by Linsey Hall
“She’s visiting an old friend in the graveyard?” Roarke mused.
“Fitting, for the Spooky Southern Superman.”
“Fair enough.”
I grinned at him, and he grinned back. Then, by silent agreement, we approached the small crowd of ghosts who waited by the shore. When we neared, I realized that they were sitting on park benches. A wooden overhang formed a rain barrier, though I wasn’t entirely sure that ghosts needed to be protected from the rain. All in all, it looked exactly like any old bus stop. Except it was deep in the southern woods outside of Savannah and populated by ghosts.
We joined the ghosts, hovering slightly off to the side instead of taking a seat, and I made wary eye contact with what could only be described as a pirate. He had a long beard studded with braids and beads, a missing eye, and a peg leg. His hat was a battered leather three-sided affair, and a parrot sat on his shoulder. Beside him sat a priest, and next to them a woman in a lovely dress.
I smiled weakly at them. Only the pirate smiled back, showing his three teeth. His only three teeth. This guy had had a rough life before he’d died. But then, all of the eighteenth century had been rough.
It didn’t take long for the ferry to puff into sight.
“Thank fates that the boat isn’t a ghost,” I muttered. “We’d fall right through to the water.”
Roarke chuckled as the small steamboat pulled alongside the little wooden dock. Smoke billowed from its stack, disappearing into the dark night air. The little vessel was piloted by a man in a long dark cloak. We boarded behind the ghosts, stepping carefully onto the wooden deck as the boat rocked.
Up close, it was clear why the ferryman wore his cloak. He had no face. Just a black spot where his head should be. Instead of eyes, there were dull flames.
Freaking creepy.
He held out a hand, which was nothing more than his cloak draped over an invisible limb.
“How much?” I asked.
He wiggled his fingers—at least I thought they were his fingers, from the way his cloak was moving—and said nothing. I glanced back at Roarke, who shrugged.
I hadn’t noticed what the other ghosts had given him. Dang it, I should have paid more attention.
“Give him some of yer soul,” the pirate muttered.
My gaze darted to his. “My what?”
“Yer soul.”
“No.”
“He won’t take much, and you got plenty.” He glanced around. “Anyway, you see another boat willing to pick you up?”
He had a point. “He won’t take much?”
“Just a smidgen. Hold out your palm.” He gestured, indicating what I should do.
I glanced back at Roarke, who nodded. He was right. We needed to find Oriamor, and we didn’t have a lot of time. Swimming was out of the question.
I held out my palm. The ferryman reached out as if he were going to pluck a pebble off my upturned palm. There was a pinch, and a sense of loss, then it was over.
Not so bad, really. Except my chest felt slightly hollow. It faded as I stepped forward, joining the pirate while Roarke paid the ferryman.
“I didn’t see you do that,” I muttered to the pirate.
“Got an account. Pay up front and you get a discount.” He grinned, his three teeth shining in the moonlight.
“How…modern.”
Roarke joined us, glancing at the pirate. “Why is this bar across the river if the price is so steep to get there? Couldn’t you just build one in the graveyard?”
“Don’t want to party where I live, do I?” The pirate huffed. “Never. I spend too much time in that place as it is.”
“Fair enough.” Though it was a steep price, considering he’d eventually disappear if he gave away too much of his soul. “There’s not an, um…portal over there, is there? One spilling out demons?”
The pirate arched a bushy brow at me. “That sounds dangerous.” He grinned, showing off his three teeth. “I like danger.”
“That’s not why you’re crossing the river, though, right? There’s no portal? Just a bar?”
“Not last that I saw.”
“Nothing called Oriamor?” Roarke asked.
The pirate’s forehead scrunched. “Oria-what?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” I leaned back against the railing, wondering what we’d find on the other side of this river.
The boat puffed across, cutting across the silent expanse of water as it chugged toward the other shore.
“Pretty lady!” the parrot chirped.
