by G. K. Lund
I needed to breathe. Tried kicking, but the ghost didn’t seem to notice. Or care. My lungs burned and my heart pounded. How long before it would slow down?
I couldn’t push the hands away. They felt like cement molded to my face. An absolute sense of desperation fell over me. My brain stopped thinking, and I gave up on pushing at unmovable hands. Instead, I reached for my lone dagger. A weapon I’d come to see as extensions of my own hands over the past two years. I didn’t have iron or steel on me to fight a ghost. But I couldn’t give up despite the hopelessness.
So I pulled the only weapon I had from its sheath and, with hardly any leverage, swung it up and toward the ghost’s belly. The awkward angle allowed for only a scratch, and at first, I saw nothing. Then, the eyes of the ghost took on an almost human appearance because they widened in fear and its mouth froze in a scream. It took me a moment to realize the scream was audible. High pitched and piercing, reminiscent of a banshee’s scream.
The ghost started convulsing, its head bobbing forward in an almost comedic rendition of a chicken. Then it shivered, stared at me, and faded so fast I was still lying there with my dagger raised above me.
“What?” I uttered, my ragged breath stopping me from adding fouler words to my confusion.
I stared at my dagger. I didn’t know what it was made of, but it only worked against magic. So what was going on? This was not a ghost, was it? It couldn’t be.
I eased over on my side to check on the hooded man, but he was gone.
I cursed on the inside while I got to my feet, stumbling due to the edges I was trying to balance on, and rationing my intake of air for my lungs rather than the things I wanted to shout in anger and fear.
I saw him the moment I was upright. The hooded man was staggering like a drunkard toward an open doorway placed diagonally from the main entrance. He must be in shock and pain because I had not seen him move with so little grace before.
I ran after him, but before I could catch up, he must have heard me. You didn’t live long as a thief, whether inside or outside the guild in Atlantis unless you knew how to survive. Despite his pained confusion, he must have heard me, because he glanced over his shoulder before he legged it into the garden behind the temple.
I followed him and was at once surrounded by the overgrown garden I’d seen parts of from the street, only there was so much more here. The grass needed a date with a scythe, ferns snagged at my shoes, and the scents of various orchids were overwhelming. Huge weeping willows made the entire area feel enclosed with their hanging branches. Atlantis was a cornucopia when it came to flora. Everything had been brought in at some point, and because of the warm climate, most things grew happily. Regarding one of those hanging branches, I could see the thief heading right for it. I sped up, banking on having lost less oxygen than him. If he got up into the tree, I wasn’t sure how to catch him. I did not equate myself to a trained thief’s climbing abilities. The man jumped up and reached for a sturdy-looking branch with his hands. I ran and jumped too, but I aimed for his legs rather than the branch.
He lost his grip with a yelp and we both landed on the ground with cries of pain. My hold on his legs loosened a bit, and he kicked at me, hitting my chest. I gasped and then bit my teeth together. I smashed a fist into the back of his thigh. He howled in pain. My brutal handling of his wound bought me a second, though. I crawled forward over his legs, but he twisted under me until he was halfway over on his side and elbowed me in the ribs.
“Ahh! I need to talk—” I began, but he twisted again and shoved me off. On pure instinct, I reached out for balance and grabbed a fistful of his hair without seeing. He cried out as his movements threw me off. I let go and rolled sideways, not sure where he was anymore. Something thudded beside me; likely his foot where I’d just been. I twisted ninety degrees on the ground, spotted him like a shadow above me, and kicked at his leg. His darkened form toppled, and I rolled back and got to my feet, the smell of grass all around me. The actual straws on me.
A foot came out of nowhere and it was all I could do to raise my arms and block. The hard impact had my right knee almost to the ground before I deflected sideways and moved to his opposite side. I noticed my opponent hadn’t drawn either his own or my dagger. And that was even though I still had mine in my hand. Interesting. Knife fights could be nasty, both with trained and untrained fighters. The fact that our daggers were a little bigger made no difference.
The thief came at me again, sending blow after blow toward my face and upper body. At first, it was all I could do to block him and deflect. He never gave me a chance to do anything with the dagger but hold it. I noticed his strained right leg. The wound was hurting him, and he was ignoring it. His focus on my dagger was my best bet, though. I blocked his attempted punches, my underarms aching from the blows. Moving my right arm more, his attention was off my left. My attempts with the dagger were halfhearted, but he could not ignore the sharp weapon. When his hands clamped down on my arm to control the dagger and likely twist it until I let go, I intentionally let my guard down. I bent my fingers at the second joint and jabbed at his throat. The impact couldn’t choke him from the sideways angle, but he jerked back without letting go of my arm, and then stumbled back due to my waiting foot behind his leg.
I was pulled with him but twisted free and glided by him, ready to kick or wait, depending on his next move.
“I just want to—” I began and then noticed the thin sapling he’d landed on that was now bent so taut I had no chance when he noticed it too and moved his shoulder up, releasing it. I twisted to get out of the way, but the sapling smacked my ass so hard I stumbled forward.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I snarled, turning around as fast as I could. The thief was already on his feet, running back toward the temple.
