Needle Rain

by Cari Silverwood

  The ghost shrieked. You can’t stop me! You can’t! You can’t! Stop! This last vicious word tore through her thoughts like a hurricane. If her mind was a room, she felt herself flattened to the wall, shaking, clinging there, and praying that she was beneath notice.

  There. The whisper of a voice. Better. There came the briefest of those ugly touches. Ah. So the watch-spider’s mostly for show. A rich person’s knick-knack.

  She shook herself off. Imagined counting from one to fifty, slowly. Stepped away from that imaginary wall. There had to be a way to regain control, but that had not been it.

  Are you going to hurt this person you seek?

  The answer was slow in coming.

  No. Course not.

  How did you tell if a ghost inside your head is lying? Without the telltale signs of the body – the blinks, the angle of the head, the look of the eyes, the mark of sweat on the brow – how could she tell? Yet she tried, and at last, decided he was being truthful.

  And after this, you’ll be gone?

  Yes.

  She could do that. Yes. Hold herself together for a few more minutes or hours then he’d be gone.

  And so, at each step of the way, she gifted him with her knowledge. That watch-spiders tended to be slow, though like all trinkettons they were individually made and thus each was unique in some way.

  She felt him smile with her face when she said that the glowing red eyes gave away the watch-spider’s positions. Gred made it to the outer wall of the house. The tick-tack sound of a watch-spider’s limbs came and went while he hugged the wall.

  If the security is in depth, she told him, there’ll be human guards inside as well as someone supervising the watch-spiders. The best way in will be straight up the wall.

  All the practice drills with Uncle’s Boys and Girls had never been meant for this. This thought twisted inside her, gnawing its dark message into her head. She ignored it as much as she could. Up the wall he went, reaching for handholds on ledges, guttering, and stone ornaments. Only when he stopped and interrupted the memories of her muscles did he falter.

  A window on the second story was open. A basic mistake. Whoever he aimed for, their security was slapdash and not meant to deter a serious intruder. Who could this be – to have committed such awful deeds in the past as to stir a ghost to a twenty-year wrath?

  The house may have been in darkness but the green tinge of Gred’s vision returned. The bedroom they entered was empty and so was the hallway outside. Gred sidled from room to room then up the stairs to the third story, taking care to rest his feet on the outer, more stable, edge of each step. Laughter echoed up the stairwell from what must have been a guard room. At the top of the stairs were double timber doors.

  Gred eased them open, revealing a vestibule framed by the fronds of ferns. The fronds whispered against Heloise’s satin pajamas as he stepped slowly through the vestibule.

  I can feel the dew on them, she marveled. I can smell moisture.

  Someone slept on a broad bed in the center of this grandiose room, the sheets rucked down about their waist. The room was warmer than outdoors as if its main purpose was to raise the tropical plants that grew in a multitude of elegant pots. Instead of walls, there were low partitions with tubs of flowering annuals or rows of neatly pruned miniature trees.

  The awe that Gred felt filtered through. To remain healthy these plants would require rotation to the outside sun. The staff and labor involved must be enormous.

  No wonder there’s lax security, Heloise thought. Who would steal trees?

  You’re a fool. Silently, Gred stepped over to the bed and looked down on a sleeping woman. Yes, it’s her.

  Wrinkles decorated her plump face and even in sleep she was smiling, as if reinforcing the lines about her mouth. With Gred’s ghostly vision, her short, straight hair was so green that Heloise felt sure it must be pure white in sunlight. Her eyelids flickered in the strange way of those caught deep in their dreams.

  “Wake up you old hag,” rasped Gred. Her voice had become that of a man.

  “What?” The lady’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, then clambered back against the bed-head, clutching the sheet as high as it would go. She slapped at a switch on her bedside table and a chandelier of trink lamps came on above.

  “Is that you...Gred?” She leaned forward, squinting. “It is! Hmph! You’ve finally come back, have you?” She slid her legs to the edge of the bed then arranged her white cotton nightdress to cover her knees.