I frowned at the bird, then smiled. It wasn’t every day I was complemented by a bird, so I’d take it. But the charm ended there. The pirate kept leering at me, and since I didn’t want to start a fight with a toothless ghost and his parrot, I ignored him.
The boat drifted to a stop at the small dock, and we followed the ghosts onto the bank. It was identical to the other side, an abandoned expanse dotted with oaks dripping Spanish moss.
As the ghosts headed off, I called on my dragon sense. It pulled me in the same direction as the ghosts.
“I guess we follow them,” I said.
“Easy enough.” Roarke glanced around. “And Aleta was right. There’s nothing else out here.”
I kept my senses alert as we walked, but I could sense no portal. Roarke was taut as a wire beside me, but he, too, gave no indication that there was a portal here.
The trees thickened as we followed the dim lights of the ghosts. Finally, they were so big and close together that they formed a roof overhead. The Spanish moss dripped down like stalactites and fireflies fluttered in the air, giving the place an even more enchanted feeling. A hundred yards ahead, the air glowed brightly with the light of dozens of ghosts.
“It’s definitely a ghost bar,” I said. “And no portal.”
“As long as there are no haints, I’ll be good.”
“Agreed.”
As we neared, I could see that there were more than just ghosts here. Other species of supernaturals mingled with the crowd—weres and witches, demons and druids, but the ghosts outnumbered them by a factor of four to one. They all gathered around tables built of stumps. The bar was a long expanse of oak limbs that had been smoothed off at the top. Though there were no walls and the ceiling was made of the treetops, the place felt like a real bar. Just more outdoorsy.
“I guess we’d better get a drink and ask around,” I said.
Roarke nodded and we headed to the bar. The bartender was a bulky man, with muscles on top of muscles. He looked a lot like The Rock, but with tiny little horns and two long fangs. The Rock, Vampire Edition.
He grinned toothily at us. “What’ll it be?”
“Wine?” I asked.
“What box is your preferred vintage?” he asked.
I laughed. My boxes had no vintages. “You’ve got a knack for guessing drinks.”
He shrugged, grinning. “It’s my job.”
“I’ll take whatever you have. Red.”
“Scotch. Neat,” Roarke said.
The bartender was quick with our drinks. As I accepted it, I had the fleeting fear that I’d have to pay with some of my soul, but fortunately he accepted credit cards. Thank fate for small favors, because even boxed wine wasn’t worth part of my soul. Though I didn’t want to ever have to put that to the test.
Roarke paid and we took our drinks, turning around to survey the crowd.
“We need someone alone who looks friendly,” I said.
“Not him, then?” Roarke pointed at a grumpy-looking troll who sat off to the corner. He was as big as a car and had a face that would turn you to stone if you looked at it too long.
“Maybe as a last resort.” I scanned the crowd, which was mostly a crew of revelers, then pointed at a friendly old man who sat in the middle of the room, smoking a pipe and staring off into the distance. He was a ghost who looked like he’d had a good long life and was enjoying the memories. “Him?”
“Looks promising.”
I turned t
o the bartender, then gestured to the man. “Could I have one of whatever he drinks?”
“Clyde? He likes Beastly Bourbon.”
I nodded. “Beastly Bourbon, then.”
The Rock, Vampire Edition, turned and poured the drink, then handed the glass to me. It glowed blue and pale—a ghost cocktail. Tentatively, I took it. The glass was unnaturally chill against my fingertips and felt insubstantial, but I was able to hold it.
I paid and glanced at Roarke. “Let’s do this.”
We approached the old ghost, who still stared off into space.
“Can we join you?” I asked.
He jumped, then his gaze landed on us. It was friendly enough, despite its transparent nature. “Don’t see why not.”
“Thanks.” I set the drink down in front of him. “Bartender says you like Beastly Bourbon.”
“He’d be right.” He finished off the last sip in his old glass and took the new. “Mighty kind of you.”
“Well, not really,” I said. “We were hoping we could ask you some questions.”
“Still kind. Coulda asked the questions without the drink.”
