*
Famine and Morrigan sat on a long low-lying stone bench just outside the main entrance. The patrons coming and going gave them inquisitive looks and whispered to one another as they entered or exited the restaurant. Morrigan imagined they were saying things about The Banshee or something to do with high society matters. It made her sick, but not sick as seeing Famine keep so sullen. He had hardly spoken a word since they had arrived with The Banshee half an hour ago. It wasn’t like him to be so withdrawn. He was looking down at his feet when she spoke and jumped a little at the sudden noise.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me nothing because I know there is.”
Famine kept his gaze downward. “You sound like Llorona now. There’s nothing wrong. Just get over it.”
“Bollocks! You’ve been too damned quiet lately and that’s not you. Either you tell me now or I go to The Reaper and make something up.”
That got Famine’s attention. His head snapped up and he looked at her with surprise. “You wouldn’t do anything like that!”
“Just watch me. You can’t go on like this. I have to take drastic measures to get you to talk. Don’t mess with me, honey, I’ve been in a nasty mood since we dealt with that flying bitch.”
“Fine,” he said, “I’ll talk. Just don’t go thinking this is something you have to take care of. Okay?”
Morrigan grunted in agreement as he went on. “It’s about that woman in the Borderlands. I don’t know what to think about what she said.”
“Honey, she was just saying stuff to make you join her. It was all a bunch of shit. Forget what she said. I might be pissed but I took something from it. You need to, also”
Famine got up and walked to the edge of the porch on which the bench sat. He peered off into the swirling mists of the night. He could hear the chirping of crickets and the bellows of frogs somewhere within them. Strange shapes would appear in the fog then materialize seconds later as a Blue Crypt patron. He took a breath and continued.
“I wish I could. It’s just so unsettling.”
“Of course it is. It was scary as hell. And did you see that nasty ass suit? Anyway keep talking to me, I’m listening.”
Famine was quiet for a few seconds. He finally spoke in a hurried fashion.
“The Reaper said some bad things, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have said them if there wasn’t some truth in the words.”
Morrigan rose and joined her friend. She wrapped her arm around his narrow waist. “You told me he said all that stuff to make her go away. He was looking out for you. It worked. She left you.”
“She was right saying he wasn’t my real family. How can I really believe anyone who isn’t real to me?”
Morrigan let go and pulled her coat around herself. She thought she felt the wind’s chill but it just couldn’t be. She was dead and dead things don’t get cold. It was probably just her imagination. She never knew real cold and therefore couldn’t know what it felt like. She sighed and gave a quick nod ‘hello’ to a pair of water-logged ghosts in bride and groom outfits as they walked past her and into the Blue Crypt. She waited until the door shut before she spoke again. The last thing she wanted was her word being drowned in the collective murmurs of the diners.
“Family means a lot of different things to different people. I know you don’t remember your human family but that’s not the important thing now. You’re in The Deadlands with Deadlanders and they’re the ones who’re real. They’re the ones who’ve taken you in as one of their own. They are your family.”
“That doesn’t mean that they care. They didn’t even say much about my run-in with that Angelique woman. I’d have thought they would’ve been more supportive. They weren’t.”
“Maybe they thought you needed time to yourself. You went through a lot. It takes a while to put these things into perspective. Self-reflection isn’t easy. Sometimes you see things you don’t want to.”
Famine threw up his hands, made a sound that sounded like ‘bah” and sat back down on the bench. A slimy rotting zombie in a top hat and tails ambled out of the Blue Crypt picking his teeth with a finger bone. He gave Famine a smile as he passed and curtsied to Morrigan. The girl curtsied back and the thing was off into the night. Morrigan leaned against one the pillars supporting the building and folded her arms across her chest.
“You have to learn to trust your family more. You’ve been with The Reaper and Llorona for over two hundred years. He hasn’t done anything before to make you doubt him. What makes you think he’s starting now?”
“I don’t fit in with the group. He and Llorona are both soul collectors. They’re the embodiments of death. I’m not a ghost or zombie. I don’t what the hell I am. How am I supposed to be part of a family when I’m not like anyone in the family? I’m different.”
Morrigan regarded him with a sympathetic eye. She sighed and joined him on the bench again.
“I guess that’s what happens when you’re taken so young. You’re just in the middle of finding yourself when you’re suddenly thrust into something totally different. You don’t have time to discover who you are because you’re too busy trying to adjust to a new environment.”