  Gred? This woman saw only Gred? Only her though, it seemed, those on the street had seen a woman in pajamas. Something vital linked her to Gred and she saw his face and body, heard his voice.

  A slim piece of cool metal slipped into Heloise’s hand. When Gred raised her hand, she saw it was a knife with reflecting silver skeins along its blade. The point was sharp enough to penetrate old skin and flesh. He must have picked it up along the way.

  Murder? You promised! Heloise made the words sizzle in her mind. This he would not do.

  Be quiet! “Hello, Anisa. You know why I’ve come.”

  She nodded and spoke matter-of-factly, wearily. “To extract a gobbet of flesh from the looks of that. You always did like to overdo things.” She coughed a few times, wiped her eyes, reached to the bedside table, and poured a glass of water. “Excuse me while I wet my throat.”

  “Witch!”

  “Oh, never that, dear man. A shrewd businesswoman, that I will admit to.”

  “You stole from me! My greatest creation!”

  “The golden rose? Of course. You held out for too long. Were going to sell it to another. Tut-tut. My only regret is that the foolish man I sent to persuade you was a thug with no sense of when to stop. Maybe he got that from you?” She smiled up at Gred.

  “Gah!” The intent, the rage that drove Gred to murder blazed bright, became a crystalline thought. The knife drew back.

  No! No! How can I stop this? Heloise scrabbled for a connection to her own muscles – arms, fingers, anywhere – and was left grasping nothing. Gred, she wants this death.

  Why? She demanded of him. Do you want to give her what she desires?

  The knife darted forward, barely touched Anisa’s neck, then withdrew and stopped, poised to strike again. Anisa gasped. Though she clutched at her neck no blood seemed to flow.

  Heloise, caught by relief, allowed another thought to slip loose. But...does she want this? Am I wrong?

  Gred ground out a question through clenched teeth. “Tell me, what happened after I died? Now.”

  “Or what? You knife me?” She chuckled dryly. “For a moment there, Gred, I saw someone that was not you. A girl?”

  I’m a woman, Heloise thought. But...she saw me?

  “Ah, Gred, whatever you’ve done to get yourself here, I applaud your tenacity.” She peered into Heloise-Gred’s eyes. “If there’s someone else in there, make sure you leave her as you found her or I’ll come after you when I die.” Her smile was mirthless yet full of promise. She plucked at her nightgown for a while before continuing.

  “After your death I became a rich woman selling your golden rose...and I became full of regrets. They never left me, not in all these years, and I’m so tired of them. I’m still sorry I was in any way responsible for your death. No matter how much I disliked you.”

  The fingers on the knife were white from gripping too tightly.

  “You are sorry?”

  “Yes, I am.” Her eyes were rheumy and tear-wet. “I’d go down on my knees and beg forgiveness but my knees won’t let me. I gave half of all the sales to your son. Don’t know what he’s done with it. He left and went east somewhere, years ago. Since then I’ve given the money to a charitable organization run by a temple.”

  “You what?” The hand with the knife shook and Heloise-Gred lowered the knife.

  You didn’t know this? Heloise asked him. How could you not know? All this time you’ve been bent on murder and revenge and nothing else. You’ve held yourself to this cour
se purely because of an accidental death? This woman is not that bad a person. Spare her, please. Gred?

  “I was wrong.” His voice was soft, his words as distant as a breeze sifting through the leaves of a forest, as sorrowful as that of a man deserted by his nature, his gods, his sanity.

  She felt his soul slip away. She was not sorry that she was finally free yet tears blurred her eyes. When her nose began to run and she sniffed the tears back, she awoke to her own body.

  “I’m me again!” She stared at her fingers and felt her face then said in awe, “I’m back! I’m back!”

  When she quieted, she found the woman, Anisa, still sitting on the bed, watching her antics with a queer look transfixing her – part fear, part relief, and part puzzlement.

