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Funebral Practices and Post-Mortem Superstitions of Oldfaire, 3rd Edition
The sharp staccato of gunshots pierced through the night. Charles stood helpless on the other side of the memorial-yard while his friend and his mentor gave up on stealth. Beneath the sound of bullets and batons, music floated out from the radio on the empty pedestal at the center of the ritual. Half-rate cultists moved around it in an attempt at rhythm, getting slightly closer than the erratic notes tumbling out of the radio that stood in a mockery of a monument.
Breath unbound he was sick of jazz. He couldn't think through the noise that had been broadcasting in his head for days and was now hanging in the air around him. He needed to do something. People were in danger and he needed to do something, and if he didn't do something then even more people were going to be in far worse danger. He felt a wave of morbid dread pass through the air as the doomed ritual swelled towards a crescendo. He didn't have time. He opened the book again.
These people were stupid, and too stubborn to listen to why they were stupid, and he didn't know how to fix their stupidity. He turned to look at Primrose in desperation, but what could she do? What could either of them do? He could throw a decent punch, but so could Amelia, and she and Morgan were already trying that to little success.
“Charlie, what do we do? How do we stop them?”
“It's Charles.” He corrected her without thinking, falling back on muscle memory when nothing else was working. He looked up at Primrose for a moment. She stood beside him in the dark, shining eyes reflecting the faint glow from beyond him. “And I don't know! I only know what they're trying to do and why it won't work!” He turned back to the ancient pages, flipping through them with increasing desperation, stopping as he so often had in the last days on page 77. Even though he could read Ancient Fairen as naturally as Halien, he started manually translating it, hoping against reason that he could divine more meaning from the grammatical structure of the ancient text.
To bind a soul that has not or cannot be bound
“They can't lay the soul to rest because it's not a soul, and I don't even know what will happen when they try!”
With the mention of the not-a-soul, he started to hear a new sound. From every direction, tiny wing-beats like final gasps, and the faintest flickers of voices, all heading for the convocation of misguided hearts. Fragments of a thousand different souls, all pulled together in the grasp of something larger, driven by a malevolent force for The Father only knew what purpose. -i’ve missed you so much- -how could we have known- -i’ll never forgive you- He heard Primrose draw in a steadying breath before she spoke.
“Then what do we need to do to make it work?” She was calm, even now. She was so strong, always holding herself with so much poise.
“It- I think-” his panic was railing against the soothing authoritarian tone of her voice “The reason it won't work is because even if they do all the steps right, they're not targeting what they think they're targeting. Even if this worked and they could bind the breaths of the unrested dead this way, that isn't a soul. They'd need to have a way to pull all the little sparks from the thundercloud, but instead all they've done is turn themselves into lightning rods!”
“But if they could do it? If they could segregate the individual fragments, could it work?” A steady gaze, eyes shining under the full moon.
He didn't need to look down. Even through the sounds of brutality echoing from beyond the fence and the whispers of thousands of voices -please I have a family!- -my morning sun, and my little morning sun- -I want to go home- and even through that damnable music he could remember the steps of the ritual unfolding around the monument, despite the best efforts of his companions.
Dance the soul under a full moon
“It could work. If you could pick out the souls from the morass, then following the rest of the ritual has a chance of working.”
She took a half-step back from him, and extended one delicate hand.
“Then it's a good thing I know to dance.”
He didn't understand what she meant. And then all at once, he did.
The thinning under the mountain. The voices hiding in the radio waves. The cold read at the séance that could never have been a cold read. He'd been such a fool. Almost two years worth of "I'm sure I must have heard that somewhere"s and ¨Can´t you hear it?¨s and "Something must have caught my eye and I looked over at just the right time"s and "Call it a gut feeling"s and "I guess it changed its mind"s all layered on top of each other and folded inwards into perfect sense.
He had a hundred thousand questions roiling in his stomach trying to claw their way to the top and up his throat. So many things he wanted to say. He grabbed her hand and the pair of them took off running.
Thousands, millions of moths, creating a cloud as solid and malleable as the starlings that flocked above the Stentorian River in the spring. All that same oily grey with dark death’s head´s-heads flared across their wings. They swirled around the unfinished and back out to the masked dancers, swarming around limbs, and under bodies, bouncing off of the plain grave masks that were all that protected their immortal breath from being devoured by what they´d called.
Invite the soul to a grave freshly turned,
The monument welcomed them into its somber embrace as they pelted past dozens, hundreds, of stakes, each one marking a grave never meant to hold a body, but disturbed nevertheless. They ran through them, maskless and vulnerable. They paid no heed to whatever patterns the dancers were trying to achieve, or how they were disrupting it. Several people that hadn't stopped prancing to try to ward off Morgan and Amelia broke their pattern now to try to stop Charles and Primrose. Charles turned his shoulder and knocked one of them out of the way without slowing down, instinctively pulling Primrose behind him and away from the reach of a woman reaching out to grab her. He didn't see what happened to the person he shoved aside, but he heard a collision and curses.
