by Kevin Hearne
“Oh, my barmy bickering banshees! That is not the way to make a good first impression!” Båggi clutched his Telling Cudgel, which remained smooth and unblemished by murderous appendages. But that made sense, Agape assumed, since one couldn’t bash ghosts, no matter how angry one might be about their existence.
This is quite foolish, Gerd said. Faucon is in pain and requires aid. I will pummel the door down, and these ghosts you fear may Come at Me. I will give unto them the old What For.
“Gerd, no!” Agape wailed, but did the gryphon listen either? Of course not. These citified fools thought you could just knock on the door of any haunted mansion and be invited in for cheese.
It took only one firm gryphonic headsmashing and the door swung inward, creaking in protest. Gerd performed a victory squawk, and Faucon was just lifting a golden-toed foot over the threshold, when the very apparition Agape had feared appeared. It didn’t glow or shimmer or squelch with ectoplasm, which were all things Agape expected of a proper ghost. Then again, it also didn’t drool and smack its lips and hold up a fondue fork, so whatever it was, it was better than a hungry wolf. It merely floated forward silently and beheld them with pitch-black eyes.
“Vhat is this?” the shadow spake, drawing a black cloak around hunched shoulders. “Who dares disturb my hallowed halls vithout an invitation?”
“Nobody!” Agape shouted. “We’re just leaving.”
“Ha ha! Yes! Nobody!” Båggi agreed.
“Don’t be silly.” Kirsi stepped forward and held out her hand to the form at least three times her height. “Greetings! I’m Kirsi, and my friends and I are so glad to meet you. I apologize for our unusual method of visiting, but you see, we thought the house was abandoned.”
The figure cocked its head. “Abandoned? Vhy, did you not see the signs? They are qvite clear, I believe, regarding dentistry and ghosts.”
“Oh, we saw them,” Kirsi said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “But they looked terribly old, and we knocked, and no one came to the door, so we assumed…”
She trailed off, perhaps hoping that the homeowner would somehow fill in the blank with a statement that didn’t involve we assumed we could trespass with no consequences, but he did not accommodate her.
“Do you know vhat happens vhen you assume, little vun?” he asked solemnly.
“No?”
“You make an ass out of yourself.”
“Pardon me,” Onni interrupted, “but I thought it was an ass out of you and me because ass-u-me, you know?”
The figure hissed and leaned down into the scant light from outside, revealing himself to be a slender man with high cheekbones, pale skin, and black hair with a widow’s peak and graying sides. His ears were the tiniest bit pointed, his canine teeth poking out over his lower lip.
“The person who trespasses is, I believe, the only ass in this situation,” he said gravely. “But vhat had you planned on doing here? Looting? Searching for magical objects? Hunting for the secrets of my famed longevity?”
“Oh, my heavens, no!” Båggi burst in. “We only wanted a little space for a footbath and a moment out of the rain, you see. We are not the plundering sort, my good man! A dwarf worth his or her beard would never consider that sort of pillagy racket for even a butterfly’s blink.”
Agape was putting two and two and two more fangs together and determining that she liked the answer even less than ghosts and wolves. This man—or creature—had to be a vampire, or at least a vile necromancer. The waxy skin, the black eyes, the fangs. It all added up. The reason he hadn’t answered the door at dusk but had arrived right as darkness had fallen—he had just awakened, hungry for blood.
“Vampire,” she whispered to Kirsi.
“What?” Kirsi said, right as the figure said, “Vhat?” in that unnerving way.
“I said…hamp…hamper. I wish we had a hamper.”
“Like for laundry?” the figure asked, confused. “That’s vhat you’re here to steal?”
“No. I just. Never mind. We caaan leave. We’re so sorry to haaave bothered you, sir. Please rest assured that we’re all anemic vegans who don’t like pineaaapple, and our blood is terribly thin and probably full of squirrel flu, so we’ll just be going.”
But the figure flapped one arm out, his black cloak billowing.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It is night and raining. You must stay. Join me for dinner.”
“Dinner!” Faucon said, walking right in and trying not to wince with each step. “That is my favorite word, right after luncheon and dessert. Fine word, dinner. And what, pray tell, will you be serving, my good man?”
