by K.N. Lee
Call for your men.
Every man of mine came to my call, some barely pulling their clothes on, others fully dressed and drunk, but they came. Once they had, he rose and stood over me, all of him so thin and yet his shadow was heavier than any I'd ever touched.
All who sailed under your colors. All who stood by and watched as you dishonored my seal. All will be cursed with you. None shall know my touch. None shall find their way into the halls of the dead. None shall know the joy of rebirth. That is my judgment. That is your curse. And you,
He touched me with one finger pressing it into my forehead.
You will no more know touch. Gone from you this prison of flesh. A ghost of a man you were, a ghost of a man you are.
We have been just as he cursed us to be all these years since."
Melina thudded the scythe three times, letting the sound echo back to her.
"So what is it you want?"
"We want a chance to perhaps make things right. We long for death. We long for the joy of rebirth, which is the due of all living creatures. We are no longer welcome among men. So let us offer you whatever aid you desire and in return, we ask that you speak with Death for us."
"And how are we to know you won't simply do the same thing to us that you did to Death's son and his gatekeeper? There really isn't any reason for you to be honest with us."
"There is no reason for them to be dishonest either though," Lester interrupted. "Besides, what have they to gain by being dishonest, another chance at being cursed worse? How are they to know that you aren't going to get them destroyed if they do something to you?"
"So you're saying take their offer?"
"We need to get across to the lighthouse. They can take us. They want a chance to square things with Death, this is the only chance they've probably got. I say give them a shot. Push comes to shove, we can always figure out something else if we're still alive."
"That's cheery."
"So is being stuck in a nasty ship's hold with a ghost and a bunch of zombies," Lester's smile was brittle. "I need some air."
"I do too," Melina admitted. "You've got a deal, but we want to go back up on deck."
"You may take the Captain's quarters if you wish. I have no more use for them."
"Thanks."
"First mate, prepare the crew to sail on the morning tide. We're heading for the lighthouse."
"Yes, sir."
The first mate escorted the pair back up the stairs to where Gergot was waiting. Rather than explain to those beneath him what had transpired below deck, he took a knife from his belt, still looking in better condition than himself and cut the bonds holding the gargoyle.
"Our apologies. The Captain says you lot may make yourself comfortable in his quarters and WE THE CREW," he addressed his fellows, "Are to prepare to sail on the morning tide. When that sun comes up over the horizon and the wind changes to race down the cliff, we're to be making way."
The collective boot stomping of the crew was enough to make Melina very, very glad for the general quiet of the Captain's cabin.
It had once been something to look at maybe, a great round table strewn with rotting maps, and a bed tacked to the floor hung with sheets meant, undoubtedly, to offer some kind of privacy. Lester walked over to the table and ran his finger along one of the maps.
"Do you think these are still any good?"
"In the wilds, one can never be certain. Magic has a way of rearranging things when it so desires," the gargoyle said from the doorway. Even here, he was too large to actually fit through the door. Instead, he laid down there with his head in the door. The door itself sat heavily against the wall.
"So what do you think of the Captain's story?"
"What story?"
The pair gave the gargoyle the short version of what they had been told below deck. He listened attentively, every so often flicking his ears.
"It fits with the history I know," he said finally. "About seven hundred years ago, Death's son departed from the City of the Dead and disappeared. It took him fifty years to get back and even then, he was ill. Some wondered if he would survive. Disease, who was then having a bit of a row with Death, took the opportunity of Death being occupied with his son, to spread one of the great plagues. It cost almost a full third of the human population before Life stepped in and brought peace between those two."
"Why would Death and Disease be fighting amongst themselves?"
"I don't know. I'm sure the Melesan probably does, she keeps the histories, but all I know is that they spent almost a thousand years not talking to each other for some reason. It happens. Love and War have caused the downfall of empires by not speaking to each other for centuries. They are one great family of siblings, everyone has their own reasons for everything, they meddle in each other's affairs, bother their families. Minor slights turn into feuds."
"All of the Immortals have families?"
"The Melesan doesn't. Time doesn't. Death has a son. Conflict has a son and a daughter. Love has dozens. Disease at one time had two children, but I think they've passed on now. Chance has never admitted to having any but that doesn't mean anything, Chance would lie about the color of the sky and the sun if it would amuse her and Life is Life, she would say everyone is her children."
The gargoyle shrugged.
"Truthfully, Immortal children born into the mortal world generally don't survive. Man is not fond of things they do not understand and powers beyond their control. They tend to kill half-Immortals as soon as possible. Assuming the mortal parent doesn't drown the child in the nearest midden. Why the interest?"
"I don't know," Melina sat down in a chair which groaned as if it would collapse under her slight weight. "Death never said anything about having a family. I mean, it's just weird, I guess."
"Keep in mind that Death's son is over 700 years old. He's a grown adult in his own right and last I remember, he was the Warden of the City of the Dead, he's got a life of his own."
"You said Love has dozens of kids?" Lester asked.