The pedestal, still empty of its destined statue, but already wired in preparation for the electrical lights that would shine on it night and day. They'd hijacked the wiring to power their radio. It stood bold as brass – which it was made of – in the center of the blank plinth, trumpeting 98.1 into the night. Whispers of something else underneath went unheard but not ineffectual.
Charles fumbled in the pocket of his sports coat to retrieve a small roll of tools. He´d borrowed them from a Briargreen engineering student who'd been more than happy to explain how to use each one of them well past the point where Charles was willing to carry on the conversation. He´d thought he might use them to disable the device at the center of the ritual, in a less violent manner than the one he'd broken at the séance after Primrose had collapsed, having no desire to fracture the bones of his hand twice in one week. It couldn't be dealt with in the same way he'd dealt with his own radio a few days later either. There were no fourth floor windows handy to throw it out of in a vain attempt to silence the music that had been playing and playing and playing and playing, resonating in his head and rising unbidden as a low hum in his throat in time with the airwaves long past when the antenna had snapped off.
Most of the tools would be useless for this hasty new course. But there was something else he could do with them that might help, along with a thing or two he´d added to the kit at home.
He looped a length of hammered gold wire around his hand and the handle of a file, then hurriedly scratched a triangular array into the paneling. With the last stroke etched, a sharp electric shock traveled up through his hand and lit up his nerves. The sensation honed in the pocket where his mask sat unutilized. He realized with gritted teeth that he should probably be wearing it. Ah well, live and learn. If he lived through the next few minutes. Primrose made a sound of pain behind him and squeezed his hand even tighter.
He´d let her get hurt, again, like an absolute idiot.
She shook off her wince. ¨Whatever you did, it worked,¨ she said with a grin.
She hefted Lord Bradford´s mask and hurled it directly at him. He ducked, as did the person behind him that she was aiming for, but it distracted them long enough for Morgan to land an excellent overhand right.
a death mask buried
¨What now?¨ she asked, as if Charles had a plan beyond doing whatever he could to aid her.
He shook the loop of gold off his hand and dropped it over the radio antenna. All the voices clarified. They were no longer frizzing static over the radio. The music came through clear as cold air. All the sound and chaos around them dropped to a low murmur -behind you!-
Morgan must have been less rusty than he claimed, if he´d stayed on his feet this long. Charles had lost track of his and Amelia´s positions. They were somewhere in the dark, in the swish of movement this direction and that. He trusted them to stay alive.
Without letting go of his hand, Primrose stepped back away from the pedestal. He followed her, letting the tools drop, roll, and scatter. Her eyes were no longer reflecting the scattered light around them. Instead they shone dimly from within and were brightening by the moment.
¨I´d thought it was something that was being done to you, at the séance." he breathed.
"No, it was me." she said, answering the question he hadn't asked.
"This whole time?" he asked, not for the first time, nor the last.
"As long as you've known me. As long as I've known me."
She looked away from him, up at the noisome murmuration that wove and warped and whispered overhead -I wanna go home- -I'd always hoped you'd be here- -promise you won't let go?-
"May I have this dance?" she said, extending her other hand upwards towards it.
Every whisper coalesced into one voice. Charles heard it in his teeth as much as his ears. The words wrapped shaking around his ribs. Will you take me home afterwards?
"But of course, it´s only polite after all."
The murmuration descended. For a moment Charles' breath pushed against his chest cavity with such pressure he thought his scars might unravel. The last breaths of uncountable souls blew around them, blocking out everything but green light and the last few bars of a song he´d heard far too many times as of late.
They came together in a moment´s silence.
It took a second to recall where to put his hands. It had been quite a few years since he´d been lined up in the gymnasium at Saint Blemonthy's Academy for Fine Young Gentleman and he´d thrown a tantrum until the teachers stopped trying to make him learn the follower's role. The first few notes of a new song climbed up a guitar string. He took a step towards her, and her one away in unison. Everything fell into place.
"I can't forget the night I met you"
It hadn't been night. It had been a sunny afternoon, when she was too young to care about his last name and he hadn't even known hers. She'd just been Primrose and he'd just been, well, not Charles yet, but it hadn't mattered because they'd been pirates and scarlet smugglers and witches and no one had made them go back to their parents and their stuffy garden party until the sun had kissed the far side of the lake.