“Vhy, I vill be serving you,” the figure responded.
Agape was just drawing breath for a proper scream when the figure laughed heartily. “That is a little joke. Because I vill be serving dinner to you, do you see? Ve’ll be having fruit-bat blood pudding, raw cubes of aged thunder yak, and marinated pearl onions, so crunchy and flavorful. All delicacies from Sangvynn, you see. Ah, the old country. How I miss the Eastern lands! Do come in. Please vipe your feet on the mat.”
Agape had no choice but to enter the house after wiping her hooves on the mat just inside the door, which read VELCOME. And then the door shut behind them, leaving them in the pitch dark.
“Silly me. I have forgotten the lamps. Reegor! Bring the fire!”
From somewhere deep within, a nasal voice called, “Fire!” and then, “Coming, master!” The steps that approached them went step-drag, step-drag, and Agape imagined that when the lamps were lit, she’d be met with a hideously twisted form, hunchbacked and evil-eyebrowed. But when a candle neared and lit the first lamp, there was a human girl, probably in her early twenties, wearing large glasses and sensible shoes. The dragging noise was apparently a large, fuzzy puppy that had the girl’s skirt firmly caught in its teeth.
“Sorry about Frank,” she said with a truly unfortunate voice. “He thinks everything is a game of tug-of-war. You guys staying at the hostel for dinner?”
“Yes?” Agape asked, utterly confused.
Reegor beamed. “Yay! Guests! And they’re still alive!”
“Aha!” Agape shouted. “I knew it! He’s a vaaampire, and you’re his foul assistant and possible sous chef, and thaaat’s…thaaat’s…a hellhound, and…”
Everyone went completely silent and stared. At Agape.
“Uh, is thaaat not the conclusion you were all reaching?” she asked.
“I am not a vampire!” the figure announced harshly. “I am…a dentist! And an innkeeper for traveling ghosts. I don’t understand vhy you might ever think I vas some undead monster.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s totally legit,” Reegor said. “Dr. Murkimer is one of the best dentists in Pell. He does loads of volunteer work here in the forest. He even went to Songlen and fixed the king’s teeth. We got to ride in a fancy coach with extra bidets and everything.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Worst case of goat teeth I’ve ever seen, but now they’re sparkling white and not all scraggly. I’m one semester away from graduating, thanks to Doc Murk’s mentorship.”
“And now, if you’re done assuming innocent dentists are monsters, I must attend to my guests,” Dr. Murkimer said huffily. “If you vish to check in, ve do have vacancies. Just see Reegor at the concierge desk. I promise ve von’t make you sleep in a coffin.” He swept indignantly down the hall, cloak held before him, shadows capering in his wake.
Kirsi looked at Agape like she’d grown horns. “You thought he was a vampire? Seriously?” When Agape just continued to gawp, the gnome added, “Your trust issues go pretty deep, Agape.”
“I’ll be at the concierge desk in the parlor, polishing the doctor’s humanitarian awards,” Reegor said, smirking. “You’re welcome to stand up here, quaking and wearing garlic necklaces for as long as you like.” She walked away, the puppy still clinging to her
leg. Step-drag. Step-drag.
As Agape opened her mouth to remind everyone of the pointy ears and cape, two puffs of cloud wisped through the door, through Gerd, and down the hall, and no one reacted to that either.
“G-g-g-ghost!” Agape stammered, pointing, in case the others hadn’t quite noticed.
One puff turned around, a man’s annoyed face materializing in glowing blue and continuing to gain form downward in the shape of a ghostly cloak. “Rude,” he muttered. “It’s a ghostel and a hostel, not a hostile, if you know what I mean.”
The other puff likewise materialized in glowing blue, a woman in skintight rogue’s duds. “Cor, Lord Toby. Did King Gustave get together with that nanny goat he liked when he was goatly, or did some other wizard have better luck with turtlehog-type relations, because the stammering girl with the hooves don’t look a bit right in the head nor hocks. A bit sheepish, if you get my meaning?”