"Yes."
"Can any of them bear the ring?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I would assume they would want to keep the ring in the family, right? So wouldn't that mean anyone could have taken on the ring?"
"I don't know that it works that way, Lester. If that were true, Melina couldn't wear Death's ring. It would have to go to some member of his family and he only has one son."
"Right."
"Does it really matter how the rings get portioned out?"
The moon moved out of sight, plunging the room into darkness.
"After all, we've got them and that's all that matters. That and surviving."
13
Phoebe’s Lament
A peppermint house. Three stories in total. Built in the Gingerbread style. Why he knew that, he didn't care. It was a style of architecture. The house was more important than whatever style it had been in built in. Grimm watched it from across the street, sunglasses over his eyes, hands shoved into the pocket of his coat. He'd been watching the place for the better part of an hour as if it would get up from its place, tearing up the foundation as it did, and come stomping toward him with every intention of smashing him flat. The hands in his pockets were fists. His gaze drifted down from the house itself, across the lawn which had at some point stopped being taken care of, and to the brick and iron fence which stood up against the sidewalk.
Pocked red brick and black painted iron.
Unconsciously, he spread his hands, feeling that brick under his hands and the power coursing over it. If he put his hands against them, they would be warm, not sunshine warm, but warm from the inside as if each one hid a tiny fire inside. The black fence would be much the same, warmer than it had any right to be, to keep out those who had no business being there.
Why was there was a ward on a house in the garden district?
How did he know this was the Garden District?
"Excuse me," a voice sounded at his elbow. T
here was a woman standing there, her own sunglasses over her eyes. Grimm was suddenly thankful for his own because she wore a sunbeam yellow jogging suit loud enough to give him a headache. At her ankles was a small fuzzy creature wearing a sweater in the same shade. "Is there something I can do for you? Perhaps considering buying the place?"
Grimm let himself smile, that same disarming smile which had gotten him into and out of trouble with women since his early teenage years. Her expression softened in response and she shifted her weight carefully toward him.
"I wasn't aware it was up on the market."
The panic under his skin grew only slightly. There was supposed to be someone living there. She was supposed to be there. Someone important. Just like the library. There was something there he couldn't quite make sense of. Yet he kept that fear out of his eyes. Instead, he asked.
"What happened to the last person to live there?"
"No one really knows. About six or seven months ago, there was a housekeeper who came out every so often, but no one really knew anything about the woman who lived there. Then one day, she was gone and the housekeeper stopped coming. A realtor showed up about five weeks ago and put that 'For Sale' sign in the window."
She indicated a large 'For Sale' sign in the downstairs window visible from the street. For all the time he spent staring, Grimm hadn't seen that sign. As if his brain really just didn't care to notice it.
"Just one day disappeared?"
"Yes, it was the strangest thing. I mean, the house had been occupied for years. That housekeeper had been around forever. Then, just one day, no warning at all. Gone. It was just so weird."
The dog tugged her off balance and she snapped,
"Sophie, behave."
In response, it whined, looking up at her with eyes too big for normal.
Grimm just continued to smile, though the eyes behind the sunglasses were getting fearful.
There had been someone there. Now there wasn't. They had to be the ones he remembered. But where had they gone?
"You're sure you don't know anything else? Either about the woman who used to live there or the housekeeper or where they went to?"
"No, there's really nothing to know. I suppose you could call the realtor, their number is on the bottom of the sign."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it."
The smile refused to fade even as he turned and put the woman to his back.
"Excuse me," her tone was softer this time, though it became more insistent when he didn't turn to look at her. "Excuse me."
"Yes," he finally replied, his hands in his pockets becoming balls hard enough to feel his nails bite into his skin.
"I was wondering if you might want to get some coffee or something. I mean, you look like you could use it."
"I really don't think that would be a good idea," he admitted. "Besides, if I'm going to talk to someone about that house, I should probably do it fairly soon, right?"
"Grimm?"
A new voice got his attention.
"Do I know you?"
The choice to return to the beginning had been a hard one. With Melina and Gergot gone, the house, despite being nearly full, was empty. So she called a cab and asked him to bring her to the address in the Garden District. She had put the house up for sale months ago, hoping perhaps someone would take it off her hands. It had been in the family for years, but she couldn't bear to think of it anymore.
It had fifteen rooms, every one of them a prison. The kitchen where she had eaten for years was nothing more than a reminder of the entire life she had lost. Now her daughter was gone. The man she had loved was gone. It was all gone. As if it had never been.
In her pocket was a key to the property. She could go in if she wanted. Walking the street, she had found her thoughts so confused at first she thought she heard him. Then she had heard him. He was there. Her heart leapt so hard she clutched at it through her shirt. Then she called his name.
"Grimm?"
"Do I know you?" The man who answered was someone she recognized, the voice was known, but he didn't respond the way she prayed he would.
"Yes, you know me. It's Phoebe." Flailing, she grabbed his arm. "You have to remember me."