“That’d just be rude.” I scowled.
He cracked a smile that was decorated with as few teeth as the pirate. Dental hygiene in the past hadn’t been top notch, apparently.
I sipped my wine, giving him a chance to try his bourbon. He did, smiling broadly, then asked, “What did you want to know?”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Oriamor?”
“A place? No.”
My heart dropped, but then he spoke again. “But a person… Yes.”
“Person?” That wasn’t what the Shadows had said.
“Yep.” He nodded toward the other side of the bar.
I turned to look.
“See that gal over there? The one with the tray? That’s Zoya Oriamor.”
“She’s a waitress here?”
“Yep. Has been for decades.”
“She doesn’t look that old,” Roarke said.
He was right. Zoya didn’t look to be a day over thirty. She must be a long-lived species of supernatural.
“What is she? Fae?” I asked.
Clyde shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. She’s not the sharing sort. Seems like a runner to me.”
“You mean she’s hiding from something?” I sipped my wine.
“Exactly. And she couldn’t have found a better place to do it.”
I glanced around at the remote bar, hidden far out in the Georgia barrier islands. Clyde was right. Zoya had found a good place to hide out. But from what?
I stood. “Thank you, Clyde. We’ll leave you to it.”
He raised his glass and nodded, and we departed. It wasn’t hard to track Zoya down through the crowd. Though she was small, she was one of the few solid-state supernaturals in the room. Was that what I should call the non-ghosts? I’d never had to think about it before.
We found her loading glassware onto the end of the bar, her blonde hair piled high on her head.
“Zoya Oriamor?” I said.
She turned, brushing her wispy bangs off her head. I could feel no magical signature from her, which was strange. Her eyes were a bright, piercing blue, and I had the uncomfortable sensation that she could see right into my soul. Her T-shirt was hot pink with the acronym GRITS: Girls Raised in the South emblazoned across her chest.
“What do you want?” she drawled, chewing on a piece of gum.
“I’m Del Bellator. Could we ask you a few questions?”
She looked at me skeptically. “What could you possibly want to ask me? I don’t deal in information.” She hoisted a dirty beer glass. “I deal in PBR and Miller Lite.”
I grinned. Cass would like her. “It’ll only take a moment.”
She sighed and nodded to an empty table a few feet away. “Fine. Wait for me there.”
It only took her a few minutes to take care of the beer glasses, and she joined us, a beer in hand. She sat down heavily for such a small woman and sighed. “The ground may be made of moss and dirt, but it’s still tough on the ol’ dogs.”
I grinned. “We wanted to ask you about your last name. Oriamor.”
“Oriamor? My last name is Bennis, not Oriamor.” Her gaze shifted left.
Something was fishy here. “Are you sure? Clyde over there said it was Oriamor.”
Her gaze darted to him, and she scowled briefly. Though she wiped it off her face quickly, it was obvious.
“Clyde was right, wasn’t he?” Roarke said. “That is your last name.”
Zoya sighed. “Fine. It was, once. When I first arrived. I’d forgotten that old codger knew it. He’s been around two hundred years and knows too much.”
“So you are hiding, then, if you changed your name,” I said.
“None of your business,” she snapped.
“Fair enough.” I shrugged. “I’ve spent most of my life hiding so I can understand that. And I’m not here to ask about you. I’m here to ask about a place called Oriamor.”
Her skin paled, the blood rushing out of her face in a flash. She drew in a quick, quiet breath. “Doesn’t exist.”
“Sure it does,” I said. “Your face tells me that.”
“Damn it.” She dragged a hand through her blonde hair. “I’ve gotten bad at this. Been here two centuries, safe as can be, and forgot how to keep my cool.”
“I hope that’s me one day—so safe I forget to be wary,” I said.
Sympathy entered her eyes. “What is it you want to know about Oriamor? I left there long ago.”
