The Ghost-Queller

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Blood and violence, dark themes, mild internalized homophobia

Summary: When Feithlyn moves from her tiny village to the big city to study veterinary medicine, she’s expecting some things to change. She is not expecting to become embroiled in a ghostly murder mystery, at the center of which stands an enigmatic figure known only as the ghost-queller. As Feithlyn’s world expands, she fights to keep her footing–and her life.

The bird cocked its head and tapped on the glass.

“Stop that! Shoo!” It wasn’t that Feithlyn didn’t like crows, it was just that the last few times she had turned her back, this one had managed to open the window and sneak inside, dropping feathers everywhere for her to clean up. Crows did not belong in a café, and if the owner found out, Feithlyn feared for her employment, which meant fearing for her tiny one-room apartment, which meant fearing she would have to complete her veterinary degree while homeless. Which sounded difficult.

“Please, little friend,” Feithlyn whispered, standing on her tiptoes on a wobbly chair to see to it that the small window remained fastened this time. “I understand that tha likes it in here, but I promise I will bring thee something nice to eat if only tha stays out during open hours.”

The window was definitely, firmly, absolutely shut—not to mention grimy with soot and dirt. The Tempest Teahouse lay on a steep slope, with the back windows—nearly at the top of the store—at street level, while you could walk in the front of the store without going down more than a few steps. It was odd, but at least it made it a fairly safe place to work when the storms rolled in. Assuming she didn’t get fired.

Humming to herself a little desperately—it always calmed her nerves—she rapidly took up her place behind the counter again. Lathfezhbyr was the first city Feithlyn had ever journeyed to, and it had absolutely shattered her expectations of what a large number of people looked like. There were more flocks of commuters passing through the café hourly than lived in her entire hometown. And unlike in her hometown, all the commuters were constantly attired in colorful rain-gear, dripping water everywhere, and losing umbrellas at a rate beyond compare. The lost and found table was constantly so covered in them that Feithlyn didn’t even know what its surface looked like, even though she had been working here for at least three weeks.

She took another order—one of the regulars, she thought vaguely, two black coffees and three sugar lumps each. One of them vanished without fail and somehow he always seemed to leave most of the other behind. Quite a lot of the customers seemed to want more than one coffee, and they were forever not finishing them. Feithlyn hated waste, but she was definitely not addicted enough to caffeine to be able to take care of the extra herself, and she didn’t have enough free time to try and find another home for unfinished teas and coffees.

“Excuse me.”

Feithlyn turned to find yet another customer regarding her with a stern expression. Probably not a regular, because she didn’t recognize them—an older person in a dour grey coat of heavy waterproof wool, black hair streaked with white and grey, a pair of small, half-moon spectacles perching on a hawkish nose, and peeking over their back, probably strapped to it, the top of what looked like a coffee grinder.

“Can I help you?” Feithlyn asked, giving the little half-bow she had been taught to make to anyone she could not be certain was a regular.

“Did I see you speaking to that bird?” asked the person, a frown-line deepening in their forehead.

“Oh, I—I mean, yes, I’m so sorry if it’s caused any trouble—” Feithlyn felt herself flushing.

“I thought I did.” The customer leaned forward, close enough that she could see that their piercing dark eyes were scattered with lighter spots, like dots of bleach dropped on black cloth. “Could I trouble you to get something for me?”

Trying to shake off her nervousness, Feithlyn nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Outside the window, I think you’ll find a little ring—a dark grey band set with a red stone. Would you fetch it for me? I think I dropped it there.”

“You mean open the window.” The bird would come in right away. But if it was a customer’s request…

Well, she had had three weeks of veterinary classes and plenty of experience with the animals on her parents’ farm. She’d shooed it out a few times already, and this time she could at least give Boss Benleizh a reasonable excuse. “Just one moment, please, baiceir.”

She briefly considered the possibility of using a broom to shoo the thing away, but decided against it on the grounds that it would make the entire struggle just a little too obvious. Besides, she didn’t want to hurt the poor thing—just keep it outside, where it belonged.

As soon as she opened the window and put her hand out, the bird hopped deftly to one side and fluttered around her, despite her frantic attempts to shoo it in the other direction. Muttering words to herself that she was quite sure a well-brought-up city girl wouldn’t know, she leaned forward on the chair, searching for the item. It would surely be embarrassing if she couldn’t even find it, after all that. Fortunately, it only took a moment or two before she spotted it, sitting neatly on the outer sill—so neatly it looked almost as if someone had tucked it there.

Feithlyn gave it a stern look and scooped it up. Turning back, she was not entirely surprised to see that the crow had alighted on the shoulder of the customer who had asked for her assistance. She went back over and folded her arms. “Baiceir, I do not believe pets are allowed in the teahouse.”

The crow whistled and cocked its head at her.

“Living pets may not be, but most people wouldn’t object to Ruby here,” said the person mildly. “Most people can’t see her.”

A chill prickled over the back of Feithlyn’s neck. “I’m no shaman,” she said bluntly, an old affirmation. “I don’t see the dead.”

“Clearly, you do. Ruby’s been dead since before I was born, and that gets longer ago every year. Are you off soon?”

“Am I—why do you want to know?”

“We need to talk, geir.” That little line of a frown wormed its way down between their eyes again. “It’s important.”

“I am not a shaman,” Feithlyn repeated stolidly. (How can you be sure, her older sister Neizh’s voice asked. Their village had a shaman, and she had an apprentice, and it wasn’t either of them. The cemetery was hung round with wind harps. Those dead who did wake and walk would be put back to bed before they’d gone five steps.)

“Either way, we need to talk.” They shrugged one shoulder stiffly up and down. “They call me the ghost-queller. Technically, I’m not a shaman, either, but Ruby talks to me anyway.”

“If I say I’ll let thee have five minutes, wilt tha let me finish my shift out in peace?”

“All right,” said the ghost-queller, apparently unbothered by her slip into exasperated informality. “It’s important,” they repeated, with a very intense look. It would have made Feithlyn uneasy, if it weren’t for the fact that Ruby chose that moment to flutter her wings and peck the ghost-queller’s ear, and they immediately turned to murmur something quiet and sweet to the bird. An animal person, maybe, or one of those shamans who didn’t get on well with living folk—though they’d said they weren’t a shaman.

As they turned to walk away, she saw that what they had strapped to their back was not a coffee-grinder but a brightly-painted hurdy-gurdy.