He knew Morrigan was right. But part of him also wanted to wallow in his own melodramatic pity; it was part of his teen fabric. Opting to placate his friend, he echoed her optimism. “I know I need to trust them. I know that they’ve done right by me so far. I guess I just have that little kernel of doubt wedged so far into my head that it’s stopping me from thinking about anything else.”
“Take your time with this, sweetie. Let it sink it. Now, is there anything else?”
Famine frowned. “Should there be?” he asked.
“You can’t fool me. There’s more on your mind.”
He leaned over and gave her a hug. “Yes, there is but I got to discuss it with Uncle Ankou. It’s something I’m dreading talking about.”
“Aren’t you going to the Dead Fair with him tomorrow? Talk to him then.”
“I think I will. It’ll be good place to talk.”
Morrigan glanced down at her watch and quickly jumped up. “Oh, no! We’ve been gone longer than I thought! Let’s get back in before my mother sends a posse after us.”
As Famine and Morrigan went back into the dining room, The Reaper was talking enthusiastically about his hobbies and Azazel listened with keen interest. The former had his hand on a tray of darkened twisted human hearts. A steady flow of green light flowed from the organs, up his arm and ended in tiny pools in his eye sockets.
“…that’s when I got into model ship building. I saw the detail that went into the tiniest things and it just amazed me. It takes patience and time to create such things, Azazel, my good man. It’s a great way to unwind after a long day’s work.”
“So ships are the only things you build?”
The Reaper finished his heart appetizer, took a sip of his wine, and shook his head. “No, I make my own wine.”
Azazel rubbed his chin, narrowed his eyes, and stared off past the Reaper’s shoulder. He then reached a claw into a cracked open skull in front of him and pulled out a glob of thick back ichor. A few seconds of vigorous chewing later, he had swallowed the gelatinous mass and was talking again. “I should get into something creative, too. Working in Hell can be hell…need to unwind. I can be a right pain in the arse if I’ve had a bad day. I’m sure you have a lot of those.”
“More than I can count. Sometimes I’ll take a book with me and that helps. It’s usually something funny like Antigone. Nothing like a good tragedy to make me laugh.”
“What’s happier than an ending where everyone dies?” Azazel asked.
“Exactly!”
Famine and Morrigan quietly took their seats. It looked like the adults were getting on just fine. They gave one another a sly grin. Morrigan stuck a fork in her soul soufflé and frowned. The twisted face on it fell. She whispered ‘It’s flat’ to Famine before eating its gooey green and black c
ontents. Llorona had managed to block out the sounds of the mens’ conversation going on beside her and concentrate on what The Banshee was saying. Unfortunately, this was a mistake. Like any other time she and the woman talked, the tide always turned to petty and self-centered tirades. The Banshee had set her drink aside and was speaking about something as boring as the molecular composition of fence posts.
“I think haunting has gotten a little too easy to get into. I mean anyone can do it now. I remember when it used to be a profession of nobility and glamour. All I see in it now are two-bit ghosts and poltergeists with all the class of a stein of stale ale. Don’t you just hate that?”
Llorona feebly shook her head in vague agreement. Won’t someone please just bring me back to life now? she thought. Anything is better than this.
“Luckily, the roads I haunt are of the best class. Even your old stomping grounds have gotten a bit ritzier. I’m glad they built those mansions in the area. I would much rather scare a duke or count than some peasant.”
Morrigan suddenly stopped eating her soufflé and gave her mother an embarrassed look. It was lost within the woman’s glorified vanity. Llorona took the last drink from her goblet, put it firmly down, and looked up at The Banshee with a degree of disgust. The woman was getting on her last good nerve.
“Really? Is that all you care about? Where’s the thrill of the haunt gone? I used to love the looks of fear I got from people and it was even better when they screamed. That made the night worth getting out. Listen to me, I sound like Ankou now.”
The Banshee bit her lip. “I suppose that’s okay if you’re in it just to do a good job.”
“Pardon me if I care more about the craft than being seen.”
“If you cared so much about it, why did you leave? You could still be out there being scary but you’re in some dank crypt now.”Llorona took a deep breath and paused. She was thinking seriously about smacking the Banshee but she stifled the desire. Morrigan had resumed eating but stared at her mother suspiciously, as she was expecting The Banshee to suddenly break out a horned helmet and start singing an aria.
Llorona went on. “It’s a mausoleum, not a crypt. And for your information I always thought there was more to death than hanging around on dark roads at night being regal and stuck-up.”