“I screwed up.” I grimaced. “Bad. Some evil jerks forced me to open a portal between the Underworld and Earth. They said that it opened in a place called Oriamor. Because of me, there are now hundreds of demons spilling out onto Earth, right into Oriamor.”
Zoya sagged in her chair. “So the legend was true.”
“What legend?” Roarke asked.
“Oriamor was a settlement built by Ice Fae in Kamchatka, Russia. It’s a peninsula even farther east than Siberia. Truly the back of beyond.”
I pointed to her T-shirt. “So you’re no GRITS, and your accent is a good fake.”
She nodded sharply. “My people lived in Oriamor for thousands of years, but a shadow always hung over our head. The place was haunted by a dark magic—one that we didn’t understand nor like. But it was one of the few uninhabited active volcanic areas in the world, so we chose it as our home. We like the combination of fire and ice. The Ice Fae draw their power from the earth—we need to live by an area like that to be worth anything.”
“So when you left, you lost your powers,” I said. And it was the reason I couldn’t feel any coming off of her. “Must have been something scary to drive you away.”
She nodded. “It drove all of us away—all that were left, at least. The dark magic had grown with time, causing accidents and deaths. There were only about a few dozen of us left. I escaped before it got me too. I don’t know what happened to the rest of my people. I just wanted to put it behind me—live a good, simple life.”
“You mentioned a legend?” Roarke asked.
Zoya nodded, her face still pale. “The Legend of the Overwhelming. It’s the main reason I left. Our seers believed that the dark magic was a precursor to a great portal opening from hell. Demons would flow out, destroying our town and everyone in it.”
“Overwhelming you,” I said.
“Exactly. Oriamor means gateway in our language, so it made sense.”
“If Oriamor means gateway, why is it your last name?” I asked.
“It also means Gatekeeper. That’s me. Or rather, my family. We were the gatekeepers, protecting our village. But with the magic getting stronger and more accidents occurring, we decided the time was coming. So I left.”
“But you were off by two hundred years,” I said.
“Over the course of several thousand years, that’s not so much. Especially for someone as old as a Fae.”
“True en
ough,” I said. “How did everyone else feel about you leaving?”
“About as you’d expect—pretty negatively. I’ll never be allowed back. Killed on sight, according to the rules.”
“That’s a big sacrifice to make,” I said.
“No kidding. But it was the right call. The prophecy has come to pass. The portal is open. The demons are coming through. I got out. I’m safe.”
“What about everyone else?”
She shrugged. “Killed or they’ve made some pact with the demons. Either is possible. They could still be there—but they’re lost to me. They have been since I broke the rules and fled.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. I made my choice.” Her voice was hard. Despite her slight stature and pretty face, I could see the tough woman who’d made the best choice for her own survival and stuck with it.
“We need you to tell us how to get there so we can close it.”
She laughed, a dark, bitter sound. “Not a chance in hell, cookie. There’s no way you’ll ever make it close. The place is too protected. I’d be sending you to your deaths.”
“We’re good at breaking through protections,” Roarke said.
She shook her head. “Not good enough. Because we fight over our turf, Ice Fae have gotten good—no, great—at protecting their territory. You’ve never seen anything like what we’ve got in Kamchatka. We own almost the whole peninsula.” She frowned. “Or at least, we did.”
“Does that mean the enchantments might be defunct?” I asked. Though we probably could fight our way through, that didn’t mean I wanted to. We needed to be fast and effective, not hampered by delays.
“Not a chance,” Zoya said. “They’ll be there. And you won’t get through.”
“Then take us through,” Roarke said. “You’re from the line of gatekeepers—you’d be the best at getting through the protections.”
Zoya laughed. “Hell no. My people will kill me on sight if I return. And how do I even know you’re telling the truth?”
“Hardly seems like something anyone would make up,” I said.
She shrugged. “Takes all sorts.”
“We’ll pay you,” Roarke said.
“I gave up my powers to escape that place. I’ll never be accepted back because I ran. They might even kill me.” She shook her head. “Ain’t nothing you can offer that’ll convince me.”