---

If Feithlyn had hoped the ghost-queller would forget about her, she was disappointed. They were still waiting several hours later when she finished up, a neat row of coffee cups at their side. Apparently, they were the person she had been waiting for who might be able to make a dent in the coffee wastage. Ruby hopped along the table, fluttering her wings. Now that Feithlyn was looking for it, she saw that Ruby’s feathers had a slight unearthly sheen and her wings went right through the coffee cups. (But hadn’t she been tapping on the window? Hadn’t Feithlyn heard her?)

She sat down on the other side of the booth and crossed her arms. “Five minutes,” she said grimly.

“You’re in danger,” the ghost-queller said, not looking up but tapping their bottom lip with their thumb.

“I’m—what?”

A slight smile, or maybe it was a grimace. “Three shamans have died in this neighborhood in the last month.”

“I’m not—”

“Actually, you are.” The ghost-queller tapped a little rhythm on the table with one hand, a nervous kind of gesture that Feithlyn had sometimes seen in the town bard. They snapped their fingers, then raised the index finger, making an obvious counting gesture. One. “You can see the dead.”

Feithlyn wanted to object to that, but Ruby cawed and then said, quite clearly, “Hello hello,” which didn’t really leave a lot of room for argument. Sighing, Feithlyn said, “Hello to you, too.”

The ghost-queller held up their middle finger. Two. “You help the dead pass on.”

“No, I don’t! What?”

“I saw you this morning. The spirit of a very old lawyer came in for his coffee, you gave it to him, and he faded out as soon as he passed back over the threshold.”

Feithlyn opened her mouth, then closed it. “That’s not possible.” She supposed that, given how hectic the job was and how easy it was to confuse a dead creature for an alive one—apparently—she might have interacted with another ghost without knowing it, but she couldn’t have acted as a shaman without training, without even intention. Could she?

“I imagine you got lucky.” The ghost-queller stretched, then transferred their gaze from the table to a point somewhere over Feithlyn’s head. It was beginning to irk her that they wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “He probably died painlessly this morning after deciding he needed a cup of coffee, so he simply wouldn’t move on without it. Somewhere between an echo and a wraith.”

“But—look—I couldn’t give a real cup of coffee to a ghost.”

“Go!” Ruby said cheerfully. “Sham! Go!” The ghost-queller turned their hand over, palm-up, and the bird hopped into it and pecked a few times.

“I’ve never worked in a coffee shop. Can it be done ritually?”

“R-Ritually?”

“Do you know the motions very well? Could you perform them without the apparatus in front of you?”

“It’s boring, if that’s what you mean,” Feithlyn said, then wished she hadn’t. They were still in the café, and she could easily imagine Boss Benleizh taking exception to her saying that, particularly if she’d been louder than she meant to.

“Boring, exactly.” A light seemed to kindle in the ghost-queller’s eyes. “If you can do it without thought, it can be ritualized. A shaman can step into the spirit world if they aren’t paying attention. At least some of the coffees you have been making probably haven’t been physical.”

“But,” Feithlyn said limply. “Wouldn’t someone have noticed?”

Shrug. “It seems pretty chaotic in here. And the living customers still outnumber the dead, though I don’t know how long that will last now that you’re the only shaman left in the neighborhood. Especially if you refuse to believe me.”

“The only shaman?” Feithlyn’s voice rose into a squeak. “Tha’rt joking!”

“King!” Ruby clacked her beak. “No. No joke.”

“Ruby is right. It’s no joke. You are the only remaining living shaman in this quarter. Unfortunate, since you have no training. More pressingly, however, to return to where I started this conversation, the reason you are the only one is that three others have died in the past month. One dead shaman might be an unfortunate accident, two a coincidence—three begins to look very like a pattern.”

A cold feeling went down the back of Feithlyn’s neck. She thought about the stories she’d heard about the city—the stories about people disappearing and no one noticing. She’d always scorned such horror stories and had suffered through her mother weeping over her decision to leave Fantein with nothing more than exasperation. “How do I know tha’rt telling me the truth?” she asked sharply.

“True,” Ruby said seriously, fluttering and putting her head on one side.

“A fair question.” The ghost-queller reached inside their heavy coat and pulled out a series of newspaper clippings. “I take it you do not read the newspapers,” they said, as they laid them out one by one.

“I, um, don’t have much time,” Feithlyn said awkwardly. It was true that her veterinary degree ate up the hours she didn’t spend working, but she also wasn’t used to the idea of not being able to get her news from the sleepy, occasionally drunk town crier. She took the newspaper clippings and scanned through them as quickly as she could. The first article was a simple obituary; the second an article that seemed slightly unsettled; the third a front-page splash piece entitled, “No shamans remain in Caimleildair District after rash of unusual deaths!!!”

“You see,” the ghost-queller said. “The district council was distressed enough to send for me without delay. I think they will be very eager to talk with you, as well.”

“I’m not—” Feithlyn shut her lips around, a shaman, and substituted, “—trained. I’m not trained at all.” Gods. Neizh would—Feithlyn’s heart constricted a little at the thought of how much her older sister wanted to be a shaman. She swallowed. Neizh wasn’t here.

“The ability to consistently see the dead is quite unusual and cannot be taught,” the ghost-queller said calmly. “It will probably pay somewhat better than your current employment, especially since the district is desperate.”

“Why can’t you just do it?”

“I told you, I’m not a shaman. Besides, one way or another, the thing that is killing the shamans will come for you, which is the more pressing matter.”

“But what am I supposed to do about it!” wailed Feithlyn. “I can’t move—this was the only place I could afford that was close enough to the university!” She must have seemed more agitated than she wanted to, because Ruby hopped over and pecked her ear in a conciliatory manner. It felt like a small cold breeze.

“I was thinking I might offer to keep watch,” the ghost-queller said. “You’re not trained, as you’ve said, and I ought to be able to keep you safe from anything less than a particularly determined and stealthy walking ghost.”

“What if the thing you’re worried about is a particularly determined and stealthy walking ghost?”

“Then I apologize in advance.”

Feithlyn sat back with a huff of breath, trying to think. Ma would tell her not to trust any stranger in her apartment, but the newspaper clippings had shaken her, and everything the ghost-queller had said thus far had been corroborated. Besides, Feithlyn might not trust people, but she did trust animals, and Ruby seemed both happy and well cared-for.

“Ruby,” she said, and the bird cocked her head.

“Me,” she agreed. So she could not only speak but also understand, at least a little—Feithlyn had thought so. Some of her favorite bedtime stories were about talking animals, and in her last year of school before university, she had written a long report on the actual attestations of such things. The tiny village library hadn’t had very much, but she’d found one history about the ghost of a parrot who had learned to speak as well as a human after some two or three hundred years. The ghost-queller had said Ruby was older than they were.

“Ruby, should I trust this person?” Feithlyn asked.