“Were you right? Was there more? Is being a Hausfrau all it promised to be?”
“Mother!” shouted Morrigan. That little protest drew Famine’s attention. He also stopped consuming his meal to see what was going on. The men were oblivious as they continued their talking.
“I’m not a Hausfrau. Yes, I help out, but I’m mainly there for Famine. It feels good to be there for someone else. I think I’ve learned a great deal from The Reaper and Ankou. They’ve been great after-life teachers. I think my light has grown since I’ve met them.”
“I guess that’s something.” The Banshee said in a mocking manner.
“I think it is.” Llorona answered not reacting to the tone of the Banshee’s question, “The Deadlands can give as many lessons as the living one did. You just have take the time to find them. You don’t have to have prestige to do it.”
The Banshee gave a non-interested nod and looked at the ring on her left hand. Her tone was distant. “I can see your point. Anyway, what else have you been doing? Do you still draw your little pictures?”
“Yes, I still paint. It’s hard to give up something that meant so much when I was alive...really alive.”
“Well, that’s good. We all need distractions no matter how small they are.”
“Mother would you stop? Leave Ms. Llorona alone! You’re embarrassing me!” said Morrigan through clenched teeth.
Llorona laughed slightly. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I can take care of this.”
It was Famine’s turn to protest. He threw down his napkin and hissed. “No. Don’t care of anything. Just let it go. There are people around for death’s sake.”
Llorona ignored him. She slid the goblet over, put her elbows on the table, and leaned in towards The Banshee. Time had come for the nice-guy - make that nice-lady - routine to end. It was apparent that this Death Omen had to be told a thing or two, and Llorona hadn’t had the chance to be a bitch in a very long time.
“You know, Banshee, I was glad when I was able to get back to something that resembled a life. It meant that I could enjoy being myself. It meant that I didn’t have to be anything artificial, you know?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come now, everyone knows you’ve had vocal cord enhancement. No one’s is that big. Amazing what a large pair will get you, huh?”
Famine and Morrigan both gasped and stared wide-eyed at their mothers. The Banshee pointed a finger at Llorona. Her eyes blazed and her face contorted with rage. How very dare this little specter of a woman say such scandalous things! “Just you take that back, you Spanish harridan! They’re real!”
Llorona wasn’t backing down. The gauntlet had been thrown. “No, I won’t! No one likes a nasty bitch, Banshee, especially a fake one like you.”
The Banshee waited a second, narrowed her eyes, and leaned in to meet Llorona’s gaze. “At least I didn’t kill my own child!”
The last remark was delivered with spite and venom; Llorona fell silent and sat back into her seat. She spoke with an air of defeat. “What?”
By now The Reaper and Azazel had fallen quiet. Both had stopped eating and were focused on the words now being exchanged. Azazel’s wings fluttered slightly. The Reaper put out a skeletal hand and touched Llorona on her shoulder. A few other Blue Crypt patrons were looking at the table, whispered words floating between them like flitting insects.
An old grey-skinned vampire pointed at them and said something to one of the ghoul waiters who was pouring a red liquid into his glass. Azazel shot him a nasty look and the undead being looked away quickly. Famine sat staring angrily at The Banshee. He dare not get involved. This was between the two adults and he didn’t want to hurt Morrigan by saying anything nasty towards her mother.
“That’s right. You drowned your child, you evil bitch. How someone could kill their own flesh and blood is beyond me. It’s sickening,” said The Banshee.
Llorona swallowed. “That wasn’t what really happened.”
The Banshee didn’t let up her inquest. She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. It was now she who could be triumphant in her attack of words. “Then why the hell did people say otherwise? It’s got to be true!”
Azazel crinkled his forehead in thought as he gave his opinion. “Sometimes people say things to hurt other people...”
The Banshee gave him a menacing glance. Her tone was spiteful and condescending. “Oh shut-up. No one asked for your thoughts, you stupid demon.”
He fell back and began picking at the skull entrée’s teeth, his head and eyes downcast.
“Yes,” Llorona sorrowfully answered, “he did drown but I wasn’t the one who did it. No one did it.”
“What the hell does that mean? No one did it? Would you care to tell me what happened then?” asked The Banshee mockingly.
Llorona sighed and looked down at the table. She spoke in a weary, heavy voice. “I told him not to play down by the river. I told him a lot. But you know how kids are…they don’t listen. They’ll do whatever they want to do. Whenever I found him there, I always had drag him home. One day….one day…he didn’t come when I called. I knew where he was. When I went down to the river, I saw my son struggling in the water.”