"I don't think I do." He pulled back, untangling himself from her touch, even as a part of his brain screamed he did know that voice. He knew how her mouth tasted. He knew her in ways only lovers did. "I really don't think I do."
"You have to remember."
The woman with the dog gently led the creature away, keeping her head down. She didn't want anything to do with the scene now growing on the side of the street in front of a vacant house. Grimm stood looking at the small woman before him. Her eyes were pretty.
"I don't remember. I haven't remembered anything in ages."
His attention was dragged away again by a man running toward them screaming,
"RUN!"
The man hit them both at full speed, grabbing them both and starting to drag them in the direction he was going. PhoebePhoebe felt his touch go up her arm like a lightning bolt through her skin. As she planted her feet to fight against his drag, her vision cleared with a thunderclap. The sky was dazzling and her head throbbed with it. She rubbed her eyes, losing her legs as she did and dropping to the ground. Grimm was still running, pausing as if he would go back for her. The man who had grabbed them both did stop and turn back. Beyond the pair was a woman walking, juggling fireballs as she moved.
Phoebe turned toward the woman as the heat neared and blinked.
"What?"
"Get away from her," the running man called.
Phoebe looked at him with confusion and stood up before dusting herself off. The woman with the fireballs kept coming.
"I refuse to run from a parlor magician."
It was intoxicating to feel it again. It had been years since she had been able to feel her heritage at the level of her blood. Now PhoebePhoebe felt it again, the world was brighter, but not just because her eyes were no longer clouded, but because the world beneath the world, the magic of existence was once more there for her. It was more than just regaining her vision, it was as if her entire world had changed in the instance since he touched her.
"Get out of my way," Cassandra commanded.
"No, I will not stand aside for you." The fireball which streaked across the world at her was a comet and PhoebePhoebe put her hand out for it like one would a tame bird. It came to her and settled over her palm. "Actus Fire," and she closed her fingers over it. The fireball went out. "Shall you try again or do you think you might wish to reconsider?"
Her sisters had feared PhoebePhoebe's magic because she was the firstborn, the heir to the true power of an entire coven, and keeper of the hereditary magic they could never hope to aspire to. That power had been locked away, now it coursed through her as lightning in her veins and under her skin. Storm colored eyes sparked with it.
"Damn you."
"That's not the answer I wanted," PhoebePhoebe replied mildly. With a whisper, she brought her own fire, bright blue flames leaping up from her palms, and sent them swirling at Cassandra. The fire didn't touch her however instead it drew rings around her. "Go or I will give you reason to fear me."
Cassandra fled.
PhoebePhoebe turned to the man who had grabbed her and offered him her hand.
"I hope that wasn't a friend of yours."
"No, no friend of mine. A bit of a nuisance if you would believe," he said. "Might I avail on the lady for shelter, at least until I get some better idea of what to do with this," he showed her the ring on his left hand. "I seem to have a bit of a problem."
Phoebe looked around for Grimm but he had taken leave of the entire situation. Her heart sank again. He had been there within reach of her voice, her touch. But he didn't remember her. Now what was she to do?
"Of course."
She started back the way she had come. They were going to need a cab.
Conner Volun had been a simple man with no further aspi
rations than to live quietly and die with as little fuss as possible at a fairly ripe old age. The sudden arrival of a white-silver ring inscribed with a fountain had done the best it could to change his aspirations.
He had been standing outside of his small townhouse with a glass of wine when a star fell from the sky. The little ball of white light had done the impossible; it landed in the fountain on his property with little more than a plop. Generally celestial objects made more fuss when they appeared in someone's life. Or at least so he had believed. Now he wasn't so sure. He had put his wine glass down on the edge of the fountain and reached into the chill water to take ahold of the ring. Turning it over in his hands, he finally decided, against the more cautious portion of his mind, to put it on. It fit as though made for him. Something he wasn't certain why he expected.
The sky had not seen fit to drop any further stars on him, so he had gone into his town house, forgetting the wine glass along the way (he would get it the next morning while on his way to his imminently sensible job) and went to bed. The next day was a day rather like any other, with only one strange incident to speak of: the incident of the window box.
His secretary, Edith, a sweet woman who had the green thumb of pestilence kept a window box in the window near his office and she tended it faithfully though she only seemed capable of creating small landscapes of tortured brown plants. His addition to her endeavor was to buy her plants and stay out of the way when it came time to clean out the most recent casualties. It was just one such day, he noted on his way into his business office. Edith had not yet arrived as she tended to be there just in time for his first meeting of the morning and was more than happy to let him get his own coffee prior to that. So he stopped by the small receptacle of growth aspirations and ran his hand over the poor brown stalks which had been the most recent attempts at a garden.
Then, thinking nothing more of it, he walked into his office, put his briefcase up on the desktop and began to root through it for a single piece of paperwork he would undoubtedly need before the day was up: the numbers his boss would want regarding the last sales pitch.