Bobbing her head up and down, Ruby fluttered her wings. “Yes,” she said clearly. “Trust Bride-eye.”

For the first time, the ghost-queller seemed slightly disconcerted. “It’s a nickname,” they mumbled.

“Well, she said to trust thee—you, so I suppose I’d better.”

“You don’t need to be polite to me,” the ghost-queller said, with a frown.

“You’re being polite to me,” Feithlyn pointed out.

“Mmm, but I bring you unwelcome news. Rudeness is to be expected.” They shrugged.

Her face burned. “I shouldn’t have been rude at all. Ma would be disappointed in me.” She shook herself a little. “Anyway, thank you, I’ll place myself in your hands.”

---

Feithlyn hadn’t considered how embarrassing it would be to bring anyone back to her tiny, very untidy apartment. “Just a minute!” she called, frantically shoveling clothing into her too-small closet, while the ghost-queller hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Gods, how many layers of clothes had she dropped since the last time she’d done her laundry?

Ruby gave a pleased whistle and swooped into the apartment to land in the middle of the table and start pecking ineffectually at a large swathe of crumbs left over from Feithlyn’s hasty breakfast.

“I—I’ve been busy with schoolwork,” Feithlyn said faintly. Her mother would probably die of shame that she was bringing a polite older stranger back to an apartment this filthy.

“I’m not here to judge your living habits,” the ghost-queller said. “Just to make sure you keep having them.”

Once Feithlyn had managed to dump a pile of clothes in the closet, partially clearing the floor, and run a quick damp rag across the surfaces of the table and the stove, she decided there wasn’t much else that she could do. “Come in,” she said, glumly.

“How much do you know about spirit wardings?” the ghost-queller asked, inspecting the little altar Feithlyn kept tucked beneath the table, where she fed the one lonely house spirit her mother had sent off with her.

“Not much,” Feithlyn admitted. “I know they put wind-harps around the graveyards to keep the dead sleeping.”

“Mm,” agreed the ghost-queller. “Not so useful when you want to keep something out, I’m afraid, though if you’re going to be in this line of work long I’d definitely suggest getting yourself some wind-chimes, unless you pick up a companion like Ruby. Even small wind-chimes can slow down a vengeful spirit.”

Feithlyn forbore to comment on whether she was going to be in this line of work long, or at all. Paying better than working at a coffee shop was tempting, but so was not worrying about vengeful spirits. Although apparently that might be happening regardless.

“All right, consider this your first lesson, then,” the ghost-queller went on, undoing the strap that kept their hurdy-gurdy on their back and setting it down. Beneath the instrument, they had a small pack strapped to their back, and they took it off as well and opened it. “Salt. Salt is very important. Ghosts cannot cross it, except for the most powerful walking ghosts, but a salt barrier is easily disturbed and a clever poltergeist can probably disrupt it without touching it. Still. The first step to warding your apartment is going to be a line of salt around the whole thing. You can do that, and I’ll check it once you’ve finished to make sure it’s properly sealed. You’ll have to check and refresh it daily—the salt line over a threshold very commonly ends up broken just by accident.”

Warring with herself a little over her own curiosity, Feithlyn prompted, “You talked about walking ghosts before. What are they?”

“Here,” said the ghost-queller, handing her a tin of salt. “Use this.” With a sigh, Feithlyn took it. The ghost-queller continued their explanation as she began to carefully scatter a line of salt around the inside walls of the apartment. Ruby followed, whistling and clacking whenever she seemed to think the line that Feithlyn had laid down was too thin.

“Most of the time, we talk about three categories of ghosts: echos or memories, wraiths, and walking ghosts. Echos are barely ghosts at all—they have no will, and they probably don’t have souls. They can be quite disturbing, especially because they’re more often visible to non-shamans, but except in very rare cases, they can’t hurt anyone. All they can do is repeat the series of actions leading up to their deaths. Wraiths and walking ghosts are different—they both retain the intelligence of the person or animal they were before they died. So, of course, many of them are harmless, or mostly so, as long as they aren’t disturbed. Less harmful even than many people, because wraiths are bound, often to the location where they died, and it can be difficult for them to interact with the material world.”

They held up their hand, the iron ring with its red stone that they had asked Feithlyn to fetch earlier glittering on their index finger. “Ruby is a wraith. She’s bound to this ring.”

“Shiny,” said Ruby, nodding her head in approval. “Mine.”

They removed something from the pack that looked like a small plant mister. “A particularly enterprising spook could possibly try to come down through the ceiling or up through the floor, far enough away from the line of salt—you’d have to be in a very high-ceilinged room for the walls to be a risk, and you’re not. The ceiling isn’t likely, so salt water sprayed onto it is usually enough of a barrier. For the floor, you can scatter a little extra salt, or use a rug with lemur fur sewn into it.”

“Lemur fur?”

“Not an easy thing to do, nor a very well-known tactic around these parts. Lemurs are slim monkeys from a far-off island. The folk who live there believe them to be spiritual guardians, of a sort, and I have tested it. Ghosts will not pass through lemur fur anymore than they will pass through salt.” The ghost-queller frowned at the ceiling and began to spray it carefully.

“And what are walking ghosts?” Feithlyn pressed nervously.

“Very rare. I have only seen one walking ghost.” They finished spraying the ceiling and then removed from their pack a welter of sticks and yarn. “Just to be safe, we’ll add charms to reinforce the window and door, and hang one above your bed.” With careful, precise movements, they laid out three criss-crossed twigs and began to wind the yarn around each one in turn, forming a kind of six-pointed spider-web. “Walking ghosts are not bound, as wraiths are. They can go anywhere, and salt will only slow them down, not stop them. They’re often able to interact with the world, as well—they can be the spirits of great witches or shamans, or sometimes they’re just people who died very slowly.”

“Oh.” She shivered. “What are you doing there, can I help?”

“Rowan wood bound with grey thread will ensnare a spirit.” They smiled briefly. “They don’t like spider-webs, either, so avoid dusting in corners. Here.” They held out three more twigs and a spool of grey thread, and Feithlyn took it and began to wind the thread around carefully. At least she was fairly good with her hands.

“What about silver?” she asked doubtfully, as the little charm began to take shape. “I’ve heard that silver will repel ghosts.”

“It won’t,” the ghost-queller said, in a voice that was suddenly very flat. When Feithlyn looked over, she saw that they were staring with terrible concentration at the half-made charm, but their hands were not moving. “Silver does not repel ghosts, and it does not quiet them, either. It can, however, injure them or even kill them, if wielded correctly.”

“Kill them?” Feithlyn questioned, without thinking.

The ghost-queller pursed their lips. “Destroy them,” they corrected themself. They shook themself, a little like a dog shaking themself dry, and stood up. “Here. Let’s finish hanging these up.”