“No!” I shouted, though for what reason I had no clue. He would not stop and listen. But he had the gem. I was running after him long before he reached the open doorway, awkwardly jumping over the fallen door on the ground there. He was visibly struggling with his leg now. I had no choice. This was my only chance. I needed to retrieve that jewel. I wanted so badly not to be looked at the way my uncle had.
The moment I entered the temple again, though, I saw a moving shadow to my left. I cast a glance at the apparition, concluded that the shadow was indeed the spirit, and ran the other way. No way was I letting Dekel lay his cold, dead hands on me again. I could sense him following and ran straight ahead. There was too much clutter in the room. I scampered up a pile of broken furniture, pieces of it tumbling down around me. Then I heard a shout.
I saw the thief across the room, the ghost now aiming for him. The hooded man’s limp was decidedly worse now. He must have strained his injured leg more than it could take. He had his hands up in front of him, desperation emanating from his whole stance. He didn’t even draw his weapons. He must have known his steel dagger wouldn’t help by now and had likely not seen how I had chased away the apparition before.
Well, I needed that damn thief alive, not choked to death.
I drew my dagger, shifted my grip, aimed, and threw it toward the spirit. It flew right past the headless Atë and burrowed into Dekel’s back.
I gulped air as the same high-pitched scream sounded and Dekel’s body twitched and shuddered. Then, like the first time, he vanished from sight. My dagger fell and landed in a small pile of what had once been a bench.
I clumsily made my way down the bigger pile I was on and scurried over to retrieve it before the hooded man could steal it, but I needn’t have bothered. He sunk to the floor and leaned back against the nearest column and was breathing hard. His wounded leg was stretched out to ease the pain, I assumed.
I got closer but kept my dagger at the ready. When he noticed me, his eyes sought a place in the middle of the room, nothing but debris to be seen. I vaguely wondered if there might be a secret entrance or the like, but did not have time for that. I needed him for other things than finding out where the Thieves’
Guild hung out.
“I only want to talk,” I told him. I kept my eyes on his hands more than his face, expecting nothing but trouble.
“Right.” He scoffed the sarcasm out.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
“I saw you talking to Stephene. I know you’re trying to kill me.”
“Who’s Stephene?” I asked. “Oh! You mean Melleta?”
“Should have known that wasn’t her real name. Not like she’s a real acolyte.”
“What are you talking about?” I took another couple of steps and he moved his hand to his dagger but seemed too worn out to bother. Instead, he wiped sweat from his forehead and sighed.
“Just get it over with.”
“Get what over with? Oh!” I added again, feeling more clueless this time. “I’m not here to kill you.”
“I saw you together.”
“Well, if that’s all it takes to be a murderer, then I should say the same. I saw you with her too.”
A flicker of doubt crept into his eyes.
“For god’s sake! I’m not here to kill you!” I couldn’t hide the exasperation in my voice. To emphasize my statement, I sheathed my dagger and crossed my arms. Okay, the last one was more in demonstration of his stupid claim. Either way, he looked like he might believe me. At least like he wanted to.
“You have something I want.”
He said nothing to that.
“It’s a sapphire. Known as the Glory of Avalon.”
The man huffed and pulled his hood back. His dark hair was unruly on top due to curls that had grown out a bit.
“And you say you don’t work for Stephene—I mean, Melleta. What do you think she’s after?”
“Well, I assume she brought it to the order. I have it on good authority that she had access to it a couple of years ago.” I did not add: in the Red Kin, where we kept items of importance to the city illegally because we’d usurped the state etcetera and so on. He didn’t need to know that.
“That jewel is the only thing keeping him here.”
“Keeping who? The spirit of the master of the order?”
The man paused and then nodded.
I glanced around, hoping it wouldn’t be back quickly, like last time. Hopefully, there was a difference between stabbing it and scratching it.
“He’s not a ghost,” I said.
“I know. I already tried using my dagger on him. Steel should work. But it did nothing.”
“Yeah. That’s because there’s magic at play here.”
“He’s not dead. That’s what’s important,” the man said and then groaned due to shifting his position. He touched the back of his thigh and his hand came out bloody. He’d opened the wound the doctor had stitched up for him.
“I need your help here,” I told him. “And it sounds like you have more invested in this than a sapphire.”
He stared at me then, straight on, no care for caution despite being worn out and exhausted. There was something so familiar about his face.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Damyan. Damyan Dekel.”
“Dekel? Right…” I nodded to myself. “Dekel Chiron is your father? And Helios Dekel is your brother?” They had to be, judging by age, and Damyan dipped his chin to confirm.
“So the not-ghost is your father, and the guy running the order is your brother.”
“You only got half of that right. Helios isn’t running anything.”
“Yeah, right. Then who is?”
“It’s Steph—uh—Melleta.”
I drew a deep breath at those words. “Oh no…” I shook my head in a denial that would not manifest properly. I had wanted to help her. To help another ex-kin member move on. Why’d she have to go and to this, whatever this mess was? And if she was the one running the show in the order, then that meant she was in control of Loki too. No wonder he hadn’t gotten out when no longer possessed by Dekel.