Her voice was becoming heavier with sadness as she went on. Words became distantly spoken. “He was screaming and kicking. I dove in. You just don’t think when something like that happens. I struggled to make it before it was too late. But I kept going under. I couldn’t swim well but I wasn’t going to let him drown.”
A lone tear rolled down her pale cheek. But now her voice was forlorn and soft. “I finally made it to my son. He was cold…very cold. He
wasn’t breathing. I tried swimming back but he was heavy and I was tired. I kept going under. Damn it, I fought, but I kept going under. I couldn’t help it. About ten feet away from shore, I went under for the last time…”
No one said a word. Even the monsters at the tables around the, were silent. A few of them wiped away a tear or two with their cloth napkins. Llorona had struggled to keep a cascade of tears back but now that she had finished her tale, she let go. The Reaper leaned over and put his arm around her. Famine glared at The Banshee.
“See what you’ve done! Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? Foul whore!”
The Banshee gasped in shock, “Are you going to let him talk to me that way, Morrigan?”
The girl shook her head, “He’s right, mother, you never know when to shut the hell up. All you do run your mouth and talk about other people. Have you ever stopped to think about what your words do to people?”
The Banshee was about to protest again when the grey-skinned vampire spoke up. His voice was suave and smooth. “You’re a downright bitch! No one here cares for you much. We all hate to see you come into places like this. I’d rather have silver rods rammed up my ass than to sit there next to you. But hunger outweighs hate.”
Somewhere near the entrance, a tall, lanky witch with pink hair and violet skin raised her arm. She wore tight fitting leather garments and her face was heavily done up in black make-up. “I second that. When I walked in and saw you sitting there, my first thought was to go back out. But I’m not letting some fancy rich society bitch like you ruin my evening.”
The Reaper pushed his tray of hearts aside and turned his attention to The Banshee. “You don’t know what the loss of a child does to you until you’ve been through it yourself. It changes you on the deepest levels. You can’t begin to imagine Llorona’s pain. Yet here you sit making your decisions about her based on hearsay and gossip. You should be ashamed.”
“Don’t lecture me! I don’t have to know her personal history to know what kind of woman she is. That’s apparent without any questions being asked.”
“So, you don’t think you’d be changed if anything happened to Morrigan?” asked The Reaper pointing at the girl.
“Nothing’s ever going to happen to her! She’s my daughter. She’s safe.”
Morrigan shrunk back in her chair looking scared. “Please don’t, Mr. Reaper.” she said.The Reaper shook his head. “I’m sorry, dear, but she needs to be told. Maybe then she’ll change.”
The Banshee crinkled her forehead as she spoke. “What are you talking about?”
Famine patted Morrigan’s shoulder as The Reaper talked. “Last week Morrigan was captured by a Rusalka here in the Borderlands. The damned thing nearly killed her. If I hadn’t come along we’d not be sitting here having this stupid dinner.”
Azazel sat up and looked at The Reaper with a serious face. The Banshee stammered in her confusion. “What?” she asked with a hushed tone.
“Last week when she was with Famine getting his license, a Rusalka attacked them. She had the kids trapped. She was going to kill your daughter. I intervened and helped. I sent her running Now I suggest you stop being so arrogant and start worrying about your own damn family.”
The Banshee was silent for several seconds before she turned to look at Morrigan. “Is this true?” she asked.
Morrigan sighed. “Yes. I didn’t want you to know because I’d know you’d make a huge deal out of it. You’re a drama queen. I can’t stand it. Anyway I’m safe now and that’s all that matters.”
“I don’t know what to say. This is just so unexpected.”
“That’s how things are, Mother. They don’t always go your way.”
Azazel wrapped a wing around his daughter. “We were right bastards. Downright dicks.”
Morrigan had never heard the demon say such words until tonight. She didn’t think he even knew they existed. The evenings were full of surprises.
The Banshee sat silently. She looked down at the napkin on her lap and spoke softly. “What am I supposed to say? That I’m a bad mother? That I should’ve been there for you?”
Morrigan answered matter of factly. “I don't know. How am I supposed to answer? It’s all up to you, mother. You can change your ways or you can continue to miss out on my life. I’ve given up on you a while back. I knew all this fancy rich shit was all that mattered.”
“That’s not true. I care about a lot of things. You just don't see it.”
“Start showing it. It won’t hurt. You’d be shocked at what it can do.”
