moment’s hesitation, Bran slipped his arms around the child and carried her out of the compound, beyond the unassuming door beside the main gate, and down to the small slope where the dead were buried. She felt lighter in his arms than he’d expected, like something had left her—some heaviness connected to life. He set her on the grassy ground and, raising the lantern that now shown with a steady white light, looked around for a shovel.
Briefly.
Burying the dead was not his job.
But filling her spot in the Tanks was and as suddenly as the request for a Tester and a Ring of Wraiths had come into Holgate, he knew at least one Tank wouldn’t remain vacant long.
He pulled the journal out, sat down only a few feet from the body, and began to write.
The girl in Tank 5 has expired under strange circumstances. She was not in my care for long, showed strong potential and was most easily persuaded to work when introduced to the cat. Death was not fever-induced and yet she said the strangest thing and seemed quite convinced of the reality of her words. “They are coming and there is naught to be done for it.” It causes me to speculate on the cause of her untimely death. She was not broken to the point of d
The pen stilled in his grip, a breeze rallying and lifting off the water. It moved like a specter up the slope, slinking around the dead girl’s body and ruffling her dirty hair before stroking its cold, damp touch across the Maker’s face and dissipating.
He squinted at the corpse. Had she stirred? Setting aside his journal and pen he leaned across her, holding the lantern to her face. No breath moved within her. But the breeze came back, this time running icy fingers through his hair and stroking the back of his neck so its every hair stood straight up. Something slipped along his ears, chilling even the insides of them with what sounded distinctly like words. “Murrrrderrr.” He shuddered, tilting his head. “Murrrderr,” the wind sang again. Then something new followed and, heart racing, he listened. “They commmmme,” the wind hummed. He rubbed his ears. “Soooooonnnn they commmmme…” He pawed frantically at his ears and stood, the journal and pen falling into the grass, his gaze wary on the water.
Last summer’s cattails waved in the wind, whistling an eerie tune. Surely that was all it had been—the wind through the rushes. Still, he gathered his things and gave one last glance to the body before walking much faster to the compound than he’d walked on his way out.
His returning speed was not because he felt lighter being relieved of the burden of the body. It was rather because the wind chased him like a hound snapping at his heels.
Philadelphia
Pushing his way through the astonished party’s crowd, old Morgan Astraea addressed the uninvited men who now stood in his foyer. “What precisely are you doing here?”
Jordan’s mother stroked a careful hand down his back as they huddled as near the door as he could maneuver them.
“We’ve received reports of a potential Conductor being in your household.”
“Why would you presume a Witch is here?”
Thunder cracked so loud the huge house rattled.
Morgan Astraea nodded. “An unpredicted storm would raise questions, I suppose.” He groaned. “You discovered one just two years past—and we were as surprised as you,” Morgan assured. “We need no taint nor the blasphemy of magick in this household,” he assured. “Root the devil out!”
The Councilman smiled, signaling the Tester with a simple sweep of his fingers. “Signal the servants,” he suggested. “Such trouble is nearly always breeding in their ranks.”
The servants were gathered and although Rowen did a tremendous job keeping most of the guests focused on him—one of his more stellar abilities—Jordan could not help but slip from his grasp and make her way toward the staff that waited for the Tester’s verdict.
Behind her Rowen paused in the midst of telling
Briefly.
Burying the dead was not his job.
But filling her spot in the Tanks was and as suddenly as the request for a Tester and a Ring of Wraiths had come into Holgate, he knew at least one Tank wouldn’t remain vacant long.
He pulled the journal out, sat down only a few feet from the body, and began to write.
The girl in Tank 5 has expired under strange circumstances. She was not in my care for long, showed strong potential and was most easily persuaded to work when introduced to the cat. Death was not fever-induced and yet she said the strangest thing and seemed quite convinced of the reality of her words. “They are coming and there is naught to be done for it.” It causes me to speculate on the cause of her untimely death. She was not broken to the point of d
The pen stilled in his grip, a breeze rallying and lifting off the water. It moved like a specter up the slope, slinking around the dead girl’s body and ruffling her dirty hair before stroking its cold, damp touch across the Maker’s face and dissipating.
He squinted at the corpse. Had she stirred? Setting aside his journal and pen he leaned across her, holding the lantern to her face. No breath moved within her. But the breeze came back, this time running icy fingers through his hair and stroking the back of his neck so its every hair stood straight up. Something slipped along his ears, chilling even the insides of them with what sounded distinctly like words. “Murrrrderrr.” He shuddered, tilting his head. “Murrrderr,” the wind sang again. Then something new followed and, heart racing, he listened. “They commmmme,” the wind hummed. He rubbed his ears. “Soooooonnnn they commmmme…” He pawed frantically at his ears and stood, the journal and pen falling into the grass, his gaze wary on the water.
Last summer’s cattails waved in the wind, whistling an eerie tune. Surely that was all it had been—the wind through the rushes. Still, he gathered his things and gave one last glance to the body before walking much faster to the compound than he’d walked on his way out.
His returning speed was not because he felt lighter being relieved of the burden of the body. It was rather because the wind chased him like a hound snapping at his heels.
Philadelphia
Pushing his way through the astonished party’s crowd, old Morgan Astraea addressed the uninvited men who now stood in his foyer. “What precisely are you doing here?”
Jordan’s mother stroked a careful hand down his back as they huddled as near the door as he could maneuver them.
“We’ve received reports of a potential Conductor being in your household.”
“Why would you presume a Witch is here?”
Thunder cracked so loud the huge house rattled.
Morgan Astraea nodded. “An unpredicted storm would raise questions, I suppose.” He groaned. “You discovered one just two years past—and we were as surprised as you,” Morgan assured. “We need no taint nor the blasphemy of magick in this household,” he assured. “Root the devil out!”
The Councilman smiled, signaling the Tester with a simple sweep of his fingers. “Signal the servants,” he suggested. “Such trouble is nearly always breeding in their ranks.”
The servants were gathered and although Rowen did a tremendous job keeping most of the guests focused on him—one of his more stellar abilities—Jordan could not help but slip from his grasp and make her way toward the staff that waited for the Tester’s verdict.
Behind her Rowen paused in the midst of telling
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