  “What are you that a ghost may possess you? Possession by ghosts is an old wives’ tale – a myth. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Anisa’s gaze flicked from spot to spot as she surveyed Heloise’s body.

  Why was this?

  Heloise looked down at herself and knew.

  On her arms and legs, the many emerald-green spots she’d noticed before, when in her room, had fired up again and were leaking green miasma as if she were a balloon about to expire.

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  Imperator – the ruler of the Burgla’le empire.

  *****

  What was she? Heloise blanched. The question had struck to the very heart of her fears. The fiery points on her skin faded slowly away. The miasma dissipated.

  Footsteps on the inner stairs reminded her of the guards. She should not be here. She should not...

  She looked at her pajamas. The entire world she stood in vibrated with wrongness. It was as if the scaffolding was shaking and to stay a moment more, or to move in the wrong direction threatened her with chaos.

  Transfixed by her revelation, she stared at Anisa.

  “Goodbye.” She spun and ran for the window.

  A watch-spider clung horizontally to the wall outside. Its red eyes tracked her swift descent. Grass underfoot. The fence was that way. Even as she ran, she reveled in everything – the feel of the soft grass, the noises and scents, even the spike of a twig in her heel. Alive. In command of her body. It was an old and new sensation all at once.

  To avoid the dangers of meeting the wrong sorts while unarmed and dressed in pajamas, the journey back demanded vigilance and much improvisation of route. She arrived at Uncle’s just before dawn. Heloise toted up the pluses and minuses of walking in brazenly through the front doors. Ranking high on her list of no-nos was having to explain the pajama’s to the sentries.

  Funny that.

  For a while she stayed in the shadows and thought about ascending to her room via the wall.

  The problem with climbing up was that Uncle’s men were far more alert than Anisa’s and didn’t rely on gem-encrusted trinkettons. She would likely be spotted and perhaps skewered by a crossbow bolt, if unlucky and the sentry acted before he realized her identity.

  Getting out was easier than getting in. Besides, her fingers and feet were aching.

  She walked up to the front doors. Though bemused, one of the sentries, a tall, long-faced man, recognized her and she was escorted inside.

  Uncle was away organizing a search...for her. A message was sent to him via homing fly as well as three human runners as back-up. On the way up the last flight of stairs her legs began to shake.

  Heloise opened her door, thanked the sentry, closed the door, and leaned against it. Exhausted but home.

  A man sat in her single red armchair, his bulk squeezed awkwardly into the space between the padded armrests. His long legs were in the regulation black leggings of Uncle’s company though his tan boots were embossed with a non-regulation swarm of magenta skulls.

  “Bull. Nice boots.” She smiled wanly and propped herself upright. The boots were a dead giveaway – bought from a shonky hastino merchant in the Grakk district. Bull normally only wore them when off duty.

  He turned his head, raised his eyebrows at her, and cast a glance at his well-polished boots. “You can’t have them.” It was a running joke between them despite her feet being umpteen sizes smaller.

  She tottered toward the bed then changed her mind. She was utterly sick of wearing pink pajama’s. “Wait there.” She flapped her hand at him.

  After rummaging in the cupboard for some fresh clothes, she went to the bathroom. With the door closed behind her it was tempting to simply collapse in a heap on the floor. Everywhere ached. She lifted her left foot. Blood seeped from several small wounds. Letting someone else use your body appeared to be hazardous.

  “This cannot happen again.” There. She’d admitted her fear. Again. That there might be others. Other ghosts. But she didn’t know for sure. She shook her head and picked through the clothes.

  Time to look like a real woman again, not a girl or an invalid. Pale blue leggings with silver teardrop overlay. Sleeveless blue tunic. She blinked at the twinkling green spots marking her arms and hoped no one else could see them. Lightweight silvered-steel mesh top with sleeves down to her wrists. Last was a long blue leather jacket. Nothing too obvious but enough there to turn a blade.

  No comb showed itself in any of the drawers so she ran her fingers through her hair. Right.