Azazel patted Morrigan’s shoulder. “It’s hard for us, we’ve never had to show emotions. Demons and ghosts are supposed to be unfeeling creatures of darkness. Just give us a chance.”
“He’s right. Being in polite society meant we could be cold. Never thought it could be any other way. Besides, it was easy to do,” the Banshee said looking Morrigan directly in the eye.
“Well try being different,” Morrigan said, “Take your time. Loosen up, too. Now you said some nasty things. You owe Llorona an apology. Let that be your first try at showing feelings.”
Hearing these things from others meant nothing because their opinions meant nothing. When they came from Morrigan’s mouth, they carried the weight of The Deadlands. Opening the heart and mind meant being venerable and that equaled weakness. So if saving her family meant being seen as weak, then that was the way it had to be. The Banshee nodded. She cast her eyes down and spoke softly and apologetically. “I’m sorry I said that. I was out of line.”
“That’s fine. I accept your apology. I was a bit bitchy, too.”
The Banshee relaxed, smiled, and offered her hand. Llorona lightly shook it and smiled back. Her tone was soft now. “Anyway, it’s in the past. As long as we know where we came from, we can guide our lives in the right direction. That’s the most important thing. We’re always changing. That’s the beauty of being more than substance.”
The Reaper and Azazel went back to eating. The uneasy truce seemed to quiet things down and the attention of the Blue Crypt’s patrons went back to their dinners. Llorona reached over and grabbed a couple of hearts from The Reaper’s plate.
“Say, we should go out sometime. If you’d like, I could show you some of the parts of the Borderlands you haven’t seen,” The Banshee said.
Llorona absorbed the last bit of energy in the heart she was consuming. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I do get tired of being stuck in the mausoleum all day. I don’t think I’ve been out to have any fun in over a hundred years. I’m just not sure how to act in real fancy places.”
“I wouldn’t worry. I’ll be there with you. Anyone who doesn’t like it can just kiss my—”
The Reaper clanged a fork against his wine glass to get everyone’s attention. When they had all turned to face him, he spoke. “I’d like to buy everyone here a round of drinks. This is a good time. We’ve overcome our differences and I’d say that deserves rewarding.”
Azazel slapped The Reaper on the back and chuckled. “I won’t argue with that, mate! I’ll buy dinner.”
“You really don’t have to,” said The Reaper.
“I insist! We might as well start off on a good foot if we’re going to make this work, wouldn’t you say?”
“I think we can all safely say that the family bonds are stronger. Let’s make the same be said of new friendships,” The Reaper agreed.
The Reaper motioned the waiter over to get the drink orders. Famine stood up, wiped his mouth, and threw his napkin on the table, “I’m sorry to run. I want to get ready for the Dead Fair tomorrow. It’s been a long week and I need the rest.”
Morrigan stood, too, and joined him. “I’ll go with you. Thank you for a lovely night, Mr. Reaper and Ms Llorona.”
“You’re very welcome, dear,” said Llorona, “I hope to see you again soon.”
“You will. Good night everyone.”
Famine nodded his good-byes as the adults bid Morrigan adieu. He stepped out
into the night and waited. Seconds later, Morrigan came out smiling. She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.
“See there. I told you things would be okay. Everyone’s getting along. If that didn’t say anything about family, nothing else would. Do you feel any better?”
Famine shrugged. “I guess. I just hope it stays this way.”
“What makes you think it won’t?”
Famine looked back into the restaurant through the window. The Reaper, Llorona, The Banshee, and Azazel were all talking, laughing, and drinking. One of them must have just told a good joke as the laughter was uproarious. The feeling he had in his gut from a week prior was sill there. He didn’t feel like anything was as truthful as it had been. Everything seemed somehow forced and false. He sighed and turned back to Morrigan.
“Things have a way of going wrong real quick in my experience. I just hope this time they don’t. I don’t think I could deal with any more shocks or surprises.”
He extended his arm to Morrigan. She smiled, took it, and the two walked off. While doubt lingered in his mind about the adults, he had faith in her friendship and devotion. Lately it was what kept him going. He thought about the next day and leaned in to whisper to her. “So do you know anything about this Dead Fair?”
“It’s fun…it’s a carnival of dead things. You might have more fun than you’d expect. I haven’t been in years.”
“Sounds intriguing,” the boy replied looking up into the night sky, “doesn’t sound like anything bad could come out of that.”
Keeping Up with the Deadlanders Page 7