They worked in silence for a little while. Then Feithlyn asked, as a thought struck her, “Ghosts must walk in daylight?”

“It depends on the ghost. Direct sunlight can be troublesome for them, but it’s inconsistent, and it’s easy enough for them to move through shadows.”

“So…what about when I’m at the university? Or the café?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” the ghost-queller said. “The university is well-warded and full of shamans. A rampaging ghost wouldn’t get far.”

“And the café?”

“Well, let’s take a look.” They finished hanging the grey charm on the inside of the door, nodded in some satisfaction, and took a seat at the table, digging through their small pack again. Feithlyn was starting to wonder if it was magical—there seemed to be so many things inside it, far too many for the little pack. But maybe the ghost-queller just knew how to use space efficiently. “Here.” They smoothed an old, yellowing piece of paper out onto the table, neatly labeled in brown ink that was beginning to fade. “A map of the quarter. Here is where the other shamans died—” Feithlyn peered curiously over their shoulder, as they indicated three penciled in crosses.

“Go!” Ruby said helpfully, dancing from one foot to the other. “Sham! Dead!”

“And here are all the nearby cemeteries.” These were neatly marked with a single red dot, with a series of light concentric circles drawn around them, probably with a compass. “If someone was buried in this one—close to your teahouse—it’s very unlikely that they could have reached the northernmost shaman. These two are nearly on the northern border, well outside of any possible wraith’s range. That only leaves this one, in the center.” They tapped it. “But this is King’s Cemetery West. There’s no place better warded in the whole city, because this is where the Crimson Reaper rose two hundred years ago. If someone is walking from King’s Cemetery West, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I’m not sure that’s terribly comforting,” Feithlyn said, swallowing.

“Oh, no, it is, actually. Nothing coming out of there would have to be subtle. Things would be much worse, in that case.”

She fidgeted. “Are you sure it is a ghost?”

A sly, sideways glance. For just an instant, the ghost-queller’s eyes looked directly into Feithlyn’s. “I wondered if you’d ask that. I don’t think it’s something you can ever be entirely sure about. But two of the shamans did die in ways that look very suspiciously ghostly—one of them stabbed in a locked room and another suffocated with no obvious instrument of suffocation at hand. In all cases, they were inside broken salt circles. If it’s not a ghost, though, they’re even less likely to go after you when you’re at your job—think about how many people would see them.”

“But if it’s not a ghost, then none of the wardings on my apartment will help.”

“True. But a locked door will. And if you’re still worried, I have a friend who can keep watch over you.”

“A friend? Do you mean another ghost?” Feithlyn asked, trying not to sound faint.

The ghost-queller nodded. “She doesn’t need to sleep, and when she’s aware, she gets easily bored, so she likes helping out when she can.”

“A…wraith?”

“Yes. Do you want to meet her?”

“I suppose I’d better,” Feithlyn said, hoping she didn’t sound too ungrateful.

The pack came out again. This time the ghost-queller pulled out a small box made of balsa wood, onto which someone had clumsily painted what looked like an orange tree in garish, clashing colors. Around the middle was wrapped a long piece of soft fabric, which the ghost-queller undid.

There was a moment where every sound in the room seemed to falter out of existence, like a record skipping, and then white fog billowed out of the top of the little box. It formed a vague, white figure, one hand on a protrusion around its skull. The fog began to recede from the top, revealing a tall black top hat with an orange-and-green peacock embroidered around the rim. The figure—who had appeared seated on the table—jumped down and solidified further, the white fog continued to clear from the top downward, until there was a girl standing there, grinning.

Apparently a few years older than Feithlyn, she wore a threadbare tailcoat and white bloomers, over shiny black high-heeled boots. Her black hair was drawn into a single braid at the back of her head, and halfway down it turned from black to red, which matched the puffy red cravat tied about her throat. She clicked her heels and bobbed into a bow.

“Ay, boss,” she said. “What can I do thee for?”

“This is Feithlyn. She’s the newest shaman in the neighborhood, and I would prefer she continue to be so.”

“Someone threatening her?” The girl stuck out a hand. “Sorry, geir. Forgetting me manners. I’m Tayani.” Feithlyn couldn’t place her accent, but as that had been a daily occurrence since she arrived in the city, she didn’t let it bother her. Hesitantly, she put out her own hand.

“My name is Feithlyn.”

“’S a pretty name.” Tayani winked and then, to Feithlyn’s shock, she felt the whisper of a touch against her hand, and Tayani bent forward and brushed her intangible lips across the back of Feithlyn’s knuckles. “A pretty name for a pretty lady.” Feithlyn blushed and suddenly felt very grubby and young, some strange queer feeling prickling in the pit of her stomach. No, she told herself firmly. We’re for men, remember? Well, it was the city. People in the city were odd and forward, and a ghost—well, who knew what a ghost thought? She’d never met a ghost. At least, not a human ghost. Not knowingly, anyway, she corrected herself.

“Tayani,” the ghost-queller said.

Tayani grinned. “I’m supposed to let beauty pass without comment?”

The ghost-queller just stared at her.

“Okay, okay. So what’s going on?”

The ghost-queller outlined the situation in a few short sentences. Tayani listened intently, then nodded. “Should’ve called me earlier,” she said reprovingly. “Heya Ruby, how’s tha doing?”

“Red!” said Ruby. “Hi Red!” She tilted her head to one side and fluffed up her feathers.

“Tha leaves me to sleep too much,” Tayani complained at the ghost-queller. “Anyway, I’ll watch over tha new shaman. Feithlyn, me dear, you have nothing to worry about with me here.”

Looking at that extremely winning smile, Feithlyn wasn’t at all sure that was true, but at least she was less likely to have to worry about someone sneaking into her apartment and killing her in her sleep.

---

It had been getting darker all day. Feithlyn had woken to a suffocating heat and heaviness to see Tayani peering out the window as best she could, without getting too close to the salt line.

“Gonna be a hell of a tempest, geir,” she said. “Hope you have a good umbrella.”

“Ngh,” said Feithlyn, who had a cheap umbrella. Fortunately, she had no classes in the morning, only work in the teahouse in the afternoon. Even more fortunately, although the day was dim and unpleasant, the rain didn’t start while she was on her way to the Tempest. She carried Tayani’s box with her, which turned out to be quite fun. The ghost was knowledgable about the neighborhood and willing to keep up a steady stream of stories, even when Feithlyn—crowded onto a bench at the back of the tram—was too embarrassed to respond to a companion no one else could see.