"That's all I'm dreaming of"
A day long gone, and never spoken of. A gilded memory he had occasionally taken out of a box to hold gently for a moment before tucking it away again. A small happiness that had sprung to mind years later, when Morgan had introduced them both to each other and to Eloise, and Primrose had greeted him like they'd never met in their lives. Even when she was on a tirade about how despicable the Bannisters were for bankrupting her parents and the rest of the von Marias, and how she was going to turn the tables on their fortune if it was the last thing she did. So he'd left it in the box and kept it out of the light.
¨And now you call it madness¨
It made sense now, why she hadn't laughed at him like the other children did.
Another surge of electricity went through his hand. This one was gentler, but it did not stop. It thrummed across his limbs and wrapped itself around his lungs, digging into the soft tissue. He kept moving in time with Primrose.
This night was not going well. Morgan had already taken two grazing shots from these suburban half-wits, and though most of them couldn't aim worth a damn, a few of them could throw a decent punch. He knew how to take a beating. He couldn't have made it across all those trenches to be here tonight if he couldn't. But he wasn't as young as he used to be.
He couldn't call out for back-up. Prim would just be a liability. Most likely she'd get overwhelmed with a presence she couldn't keep in check and pass out again. And it was best that Charles stayed away where it was safe. Him getting hurt would be a dangerous distraction. He'd already seen the Bannister boys hurt enough.
It really wasn't ideal then, when they both sprinted into and through the fray, holding hands like schoolchildren and heading straight for the center of the ritual. He really wasn't pleased with that turn of events. It got even worse when he couldn't see them at all because all the clouds of moths swarmed the pair of them at once and enclosed them in a funnel cloud of rustling wings.
But what was there to do? He couldn't get close, and there were still several men with guns who were quite mad at him. Patchy lighting could only do so much to keep him un-punctured.
The leader of this little cult finally acknowledged that he was there when a few more of her middle-class devotees lost their nerve and broke their rhythm, scampering off into the night. Her scowl emanated even through the gilded death mask tied to her face. She changed her grip on her baton. Instead of holding it aloft like a conductor she gripped it like the Periphery did their nightsticks. Electricity arced from its tip to a nearby lantern. She swung it at him with an audible snarl.
"You're ruining everything!" she yelled as he ducked under its crackling path.
"I can't be ruining something that isn't going to work." he retorted as blocked her next blow at the forearm.
"You won't stop it, it's too late. We've called them home to rest! Why don't you want to let them rest!"
He wasn't quite fast enough to dodge her again. Thankfully, Amelia knocked him out of the way before it impacted and swung back at the Grim Arbiter with protective ferocity.
"Imogen! Hold still so I can beat your ass!" she growled.
He was observant enough to not try to get back in between them. Amelia had 3 inches and twenty pounds on him. Between her strength and her opponents charged weapon, that was a scuffle it was smartest for him to stay out of.
Which meant he should really be trying to help Prim and Charles.
He stared at the wall of insects, and did not panic. He didn't lose his nerve at all. He wasn't overwhelmed even a little bit. He had more experience facing monstrous situations and overwhelming odds than he cared to recall, and this was just another day on the job working with Candela Obscura.
Maybe if he set something on fire.
If they were going to make a whole shitty cult around the idea of souls being electrified and transmitted through radio waves, the least they could do is commit to the theme and haul in some electrical lights for their grand undertaking. Or practiced their choreography more so they didn't need to have lanterns around to keep themselves from tripping over each other in the dark. He shouldn't complain though, if they had he wouldn't have any fuel.
He kicked the nearest lantern towards the shifting wall. Damn safety lamps. The lights they'd given his garrison back in the Verdant would have blown under that treatment. He put a bullet through the check, which did the trick. The flame flared up nicely, incinerating a few dozen bugs in the first instant. It could be bigger though.
They'd brought extra lamp oil. How thoughtful of them. It was one of those safety dispensers that Amanda had used with the children's lamps. He quickly and carefully shattered the top of it, throwing the contents at the small blaze. It splashed across the whirling morass, and fire leapt to dozens and then hundreds of fluttering wings. It spread across the wall like blazing ivy, glowing tendrils climbing up into the towering night.
But there were too many of them. Even with hundreds of them going up in smoke Morgan had only made a momentary opening. Already it was starting to close. His friends were being obscured again by smudged grey skulls. But for this half of a moment he could see past them where Prim and Charles were... dancing? That couldn't be right. They were too sensible for that. For The Mother's sake, they weren't even wearing their masks!
No, they were definitely dancing. In the eye of a whispering storm. Prim's eyes were lit up by that same ghostly glow as they'd shown at the séance moments before she'd passed out to the static screaming from the radio. A spark spiraled out towards them. It landed on the sleeve of Charles' jacket and set it smouldering. He didn't seem to notice. Neither did Prim, or if she did it didn't bother her. She stepped under it without missing a beat as he spun her around in a graceful step.