Chapter Ten
“A witch?” Damyan stared at the sign above Del’s door with a frown.
“A bog witch.”
“That doesn’t make it better. She’s still a witch. They can be cruel.”
“So can people in general. Ready?”
Damyan, who was leaning against the nearest house wall, groaned, but I didn’t think it was in pain. Yes, witches had reputations. Some were justified, while some, I assumed, were not, though they kept people in respect. Still, we had a magical problem, and we needed a magical solution. Since either of us had one, we had little choice. I didn’t know anyone who’d help me, especially if they knew my history, so Del was my only option. I didn’t want to presume or take advantage of our young and reestablished friendship, but I didn’t know who else to ask. And I did not know how long we had before non-ghost Dekel showed up to kill his son again.
I sighed and crossed the street, hearing the uneven steps of Damyan close by. This was not the kind of problem I’d expected when returning to Atlantis.
The bell above the front door rang when we walked inside. Del was at work, crouched down in front of a small girl of only five or so, her mother standing next to them.
“And if you are good and take your medicine, you can have this as a reward.” A bright red lollipop with the diameter of a golf ball manifested in Del’s hand and the girl’s eyes were like transfixed marbles. “But only if you’ll be a good girl and take your medicine,” Del repeated and handed the lollipop to the mother.
“Can you do that for me?”
The girl nodded vigorously, her eyes locked on her mother’s coat pocket, which now housed the sweet treasure.
“And you said witches are cruel?” I whispered to Damyan.
“Something’s not right about this,” he whispered back.
“Actually, this is pretty normal around here.”
We stepped aside to let the pair pass and walked over to Del, who smiled in greeting. “Emery! And friend. Welcome.”
I introduced Damyan to her and began explaining our situation, but she caught on to another problem fast.
“That leg of yours doesn’t look good. Shall I have a look at it?”
Damyan got a look of worry on his face, his mouth frozen in an “uuuhhhhh…” that honestly reminded me of the tormented face of his not-ghost father. Witches were known to fix the odd illness, like whatever that little girl had, but Damyan didn’t seem to know this. Or it was only him not trusting a witch.
“Yes, please,” I intervened before he could say anything. “I’ll pay for it. After all, I caused it.”
Del peered around Damyan, who’d frozen on the spot and saw more than enough. “You stabbed him and then brought him here?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad.”
“That’s because it is bad,” Damyan snarled with indignation. Apparently, being irritated at my dagger-throwing abilities lessened his doubts of receiving help from a witch, because he let Del lead him into the back room where she proceeded to clean and sew up his wound much like Doctor Gregoly had last night. The only difference was that Del did not use rubbing alcohol to clean the wound but some green concoction and a beige cream. Judging by the look on Damyan’s face, they both burned to the same level alcohol did. While she did this, I recounted the events at The Order of the Learned and the Reflective and what had transpired after I’d followed Damyan.
“Followed me?” he interrupted at this point and then squinted his eyes shut while Del finished another stitch in the back of his thigh. “I thought Melleta had sent you to kill me.”
“Why would she do that if she’s already sicked her not-ghost on you for that exact purpose?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been followed by him for a couple of days now. I was distracted. One of you would have gotten to me eventually.”
“I’m not an assassin.” This time, the indignation came from me.
“And I would know this how?”
“Well…” he had a point there.
“Except
judging from the way a smack on the ass stopped you. That is of course not particularly assassin-like.”
I scoffed at him, opened my mouth, and then thought of no appropriate comeback. Especially since I saw the half-hidden smile on Del’s face. There was also the still lingering sting of that sapling. My pride hurt the most.
“Well, you—” I began when my brain finally thought of a comeback, but Del beat me to it.
“I think the important thing here is that neither of you seems to want to kill each other. And I’m more interested in this non-ghost anyway.” She finished her last stitch on Damyan, who tried straitening up from where he was leaning against a table, but she gently pushed him back and wet a cotton swab with the green liquid before rubbing it on the now re-closed wound. “Why do you call it that?”
“What? A non-ghost?”
She nodded and got some gauze and began rolling it around Damyan’s thigh.
“Because I don’t see how he can be. Loki threw a bag full of salt at him and nothing happened. I tried iron, still nothing. In desperation, when I used one of my daggers,” I indicated the two now reunited daggers on my hip, “he shrieked in pain and disappeared.”
Del thought about this while she fastened the bandage and finally let Damyan straighten up and pull his trousers up.
“And this creature’s behavior before this?”
“Levitation, throwing things around, attacking us. You know, the usual poltergeist thing. That’s what I thought he was at first.”
They both stared at me. “Poltergeist?” Del asked.
“Seriously?” I looked from one to the other. “The one thing I know about ghosts, and it’s not a thing?”
“Not here, I guess. What is a poltergeist?”
I told her.
“Sounds like your run-of-the-mill ghost to me.” Del shrugged and began clearing away her wound-stitching equipment. “I’m going to guess, though, that the salt and iron was your new partner’s idea?”