Lightning flashed outside, and a heavy thunderclap sounded immediately after. Feithlyn flinched; Tayani bounced over to the window to look out. Boss Benleizh looked up from where she was doing some repairs to one of the coffee machines. “Dragons’ breath, that’s coming on a deal faster than I expected.”

A murmur went round the café, and then there was a second, even brighter flash, and a terrible wave of noise—thunder so loud it shivered through Feithlyn’s bones, and a shrieking, rending sound, and the noise of shattering that followed in the wake of the thunder. Wind and rain slapped at her face, and she blinked, trying to clear the ugly pink-green afterimages from her vision.

“Basement!” she heard Boss Benleizh yelling faintly. “Storm cellar, this is going to get bad!”

Storm cellar. Right. Less than a month here, and only at the beginning of monsoon season, but Feithlyn already had some experience with the storm cellar. They called Lathfezhbyr the City of Storms for a reason. Built across the center of an isthmus crucial for the trading routes, it was the biggest city of the Empire by far, but it also spent six months of the year wracked by hurricanes, thunderstorms, and monsoons, when it wasn’t just dribbling its ubiquitous rain. Another reason Feithlyn’s mother had not wanted her to move here. Feithlyn had thought it couldn’t possibly be that bad, and so far it had only been boring—a weekly storm drill and one cautious retreat to the storm cellar at the beginning of her shift the day before she’d met the ghost-queller.

She hadn’t expected a storm to whip up so quickly that a branch had gone through the main front window before there was time to put the shutters up.

“Cellar, now!” roared Boss Benleizh. “Everyone, you know the drill! Customers, follow the baristas. Leave your shit if you don’t want to be swept away!”

The drills actually seemed to have helped. Feithlyn’s mind felt foggy and mired in panic, but her body knew exactly what to do. She was halfway across the room before she even realized she’d started to move. She found her spot at the side of the stairs and began directing people downwards. The stone stairs were wet—they looked slick—so she warned people to watch their step.

The multi-colored rain-protected clientele seemed mostly to be only irritated. They were talking and laughing as they made their way down the steps towards the storm cellar. Someone slipped and swore, sharply, but he caught himself, and another gentleman offered an arm. A middle-aged woman went by on the arm of a middle-aged man, blushing and flirting for all she was worth. Feithlyn could only watch, impressed—Neizh and her mother had tried to teach her to flirt, but she’d never caught the knack, and the woman wasn’t in the least pretty, but the man seemed to be hanging on her every word by the time they’d gone five steps down.

The wind rose to a howling shriek. There was water and glass all over the floor, and the door rattled in its frame. Feithlyn discovered she was shaking quite badly.

“Come on, country girl.” Boss Benleizh was at her elbow, now, steering her downwards. “It’s all right, we’ve lost the front windows before. Let’s just hope this blows over quick, I don’t want to be standing in floodwater up to my knees for five hours again.”

It was harder than she expected to go down the steps with her knees wobbling like this, but Boss Benleizh steered her sturdily and well. They reached the bottom of the steps quickly—despite Boss Benleizh’s evident concern, the storm cellar seemed to be dry. Feithlyn leaned against the wall, breathing shakily, unable to shake the sense that something was wrong. After a moment, she realized what it was. She had left Tayani’s box upstairs.

“Oh, shit,” she hissed, turning back. The heavy storm door at the top of the stairs was shut, and the only light was coming from the yellow candles that the other folk had begun to light—she could barely even see up to the top of the steps in the gloom.

“What are you doing?” Boss Benleizh asked, as Feithlyn started to mount the bottom step again. They weren’t so far—Tayani might be able to follow her down into the cellar. She tried to remember what the ghost-queller had said about ranges—but they hadn’t really said much, just given Feithlyn the impression that different wraiths had different ones.

“I need—” Feithlyn started, and then she saw that white, faintly luminescent fog was creeping in under the storm door. “Tayani?”

The fog piled on top of itself, in the exact opposite way from Tayani forming from her box, hat down. The form shimmered, taking another step downwards and another. Slowly, it coalesced, the lines of the figure faint at first, then solidifying into a tired-looking woman in an elegant purple gown, long white hair spilling across her shoulders.

It wasn’t Tayani.

“Oh,” Feithlyn said, very quietly, something prickling down the back of her neck. She carefully stepped back down and pressed herself against the wall. Salt, she thought vaguely. Or, no—maybe it was just another one of the ghosts who had been frequenting the teahouse. Just because someone was a ghost didn’t make them a murderer.

The woman’s feet seemed to land quite naturally on the stone steps, as she descended, as her eyes flickered back and forth, as if she were searching for something or someone. Salt, Feithlyn thought again, sliding away. But where would she find salt in the storm cellar?

“Shaman—oh, little shaman,” the woman called out, and Feithlyn jerked back, caught her foot in her own ankle, and overbalanced, falling into the crowd behind her. Hands caught at her. Someone swore. Instead of letting anyone help her up, she crawled away on her hands and knees. There would be salt upstairs in the kitchen. If she could get the ghost away from the stairs—if she could go back up—she could reach Tayani, as well, if she did that—

The storm sounded like a hollow whining hum from behind the solid walls of the storm cellar, but it was almost drowned out by the frenetic pounding of her heart in her ears. Her breathing was too loud, as well. The stone was cold and rough under her hands and knees, and her long skirt tangled up around her thighs. Above her, people moved around, chatting casually amongst themselves. One or two seemed to notice her—someone accidentally kicked her and apologized, in a puzzled-sounding voice. She tried to glance around behind her, to see if she was being followed, but she lost track of the woman in purple very quickly.

She scrambled over to the edge of the cellar, putting one hand on the wall, and reluctantly pulled herself partly upright, keeping her head down so she wouldn’t be visible over the crowd. She tried again to catch sight of the woman in purple, but there was no sign of her, no white fog, no strange faint luminescence. Sickness boiled uncomfortably in Feithlyn’s stomach. With no other ideas, and very much not wanting to wait in the storm cellar like a chicken waiting for a fox in a chicken coop, she began to make her slow way around the edge, sidling around—and occasionally stepping over—various bored customers.

The stairs yawned to her right, dark and forbidding. The candles had proliferated while she had been scrabbling around on all fours, but their yellow light only lit the first few steps. The rest of the stairway was in darkness. Feithlyn clenched her hands, took one last look round, and stepped forward. As she took the first step, a hand caught her wrist, and she turned in confusion to see Boss Benleizh.

“Going somewhere?” Boss Benleizh asked. Her breath puffed white in the still, close air.

“I forgot something upstairs.”