Morgan stared dumbstruck as the window closed, and wondered what the hell they thought they were doing.
Imogen hit the ground hard. Her mask followed a moment later. The blow had only knocked her off her feet, but without the protection of her mask even that brief moment of vulnerability proved a moment too long. A contingent of moths broke off from the vortex and swarmed her even as she fell. Morgan saw the dreadful process in action for the first time. They were all over her face, yes, but they weren't just going after flesh. The were fluttering in the air above, born aloft by the rising warmth of her breath. A wave of repulsion ran own his spine. She would be buried with nothing left to bind. He looked away.
The remaining lanterns cast a circle of light around them. On the far edge of it lurked a figure making an admirable attempt to hide behind a piece of metal the approximate height and width of a fence post.
"I see you over there!" Morgan called out to them. The silhouette started with a distant, muffled squeal. "It would be wise of you to disappear along with the rest of your crew. If my associates don't come out of this safe and sound, I will have serious quarrels to take up with you."
They didn't move. He sighed, and started loudly reloading his revolver. Thank the Father they showed at least a little sense and took off into the night before he had to waste a bullet shooting the ground at their feet.
There wasn't really anything for Morgan to do. The Grim Arbiter was moth food. Her followers had fled. Amelia knelt on the cold ground, her heavy breathing made muffled by the mask still keeping her mouth tightly covered. He took a knee next to her.
"Do you need any medical attention?" he asked her.
“No I- I’m fine,” she stammered. Her hands were shaking, and she tried to still them at her chest. “Don’t worry about me.” Well, if she didn’t want to tell Morgan that she was hurt, it was none of his business. He could keep an extra eye on her left until she could hold her shoulder properly. “Are Prim and Charles okay? What’s goin' on in there?”
Through momentary gaps in the swarm, they were seemingly unharmed. He saw snatches of them lit as much by the haunting green glow emanating from Prim as they were by the flames still flickering around them. Charles was even still unbothered by his smouldering sleeve.
"I believe they're fine. They're acting like whimsical fools with a death wish, but they're fine."
He would know if something happened. Without the chaos of a melee happening around him the night was quiet enough to cut glass. He could hear gentle piano notes floating out from the eye of the storm, and the susurration of thousands of wings brushing against each other in time to it. He would be able to tell if their crazy idea went sideways, and he'd be able to help them. He could do something this time.
He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. It relaxed just a touch. They stayed there while two final notes ended the song.
All at once the smouldering pillar dissolved. The moths scattered, into the churned earth, into Westwreck, into the night sky, into nothing at all.
Charles and Prim were left in the center of a cleared circle. They were frozen still, one arm clasped around each other, one held out to the side. Green light mingled with the soft gold of kerosene at the edges. Over Prim's shoulder Charles looked deathly grey and utterly enamoured. Well, he supposed it had only been a matter of time.
The green light went out. So did Prim.
For a moment Morgan thought it was a deliberate swoon. It was the kind of scene she loved to cause. But even though Charles caught her easily there was a sudden panic on his face. He rose to his feet in unison with Amelia. They both rushed over, Amelia to Prim and he to Charles, who was now kneeling himself with Prim draped over him.
"Are you alright?" they both asked in concert.
"Did you know?" Charles demanded instead of answering a question about himself. Morgan should have expected that.
"Know what?" asked Amelia, who had found Prim's pulse and moved on to prying open an eyelid. "I don't know what's goin' on with her eyes but her pupils are dilatin' fine," she reported.
"Did you know that Primrose was a medium?" he clarified. He was moving his attention back and forth between all three of them, simultaneously worried over Prim and furious with the other two.
"Well, yes, but I promised not to say anything," Morgan said defensively.
At the same time Amelia mumbled "She never told me, but she slipped up a few times when we were kids."
Charles flared up even more. "Is there any other information that could perhaps be shared with your colleague? Anyone else have any relevant supernatural powers, or being haunted by phenomena they'd care to tell me about?" He looked back and forth between Morgan and Amelia while he tried to challenge them. It was quite an unfair accusation in Morgan's opinion. Charles wasn't the only one he was keeping secrets from.
He was saved from having to answer by Amelia suddenly calling out "What's that light over there?" and pointing out across the monument ground. Everyone looked over, across the field of standing stakes, past the iron fence. Beyond them was Westwreck. It should have been completely dark. Instead it was contrasted in streaks of dark and light. A glowing yellow shape cantered across the rubble, casting long, flickering shadows across the desolate ground.