
The Steward shook their head. “Tenebra is full of strange creatures. I believe the gravebeasts were once mortals, warped by the whims of a ghost lord. They can leave Tenebra for brief periods and take on physical form.”
“What if Dad gets turned into one?” Lukie gasped. “We have to get moving.”
“Let’s research this carefully before we run off unprepared,” Tamlyn said.
“And what if the gravebeast comes for Anneth again?”
“Avoid places of spectral resonance—graveyards and so forth—and it shouldn’t be able to detect you. The motel you’re staying at should be safe for the evening,” the Steward explained.
Tamlyn pressed his fingers together. “Tell me about the ghost realm Lukie described. You recognized that place.”
Good catch, Tam. I missed that.
“I need more information.” The Steward put their wand away.
“The more we know now, the more informed we’ll be,” Tamlyn pressured.
The elf’s posture slumped, and they slammed the drawer shut with a sharp click. “It is the ghost realm of Stonerise. It’s haunted this area for centuries, and we are at the year’s end, when the barriers between the living and dead lands are weakest.” The Steward rose to their feet and poured themselves a glass of water from a nearby jug. “Two hundred years ago, the Joyguard family pressed the childless Duke of Stonerise to select an heir. An event he’d long delayed.”
“I thought the peerage had all these detailed rules about who would inherit,” Tamlyn interrupted. “Not that I know much about it—our local ruling family surrendered their title during the People’s Revolution.”
“There’s always been an element of competition with the Stormfielder nobility,” the elf frowned, disapproving. “Where the incumbent has an ancient right to pick the fittest heir to succeed them, rather than the nearest blood relative. An old tradition from your peoples’ heritage as the descendants of the Dark Emperor’s servants and soldiers.”
Lukie folded her arms. She’d grown up educated in the Circle of the Light, which had firmly placed her people on the side of the good guys. Before she could object to being lumped in with a group of spike-armored thugs, Tamlyn interjected. “The duke. What happened?”
“In the old tradition, he called upon the right to name his successor,” the Steward continued. “His relatives put forward their candidates, and all attended the New Year’s Eve party to hear his announcement. Now, the duke resided in a castle, where he preferred to live in medieval splendor rather than a manor house more typical of the period’s gentry. All his clan gathered there. For this event, he spared no expense. The finest wines were sourced, meats prepared, and entertainers summoned. The castle itself was so decorated with bunting and flags that the working people in the village spoke of nothing else. And yet of all who visited Stonerise Keep that night, none of them left alive.”
The Steward sipped water and stared grimly at the mad scrawl of papers and notes stuck to their wall. Lukie wished she could read the elvish scribble. Silence dragged on. “What happened?” Lukie prodded.
“No one knows.” The Steward shrugged. “Returning servants and relatives who hadn’t been at the party arrived the next day. And they found a massacre. The king sent a Royal Inquisitor to investigate, Count-Palatine Wulgar Goldspear. He reported the guests had killed each other over a disagreement with whom the duke had named heir. A clock had been smashed at the stroke of midnight, so that’s when the slaughter was said to have happened. Given how superstitious society was, Wulgar ordered an elaborate tomb built for the deceased, and the castle leveled. Finally, the name of the district was changed to Stonefell, to sever the area’s connection with the past. Yet I’ve seen Wulgar’s secret notes where he wrote the people were torn apart by fangs and claws rather than swords and spears. ‘A fury of wolves and lions.’”
“Gravebeasts.” Lukie’s stomach clenched.
“Yes. Whatever happened that night,” the Steward went on, “those macabre events birthed a ghost realm, full of gravebeasts. And every so often, they leave Stonerise in spectral form and reave souls for their master. Worse, the hunting spirits possess the bodies of their victims, turning the most civilized of individuals into rampaging brutes.” Their left eyebrow twitched. “These outbreaks are called the Phantasmal Hunt. It’s puzzled doctors in the Gold World for years.” The elf pulled several books briefly from the bookcase. Lukie glimpsed titles such as Feldspar’s Syndrome and a lurid-covered book called The Snarling Curse: The Disease that Turns Men into Feral Beasts!
“How many people does this affect?” Tamlyn gazed at the covers.
“It varies. A handful, dozens. The worst incident was one hundred years ago. An entire community fell.” The Steward stared at the ground, their long hair mantling their face.
“I can’t believe that a two-hundred-year-old grudge is still threatening people.” Tamlyn shook his head.
“What will happen to Dad in that place?” Lukie walked close to the Steward. Please don’t let him get turned into a gravebeast. He needs to stay safe!
The Steward spread their hands wide. “I do not know. I wish we had answers. You must hasten to save Zeran. Without his soul, his body will sicken and die in the space of a few weeks.”
That lined up with what Nathel had said: after the Baron reaved his victims’ souls and trapped them in his Tenebran realm, their bodies died in the living lands, never to wake again.
“What are our next steps?” Tamlyn asked after the priest remained quiet for a few moments.
“Anneth is the only link we have so far.” The Steward pointed at the urn. “Please—discover her name and memories and we’ll have more information about how to proceed. Meven, you assist. Research only, of course. Nothing that may antagonize the fragile barriers between the living and dead worlds.”
The death knight gestured at Lukie. “Come with—”
“We’ll return to the motel first,” Tamlyn interrupted. “Let’s exchange phone numbers.”
A few moments later, Lukie had Meven and the Steward’s details.
“I’ll be in touch in the morning.” The Steward plucked a brown leaf from a pot. “I will perform extra divinations that may assist.”
“With the Mystic Dodecahedron?” Meven joked.
“No, Meven.” The Steward glared at their desk.
Tamlyn tapped Lukie on the shoulder and moved to the door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 9
The Sea Traders of Adhova
Lukie stomped after Tamlyn. Why did he want to go back to the motel when Dad needed her? Why had he asked all those plodding questions when it was clear what the answer was? She and Meven should be investigating right now, uncovering who Anneth was, so they could return to the ghost realm and save Dad.
By what authority did Tamlyn control her? Decide whether she fed or starved to death?
Before, she hadn’t been able to articulate their dependent relationship. Meven had. He’d called it slavery. He was bound to the Steward, the way she was to Tamlyn. Admittedly, Cage had trapped them together like this, but their thread of friendship was fraying.
The sense that Tamlyn wasn’t the same person she’d known all her life in Breakwater Bay deepened. Someone had replaced her friend with an imposter.
As she cut through the hospital reception, the old woman in the neck brace hissed at her: “Mule!”
Lukie stopped in front of the woman, eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses. She should have remembered to pull her hoodie up, but then again, she wasn’t used to hiding herself: she’d cut her hair short for a reason. She balled her hands into fists. “Don’t call me that,” she rasped, slipping into her harsh undead tone.
“The kings of yore forbade what your parents did!” the old woman ranted. “People like them weakened the Royal Empire! Demons will whip them in the Netherworld for all eternity.”
No one insulted Dad or Mama. Except shaking the woman with her unnatural might wasn’t an option. Words, which usually came easily to her, stilled on her tongue. What did she do?
Everyone else sitting in the waiting room pretended she wasn’t there. They fiddled with their phones, stared at the sport on television, or read magazines. The woman’s pot-bellied son gaped like a landed fish.
Tamlyn returned, surveying the scene. “Lady, that’s not called for. Apologize at once.”
“Go on, Mother.” The large man gripped his mother’s arm. “She can’t help it.”
Lukie folded her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I’m sorry for you.” A malicious gleam sparked in the gray-haired woman’s eye.
Stupid cow.
“Come on.” Tamlyn poked her on the shoulder and strode to the parking lot outside.
Heel, Lukie. Good girl, Lukie.