She tried to take a step backwards, and Boss Benleizh’s arm shot out and caught her around the throat. Feithlyn made a noise and tried to back away, and the hand tightened, then moved with a terrible, unnatural strength, slamming her back into the wall. Black dots burst in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t even scream, couldn’t manage anything except a soft, clicking, choking noise. It hurt—she scrabbled at the arm, scratching hard with her nails, but it seemed to make no difference. She tried to kick out, but it was feeble, and already everything was starting to fade into blackness. There was a strange, far-off droning in her ears.

No, wait—

Was that an actual droning?

The hand around her throat shuddered and loosened, and Boss Benleizh gave a strangled groan. Gasping, Feithlyn stumbled away, half-falling across the stone steps. It should have been painful—gods knew she’d have bruises tomorrow—but she didn’t feel anything. Light streamed down the stairs around her—the door was open. Looking up, she saw a figure outlined in the grey stormy illumination, unnaturally bright only in contrast to the darkness of the storm cellar, a figure with the outline of a fiddle-shaped instrument cradled safely in their hands. That was where the drone was coming from, and it wasn’t just a drone, there was a melody overlaid across that single, plangent, unending note.

Boss Benleizh staggered, and white mist dripped from her mouth. A low, husky voice began to sing, joining the sound of the sweetly droning instrument.

Fly home, little bird, fly home!

The storm is darkening the sky.

The land below you will soon be gone—

Little bird, little bird, let be and fly.

With a soft groan, Boss Benleizh bent over, retching more white fog. It boiled out of her mouth, but also out of her nose. The song continued, relentless; the musician beat a tattoo against the bridge of their instrument. Feithlyn groped for the steps, trying to push herself upright.

The fog piled up into the form of the woman in purple again, seizing her head in her hands as if she had a terrible headache. Boss Benleizh staggered backward, looking horrified, clutching at her own throat. Feithlyn somehow made it back to her feet, though she had to hold herself up on with the wall.

With a sudden whistling cry, Ruby swooped down, talons out. She raked her sharp claws through the hair of the woman in purple and beat at her head with her wings. The woman in purple gave a cry of shock, and ran for the steps. She raced up them—Feithlyn screamed, sudden and short, as cold enveloped her, but it didn’t last. The ghost had run through her.

She realized the music had stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she stared up in horror—what if something had happened to the musician? But the woman in purple was still running, with Ruby chasing her, and there was a hand stretching out to Feithlyn.

“Come on,” said the ghost-queller. “We must follow.”

Feithlyn would have given them an incredulous look, if she wasn’t too busy grabbing the proffered hand and focusing on the way warmth flowed from the touch into her hand, her chest, the rest of her limbs. As if she had been freezing in midwinter and walked into an overheated room, it almost hurt. She was pulled to her feet and tugged along behind the ghost-queller, back up the stairs of the storm cellar and out into the raging, screaming wind of the storm. The woman in purple was disappearing through the closed door at the front of the shop.

The ghost-queller dropped her hand, and a jangle of discordant sound rose from the hurdy-gurdy. The woman in purple staggered, and Ruby swept down again, out of apparently nowhere, to worry at her hair.

“We can’t go out there!” Feithlyn shrieked over the impossible roar of the wind, and the ghost-queller turned to her, face lit with almost the first expression she’d seen on it—a manic grin.

“It’s just a wee bit of rain,” they responded with a shrug.

Gods, if Feithlyn let them go out there by themself, they’d get themself killed. Were they gone berserk, like the barbarians in the tales her father used to tell them in front of the fire in the winter?

“Wait, what about Tayani—” Feithlyn started, but the ghost-queller was already running, and she was going to lose them if she didn’t follow right away. I’m sorry, Ma, she thought, hoping she wasn’t about to go out there and drown or get struck by lightning or something worse, and then they were off and running. The ghost-queller yanked the door open, and they stumbled out.

If it had been noisy and chaotic inside, outside was like the fabled thunders that kept the living from reaching the underworld. Feithlyn was soaked to the skin in seconds, and she barely kept her feet, slipping and sliding along the muddy street with the wind fighting to push her back. She lost sight of their quarry immediately, and if it hadn’t been for the spurts of sound emanating from the hurdy-gurdy, she might also have lost the ghost-queller’s grey figure as well, fading into the darkness and the rain.

They ran down the main street—there was no danger of being run over, as the street was completely deserted, though Feithlyn nearly fell over an abandoned carriage someone had clearly evacuated in a hurry. At the end of the street, or what Feithlyn thought was the end of the street, the ghost-queller hung a hard right, and Feithlyn nearly fell again, catching herself on a light-pole. Her sodden skirts must have taken on something like her body-weight in water.

“Up here,” said the ghost-queller suddenly, gesturing to a slick, wrought-iron staircase that wound tightly upwards towards the second floor of a narrow tenement-house. It creaked alarmingly as they put one foot on the bottom step.

“Art tha insane?” Feithlyn blurted. “What if lightning strikes it?”

“We should probably hurry,” the ghost-queller agreed. Apparently unperturbed by the slipperiness or the way the stairs were shuddering in the wind, or the ever-present rumble of thunder, they began to climb. After one moment of terrified hesitation, Feithlyn followed. Tha’rt a fool, girl, she scolded herself. Tha owes no loyalty to this noddybrain! She didn’t stop climbing, however, clinging grimly to the railing and flinching every time another lightning strike grounded itself somewhere unnervingly close.

Reaching the top, she huddled in under the eaves, to see the ghost-queller rattling at the door-handle, which was evidently locked.

“What art tha going to do now?” Feithlyn demanded, voice rising. Gods, they’d have to stay here or go back down, and the lightning—

The ghost-queller materialized a hammer from out of their coat, leaned to the side, and calmly shattered the glass in the front window. Reaching in, their arm protected by the heavy wool of their coat, they undid the catch and yanked it open, pausing for an instant to sweep broken glass out of the way. Then, as Feithlyn stared in utter shock, they slung their leg sideways over the railing, stretching out until they got one booted foot over the sill, grunted—the sound muffled by the howling wind—and somehow, in a blur of absurd motion, they swung themself sideways in through the window. A moment later, the door opened, and Feithlyn was able to stagger inside.

The little one-room apartment wasn’t all that different from the one where Feithlyn lived—a table in the center, a cot beneath the window, a little gas stove unit. There were dark stains on the table and the floor, and in the center Ruby was swooping and swooping down towards a faintly-glowing figure crouched with her arms over her head, her white hair falling down around her like a veil.

“Tell me your name,” the ghost-queller said softly, and the ghost looked up, eyes full of tears.

“No,” she said, batting feebly at Ruby, who wheeled in once more and then fluttered over to land on the ghost-queller’s shoulder. “No, no, no, I won’t go—I won’t.”