“No, Poltro, Gustave cannot…I mean…I don’t think? Gods, I hope not,” The ghost named Toby cringed. “Gross. No offense.”
Faucon stepped forward, holding up a hand to silence Agape. “Forget the ovitaur,” he said. “Are you talking about King Gustave? Because that’s the second time he’s been mentioned here, and you see, we’re on a quest to find him.”
The ghost man grinned and smugly stroked a tiny beard that probably made even Onni feel pretty proud of his follicular accomplishments. “Why, you’re in luck, traveler! For I am personal friends with King Gustave himself. Why dost thou seek him?”
“To save lives,” Kirsi said, stepping forward. “We need to present a very important historical document to King Gustave to prove that Lord Ergot and the halflings are illegally waging war on the gnomes of the Skyr.” She was all business, despite the fact that Ghost Poltro kept accidentally swishing her ghost cloak through the gnome’s face while making boat noises. “Is he a kind sort of king? A king who would be opposed to exploding gnomes?”
“Most kind,” Ghost Toby assured her. “And horribly softhearted toward people exploding against their will. I’m sure he’ll try to help you.”
“Mmm. Softhearted.” Ghost Poltro licked her ghost lips. “And soft-haunched, and soft-gibleted. Cor, I miss curried goat!”
Ghost Toby rubbed his ghost forehead in a way that suggested he had not expected the afterlife to be quite so annoying.
“How can we convince King Gustave to see us?” Faucon asked, ever the professional. “We may appear a ragtag bunch, but the papers we bear are most legal and important.”
Ghost Toby grinned. “Oh, this’ll be fun. I’ll give you a secret passcode. If you say it to King Gustave, he will immediately know that you are trustworthy and that your quest is a noble one. Are you ready?”
Faucon whipped out his notebook and pen and nodded, eyes narrowed. “Most ready.”
“Then here it is. Simply say to him, The Dark Lord Toby swears on a bog-frog smoothie that we are the real deal, or else may Ol’ Faktri marinate me in phlegm and lemons.”
Faucon studiously wrote that down, but Agape wasn’t satisfied. “Wait. What does thaaat mean? How do we know it’s not a secret code to, I don’t know, throw us in an oubliette?”
Ghost Toby stepped toward Agape, forcing her to step back. He bent over, piercing her with his ghostly blue gaze.
“First of all, if I mean to throw you in an oubliette, you’ll know it. I possess one, you know.”
“Full of jam, it is,” Poltro added. “And sometimes me own brother.”
“Forget the ham jam. Child, do you honestly think that I would waste my afterlife sending people on wild-goose chases while other, more-innocent people die? No. I was a fool in life, and I’ve since learned that the greatest thing I ever possessed was not my tower or my grimoires or gobs of money and fine cheeses. It was the friends I made on my last adventure, and King Gustave was one of them. So use the passcode or don’t, but I assure you that if you want to get anywhere useful, you’ve got to learn how to trust.”
Poltro started to say, “Except—” but Toby interrupted her.
“Yes, Poltro. We never trust chickens. Everyone knows that.”
Poltro nodded wisely, and so did Gerd, oddly enough.
“Thank you,” Faucon said gravely. “Is there any favor we can do for you in return?”
“Ah! Most kind!” Toby’s eyes gleamed green with ghostly greed. “If you could just bop into the Catacombs of Yore and steal—I mean, borrow—some flesh honey from this fellow named Brønsted the Buttertroll or something like that—you’ll know it, as he’s guarded by an ageless monk and acid leeches, but don’t worry about that now. Doesn’t hurt a bit. So just get a spoonful—”
“Two spoonfuls,” Poltro reminded him.
“Ah. Yes. Of course. Two spoonfuls.” Toby winked an eye. “Of this flesh honey, see, and then you’ll need to go dig up our corpses at the Grange and part our dead, cold, worm-riddled lips—”
Faucon cleared his throat, interrupting a speech that had everyone gagging. “I was thinking more like…some flowers on a grave, or perhaps a pot of sugar, as my gnomeric friend assures me ghosts are into that?”