  When she emerged there was a moment of appreciative surprise on Bull’s face. Odd...to think of him thinking that way, when she still felt an urge to curl up in his lap and tell him all her worries like she used to when she was little.

  Instead of sitting on the bed, she headed for the little balcony. No chairs, but the sun was breaking through the darkness over to the east. She needed to see the light. Bull joined her at the railing.

  The street at the front of the house ran parallel to the distant sea. She watched the street change, her tangled, misery-laden mood ebbing away as the early light tilted gradually to flood over the lip of the street and down, like a golden flood.

  Beyond the street the land dropped off in a steep slope teeming with palms and a mini-forest of gums and fig trees. A glossy black crow cawed a morning greeting from its perch on the dead branch of a sky-touching gum. A flock of green-and-red parrots rose into the air as one, wheeling off across the lower rooftops. Gold light glinted off the windows of the taller houses. A pungent lemony scent rose from the gum trees and mixed with the smell of bacon fat frying in the downstairs kitchens.

  Life, normal life, was all around her, flaunting itself, as if to say, look at what you’re missing.

  Heloise lowered her head until her chin rested on her clasped hands where she held the railing.

  “What do you know, Bull?”

  He sighed.

  “I know you must know something.”

  It was like standing next to a stone monolith that had been out in the sun. She could feel the heat and the sheer sense of presence coming off him. It was comforting. He couldn’t stop everything bad happening, but it sure felt like he could.

  “I know that when you came back from the cemetery you were bleeding all over.” He cleared his throat. She looked and saw the little frown line above his worried eyes. “From the needles most of it. The rest from the head wound.”

  “How many needles?”

  “Twenty-something. Your uncle knows. Anyway, he’s had Needle Masters from the council examine you...”

  Damn. She’d been violated and not just by Drager. It was an ugly realization.

  She couldn’t remember that examination. It irked, embarrassed, and angered her, all at once. “And?”

  “Heloise, they don’t know why you’re alive. That many needles...where they are...usually it sucks the life out of you faster than an Immolator can sneeze.”

  Heloise narrowed her eyes. The crow had forsaken his perch and flown across to the statue of Gormorra in the circular garden below. “Are you supposed to tell me that?”

  “No. Your uncle told us all, very specifically, not to tell you.”

  “Hmph. Thank you.”
/>   “He thought it might upset you.”

  “Well. No. I doubt I could be more upset than I already was, and am.” She smiled up at Bull. “But I’m handling it. I need to find out what’s going on, how to stop...things. Anything else? What do these needles do?”

  “They don’t know, least that’s what they said. They’re in the main points or something and no one does what he did to you. The bastard.” His knuckles went white, where they wrapped over the railing.

  “No. Guess they wouldn’t. Seeing how I should be dead. Gods. Needles give, needles take away.”

  “Yeah. I got one years ago. Had them pull it out soon after. Not worth losing some life.”

  “You did? What did the needle do?”

  Bull colored. “Um...nothing much.”

  Had Bull asked for some kinky enhancement? If this’d been a normal day, she would’ve teased him.

  Horses clattered at a fast canter into the yard below and among the riders were Uncle and Kane.

  “They’ll be up here soon.” Bull pretended to be engrossed in looking down at them. His fists opened and closed then his expression changed. He turned and focused, hard, on her.

  “Heloise, I can’t bring Sonja back but I sure as damnation can help keep you safe. You ain’t going nowhere without me anymore. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to beat it out of you? And, by the way, that Kane, he’s not good enough for you.”

  “What?” She was dumbfounded for a few seconds. “Bull...hate to correct you but...if you beat it out of me I won’t be that safe around you.” She couldn’t stop a grin spreading and a guffaw coming out. “Um. Sorry. Serious now.”

  She looked at her feet a moment, having to still her quivering mouth and fight an urge to cry.

  “Right. Listen. This can’t be repeated to Uncle. Not yet.”

  He nodded.