“I’m not a shaman,” the ghost-queller told her, and the drone of the hurdy-gurdy began again. Feithlyn leaned against the wall, panting.

The ghost pointed at her, with a shaking finger. “She is,” she snarled. “I’ll kill her before she—”

“Feithlyn, catch.” She barely managed to get her stiff fingers up in time to catch the tin that the ghost-queller tossed at her. “Salt circle. Now.”

Salt. Salt—thank the gods. Weary and wary, Feithlyn began to trot in a wide circle, shaking salt in a thick line to her right. The ghost lunged at her, but seemed to hit an invisible wall, falling back with a cry of pain. The drone of the hurdy-gurdy intensified, and the ghost-queller began to pick out a soft, drowsy melody.

“You’ve killed three people,” the ghost-queller said. “And drunk their blood, too, haven’t you?”

“No one would listen to me,” sobbed the woman in purple, retreating from the salt circle. “I died of murder, and it didn’t matter, they just wanted to send me on.” She bared her teeth. “So I sent them on instead.”

“Well, I’m not here to send you on,” the ghost-queller said, and Feithlyn stared at them in disbelief.

“What?” she squeaked.

“I told you, I’m not a shaman,” they returned calmly. “I don’t send ghosts on.”

“But she’s—”

The blank face of the ghost-queller turned towards her, and Feithlyn caught her breath. “I do not send ghosts on,” repeated the ghost-queller. “I took an oath. Tell me your name, geir, and I will send you to sleep. Perhaps when you wake, things will be different.”

Technically, Feithlyn supposed, she could try, but she doubted she would succeed. She was no fairytale character, to suddenly know how to do such a thing. She was a barista who had accidentally sent one ghost on with a good cup of coffee, but somehow she didn’t think that would do the trick here. Shaking her head, she swallowed the anger, which would only slow everything down, and waited.

“Who are you?” whispered the woman in purple, her eyes leaking. She looked very human, crouching there with her hands twisting at her own hair. She sniffed, rubbing red eyes with the back of her hand. “A name for a name.”

The ghost-queller dipped their head, hands running lightly across the keys of the hurdy-gurdy. “I was born Lwrdeith, but the only name anyone gives me now is Bird’s Eye. Most folk call me the ghost-queller.”

“I am Lurlyn.”

“Thank you,” the ghost-queller said, quietly. The drone grew louder, and the song slowed, sweetened.

Fly home, oh, Lurlyn, fly home!

The storm is darkening the sky.

The land below you will soon be gone—

Oh, Lurlyn, oh, Lurlyn, let be and fly.

The sun is gone, the stars are shining;

The wind has swept the storm away.

Let the night breeze sing you into sleep—

Oh, Lurlyn, let night turn into day.

The hurdy-gurdy’s droning song swelled, and Feithlyn found herself thinking of hot, drowsy summer days, the humming of the bees in her mother’s hives, spending a lazy day fishing on the riverbank. The ghost’s eyes seemed to grow heavy, her eyelids drooping, as the song continued, and Feithlyn found she also had to stifle a yawn. Somehow, the sound was easily loud enough to drown out the noise of the storm. As the ghost-queller started the second verse, a cheerful whistling harmony joined the low melody. Ruby, clinging to their shoulder, swayed her head from side to side as she added her voice to the song. Feithlyn licked her lips and began to hum along, clapping softly to the beat. The ghost-queller’s eyes flickered over to her, but they continued playing.

As the music swelled, the woman in purple began to lay herself down sleepily in the center of the salt circle, and as the song continued, she began slowly to dissolve, little glittering motes sloughing off her hair, then her hands, then her dress, until there was only a pile of formless mist that dissipated in the next moment.

The ghost-queller finished the verse, then let the song die away. They gave a soft sigh, and produced one of the rowan wood and grey thread charms from inside their coat, which they strode forward and gently placed in the center of the salt circle, Ruby fluttering away from the salt as the ghost-queller approached it. “Sleep well,” they said, making a sign in the air with their fingers that Feithlyn didn’t recognize.

It was over.

---

“I can’t believe tha left me behind, boss!” Tayani complained.

“We were running low on time,” the ghost-queller said with equanimity.

Feithlyn sneezed.

They were all congregated in the break room of the Tempest Teahouse. The storm had subsided a little, finally, and closing the storm shutters had stopped any more rain from blowing in through the broken window. They had all trooped back to the café, and then Boss Benleizh had refused to let anyone leave without warming up and drinks on the house. She wouldn’t stop apologizing and hovering over Feithlyn or thanking the ghost-queller for casting out the ghost that had been possessing her. The other baristas between them had gotten Feithlyn a dry outfit, and the ghost-queller had stripped off their outer coat and hat to let them dry. There was a roaring fire in the grate, and Feithlyn was trying to get her hair dried off as well while sipping at a hot mulled cider.

“Imagine you being a shaman,” Boss Benleizh said, tucking a towel around her shoulders. “You won’t keep working here then, I suppose.”

Feithlyn shrugged tiredly. She hadn’t really thought too hard about what would happen next.

“I would recommend not,” said the ghost-queller. “I’m sorry, Feithlyn, but it is quite important for the district to have at least one active shaman.”

“Why?” Feithlyn asked, sneezing wretchedly again. “Can’t you do anything that needs to be done?”

A quarter smile appeared on the ghost-queller’s face.

“They can,” agreed Tayani. “But not everyone thinks so, eh, boss?”

The ghost-queller shrugged. “Neighborhood council requires a shaman,” they said, after a moment.

“And you said it would pay better,” sighed Feithlyn. She glared at the ghost-queller. “You also said it wouldn’t be able to get to me at the teahouse.”

“No, I said that if someone was buried in a cemetery they would be unlikely to reach you in the teahouse. I never said they were likely to be buried in a cemetery.”

Feithlyn pressed her lips together angrily. “Tha used me as bait,” she accused, then glared at Ruby, as well. “Tha said I should trust them!”

Ruby cawed and shifted from foot to foot. Then she said, clearly, “Tha’rt alive, art tha not?”

Feithlyn, who had not actually expected an answer, much less such a coherent one, recoiled. “What art tha?” she exclaimed.

Ruby preened at her feathers and clacked her beak. “A bird, what else?”

“Yeah, but tha’rt older’n’me,” objected Tayani. “Feithlyn, me dear, dost not know how smart birds are?”

Aghast, Feithlyn looked from her to Ruby to the ghost-queller. Behind her, Boss Beizhlyn was moving around, directing some of the other baristas to mop up some of the remaining puddles. “I—I mean, they’re quite good at evading the farm traps,” she said, weakly. “But they’re animals—they’re—they’re good!”