Ghost Toby sighed. “Now that I say it out loud, it does sound a bit complicated. Almost a complete quest in and of itself. But maybe…” He went all wistful. “Do you have some cheese? Perhaps a stout Styffi, or maybe a grand Gouda? I can’t quite taste it, but I find that if I sort of waft my mouth around it, it tickles my ectoplasm in the most delicious way.”
“I knew my ball bag would come in handy!” Båggi cried. “It’s a bit moist just now, and I’m sure the leather has made it sweat, but the cheese is definitely most prime!”
Ghost Toby went from horrified to appreciative when he saw the halfling cheese Båggi produced, and Kirsi suggested that they check in with Reegor and retire to the dining room, where Toby could waft around the cheese to his ghost heart’s content.
Dinner went about as well as could be expected, although Agape noticed Båggi didn’t enjoy his cheese as much after Toby’s mouth had floated around it six or seven times, making little moaning and gulping noises. The ghost lord had an entertaining trick of waggling his fingers to cause ghost croutons to fall around them like marshmallows, and Agape was fairly certain that several of his stories were about the king in a former life. Dr. Murkimer and Reegor joined them, which wasn’t as awkward as Agape had feared. Båggi distributed his mead to the humans and even provided a thimbleful for the gnomes and Lord Toby, who slurped at it and smacked his lips despite the fact that the level of liquor in his glass never changed.
As for Agape, she felt entirely bereft of joviality. She had always felt outside things, an observer who didn’t know how to be part of the party, but now she realized…she wanted to be part of the party. And not as the token stranger, not as the tough-as-nails traveler, not as the mysteriously cloaked figure who looked to the horizon and claimed to have seen things. She wanted to laugh and tell stories and forget that the world was a scary place, as her parents had always told her it was. This ghostel—it would’ve terrified them both into bleating puddles. It had definitely terrified Agape and even caused her to make a fool of herself.
But now she was here, and it was lovely. Everyone was safe and happy and in a good mood. Faucon was benefiting from his footbath and Båggi’s herbal preparations. Kirsi was deep in conversation with Lord Toby regarding the practical application of magic and the production of bready foodstuffs, which could come in handy on the road through enemy territory—although the bristle witch would need to find or manufacture a wand. Poltro and Gerd had become fast friends around their common distaste for chickens. Båggi, Dr. Murkimer, and Reegor were comparing turnip recipes and discussing the encroaching threat of cabbage cults.
That left Agape and Onni, side by side and silent.
“So this plaaace is okay,” she started.
Onni chuckled. “Be
tter than an abandoned crypt. Funny how everything on this quest goes sideways, isn’t it?”
She leaned in closer. “Do you…do you miss your faaamily? You had a brother, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, a twin. I miss him. But…well, he always outshone me. It was nice to be useful, when Piini was still around. I feel a little adrift now, if I’m honest. Do you miss your parents? They seemed…”
She could tell he wanted to say something like “awful,” and she realized she did too.
But she also realized what they really were. And the mead made her tongue as loose as a ball of last year’s wool.
“They’re just scaaared. Being haaalf sheep does that to a person. Their entire life revolved around hiding Piini aaand me. I guess they did do that effectively, but they messed me up, and I’m just starting to see how deep that goes. I do miss them, but I’m staaarting to like being out on my own even more.”
“You’re Independent AF,” Onni mused, and Agape laughed.
“Confused AF, more like.”
The gnome boy shook his head. “Nah. You just have to figure out what you want. After we find the king and fix things, I mean. The scary part is not knowing.”
“Do you know what you waaant?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He was looking right at Kirsi as he said, “Yeah, but I’ve always known.” Then he shook his head and refocused on Agape. “But you can go back to Caskcooper, become an artist. They think you’re great over there. Sell a couple of carvings and retire in style.”
“Bourgeois AF,” she mused, and they laughed together.
Agape looked around the table and realized…she’d been part of the party all along.
“I hope you get what you waaant, Onni,” she said, meaning it.
“Me too. But the Skyr comes first.”
As if on cue, the door banged open with an accompanying splintering of wood, and Dr. Murkimer and Reegor leapt to their feet.
