make this the finest farewell ceremony ever celebrated in this cemetery.
Strafa’s father, Kyoga, me, and my friend Morley Dotes would convey the casket into the Algarda mausoleum. The entrance was fifteen feet away. I had been inside earlier, during rehearsal. I hated the idea of going back. That would declare the whole thing final.
A manicured slope rose behind the gray stone structure where Strafa would await her reward if she really accepted the Orthodox faith the Algardas professed officially. Which I doubted because the creed tells us we shouldn’t suffer the existence of witches, warlocks, or sorcery.
These days most folks cremate, especially the rich and most especially those who dwell on the Hill. They don’t want their departed having any chance of making a comeback. My wife’s family, though, insisted on old-fashioned interment, unanimously, because Shadowslinger told them that was what they wanted.
I sympathize with those who burn their blessed dead. Unlikely as it may sound, down the road somebody might try to bring them back. Not palatable to me even missing Strafa as much as I did. I have survived collisions with the risen dead. You never get back what was lost, and no revenant ever comes back good.
Ghosts, on the other hand . . . I have had positive experiences with ghosts.
Feral dogs observed the proceedings from the skyline.
Shadowslinger gave them a glance, decided that they were what they appeared to be and, therefore, were of no real interest.
I wondered why they were there. Maybe it was a territorial thing. I was preoccupied with Strafa but I did notice. So beautiful, she, perfect in life and near perfect now. I hadn’t prayed since I came home from the war, but I mumbled something, to any god inclined to listen. I would be half a man for a while with her gone.
Our sudden separation was the ultimate cruelty. Each day, each hour that Strafa lay in darkness waiting, she would become more of a stranger.
We grow older and change, no matter how hard we fight it.
Father Amerigo droned on. I cataloged those who had come to offer their respects and support. Strafa, though the most wonderful woman I ever knew, had not had even one friend who had not been one of my friends first. And the only family I had anymore was the one that I acquired by coming together with her: Shadowslinger, blood-hungry; Barate, who had his big-boy fangs out now; and Kevans, who clung to Barate’s arm ferociously and would not stop crying.
Her best friend, Kip, Cypres Prose, stood to her left, lightly touching her. He was crowded by his fiancée, Kyra Tate, who, in turn, stood in the shadow of her overprotective cousin Artifice. There were times when Kip and Kevans seemed like fraternal twins with different mothers.
Most of my friends were on hand. Pular Singe and her brother, Pound Humility, known on the street as John Stretch. Playwright Jon Salvation with a three-woman personal entourage: Crush, DeeDee, and Mike, all gorgeous but looking exceedingly depressed. They had been fans of Strafa. Max Weider and Manvil Gilbey, with his wife, Heather, had come over from the brewery. Belinda Contague, girl psycho gangster, remained a little separate and appeared to have come alone, but there would be bodyguards somewhere. General Westman Block wore his dress uniform and headed a delegation of Guardsmen, probably hoping the killer could not resist an opportunity to bask in all our misery. Also there but standing back a little, watching, were my old friends Saucerhead Tharpe, Playmate, and Winger. Dean had wanted to come, but his old flesh had proven too fragile.
Penny was closer to me than anyone, ready to grab hold if I broke down, but she lost it first. She buried her face in my left sleeve when the flood broke. She offered up endless apologies for being unable to stop and for having been so mean.
Penny had worked hard at not liking Strafa so now felt guilty about having seen a secret wish come true.
Singe eased over to
Strafa’s father, Kyoga, me, and my friend Morley Dotes would convey the casket into the Algarda mausoleum. The entrance was fifteen feet away. I had been inside earlier, during rehearsal. I hated the idea of going back. That would declare the whole thing final.
A manicured slope rose behind the gray stone structure where Strafa would await her reward if she really accepted the Orthodox faith the Algardas professed officially. Which I doubted because the creed tells us we shouldn’t suffer the existence of witches, warlocks, or sorcery.
These days most folks cremate, especially the rich and most especially those who dwell on the Hill. They don’t want their departed having any chance of making a comeback. My wife’s family, though, insisted on old-fashioned interment, unanimously, because Shadowslinger told them that was what they wanted.
I sympathize with those who burn their blessed dead. Unlikely as it may sound, down the road somebody might try to bring them back. Not palatable to me even missing Strafa as much as I did. I have survived collisions with the risen dead. You never get back what was lost, and no revenant ever comes back good.
Ghosts, on the other hand . . . I have had positive experiences with ghosts.
Feral dogs observed the proceedings from the skyline.
Shadowslinger gave them a glance, decided that they were what they appeared to be and, therefore, were of no real interest.
I wondered why they were there. Maybe it was a territorial thing. I was preoccupied with Strafa but I did notice. So beautiful, she, perfect in life and near perfect now. I hadn’t prayed since I came home from the war, but I mumbled something, to any god inclined to listen. I would be half a man for a while with her gone.
Our sudden separation was the ultimate cruelty. Each day, each hour that Strafa lay in darkness waiting, she would become more of a stranger.
We grow older and change, no matter how hard we fight it.
Father Amerigo droned on. I cataloged those who had come to offer their respects and support. Strafa, though the most wonderful woman I ever knew, had not had even one friend who had not been one of my friends first. And the only family I had anymore was the one that I acquired by coming together with her: Shadowslinger, blood-hungry; Barate, who had his big-boy fangs out now; and Kevans, who clung to Barate’s arm ferociously and would not stop crying.
Her best friend, Kip, Cypres Prose, stood to her left, lightly touching her. He was crowded by his fiancée, Kyra Tate, who, in turn, stood in the shadow of her overprotective cousin Artifice. There were times when Kip and Kevans seemed like fraternal twins with different mothers.
Most of my friends were on hand. Pular Singe and her brother, Pound Humility, known on the street as John Stretch. Playwright Jon Salvation with a three-woman personal entourage: Crush, DeeDee, and Mike, all gorgeous but looking exceedingly depressed. They had been fans of Strafa. Max Weider and Manvil Gilbey, with his wife, Heather, had come over from the brewery. Belinda Contague, girl psycho gangster, remained a little separate and appeared to have come alone, but there would be bodyguards somewhere. General Westman Block wore his dress uniform and headed a delegation of Guardsmen, probably hoping the killer could not resist an opportunity to bask in all our misery. Also there but standing back a little, watching, were my old friends Saucerhead Tharpe, Playmate, and Winger. Dean had wanted to come, but his old flesh had proven too fragile.
Penny was closer to me than anyone, ready to grab hold if I broke down, but she lost it first. She buried her face in my left sleeve when the flood broke. She offered up endless apologies for being unable to stop and for having been so mean.
Penny had worked hard at not liking Strafa so now felt guilty about having seen a secret wish come true.
Singe eased over to
Similar Books