“I’m good,” Ruby said, cheerfully. “Especially at lying.”

“We’re animals, too,” the ghost-queller points out, raising one eyebrow.

Feithlyn couldn’t argue with this, but she could turn back to the ghost-queller again. “As bait!”

“I am sorry for being delayed,” the ghost-queller said seriously, inclining their head in acknowledgment. “I wasn’t expecting the storm. And I thought Tayani would be able to help.”

A very irritable noise floated up from the top hat. “Box got left behind, and someone spilled a lot of salt in the kitchen when the storm hit. I was trying to find a way around. I’m sorry, Feithlyn.”

“Eh, I guess tha couldn’t help it,” Feithlyn said morosely and sneezed again. Her throat was quite painful, and she winced as she put up a hand to probe at the tender flesh.

“Tha’s got bruises all round, poor thing,” Tayani said. “Awfully powerful, wasn’t she, boss, for a wraith?”

“She’d been drinking blood—shaman’s blood,” the ghost-queller said. “Well, why not, if she’d already killed them? Waste not, want not.” There was a slightly horrified pause.

“Okay, boss, that was one of those things tha don’t say,” Tayani put in, and Feithlyn gave a slightly frantic laugh in agreement.

“Blood?” she exclaimed.

“Oh, I didn’t explain that. Here, let me show you.” They produced a small knife from an inner pocket and used it to prick the tip of their finger. “Ruby?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The bird hopped down from their shoulder and stood on their wrist, fluffed up her shoulders and dipped her head. Feithlyn had always found birds drinking to be a particularly charming sight—the way they smacked their beaks delicately and tipped their heads up—but it was more than a little disconcerting in this context. Once Ruby had finished, she hopped down onto the table and—to Feithlyn’s surprise—picked up a real napkin, which she flew over to Feithlyn and dropped in her lap before hopping down onto her knee. “Pet please?” she asked.

Gingerly, Feithlyn ran a finger down the head and found that, though the sensation was a little foggy, she could feel the feathery fluff beneath her hand. Ruby preened happily as she carefully scratched along the back of her neck.

“Blood is—” The ghost-queller frowned and raised a hand, flat palm upward, which they tilted to the side. “It is the opposition of silver, I suppose. A ghost who drinks blood gains more power to affect the material world, either directly or via possession, as Lurlyn did.”

A shudder ran down Feithlyn’s spine at the name. “I see,” she said carefully.

“Tha’lt learn plenty of this in time,” Tayani said comfortably. “And if tha don’t want a boring old mentor, there’s me. I can tell thee a deal about being dead, for sure.”

“You may keep Tayani with you, if you both wish it,” the ghost-queller said.

Tayani bounced up and down. “Say tha wilt, won’t thee?” she wheedled.

“Well.” Feithlyn felt a slow hot flush spreading across her cheeks. She fisted her hands in her skirts. “If you both think it’s a good idea. I’m really not sure about being a shaman.” She looked up and caught the ghost-queller looking at her. They looked away immediately. “I would have to help the dead move on, and it seems I’ve no one to teach me that.”

“I can teach it to you,” the ghost-queller said. “In fact, I was about to offer. I just won’t do it myself, and I won’t teach you to use silver. You may make your own choices about that.”

“Feithlyn, me dear, maybe rest before tha starts making decisions? Tha needs not do everything at once.”

It was advice that Neizh or her mother might have given her. Feithlyn sighed. “All right,” she said, after a moment. “But there’s nothing else going to turn into something life-threatening right now, right? And don’t lie, this time.”

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” said the ghost-queller.

“All right.” Feithlyn sat back into the chair and gave Tayani a shy smile. “All right. We’ll—work all the details out later. But I could use—a friend.”

With an excited whoop, Tayani actually flipped forward, catching herself on one hand, then bent it and completed a forward flip that landed her squarely in the middle of the table, sunk in to her waist. “All right!” Seeing Feithlyn’s surprised look, she flipped her top hat off her head and bowed. “I could use a friend, too,” she grinned. “And I like thee.”

“Oh!” said Feithlyn. Now her neck was hot as well as her cheeks. “Well, I suppose I like thee, too.”

She snuggled back into the chair, listening to Boss Benleizh giving more clean-up orders. “That’s right, me dear, rest thaself,” she heard Tayani say from a long way off. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

---

It was over, and it wasn’t. Lurlyn was unique, and she wasn’t. Too many questions. The ghost-queller drummed their fingers on their thigh as they walked down the street, then snapped and extended an index finger.

One. People were murdered in the city all the time. They didn’t like it—nobody did, especially not the victims—but it was a fact of both life and death in the city of storms. And, while the ghost-queller knew they had a well-deserved reputation for cynicism, they doubted that even the most ardent optimist would be able to claim with a straight face that this was the first time a woman had been murdered and then unceremoniously ignored. The killer was probably still out there, too. Too. They drummed their thigh again. Too, too.

Two. With all those murder victims around, it was still relatively uncommon for a shaman to end up being killed by a ghost, much less three in rapid succession. Even more troubling, in each case, there had been enough time and warning for the shamans to have set up a salt circle for protection—not that it had made a difference. The ghost-queller wouldn’t discount the way a ghost might turn her pain into strength, but even accounting for that, Lurlyn would have had to be extraordinarily lucky, the shamans would have had to have been extraordinarily stupid, or—there was something else going on. The ghost-queller had known one of the shamans in question—a professional relationship, of course, not personal. Never personal. She hadn’t been very stupid at all. More drumming, and the third finger.

Three. Not personal. Never personal. They could just walk away. They’d done what they’d been asked to, even found a prospective new shaman for the quarter, and that was enough to get paid. Only—they’d been young and uncertain once, too, and that felt personal. If there was something more going on, they’d get dragged back into it, anyway. And, worst of all, if things got bad enough, they might have to go to someone they did know—personally. Staying wouldn’t necessarily avert that, but it might make some things easier.

“Staying, then?” Ruby croaked from their shoulder.

“Am I that easy to read?”

“You slump your shoulders in a particularly annoying way when your conscience gets the better of you.” Ruby preened smugly.

“It’s not my conscience,” they snapped back. Maybe it was. Or a premonition, or even some kind of vestigial parental instinct. One way or another, it seemed they weren’t moving on until this was over. The trouble, they knew, was that things so rarely tied themselves up with neat little ribbons. Maybe this would be different. Maybe this one would have a clean ending. But the ghost-queller had a well-deserved reputation for cynicism.

Fin.

A/N: The ghost-queller lives in a world not quite like our own, in a city that stands at the head of a burgeoning empire stretching out to grab what it can. It has very recently become industrialized. The dominant culture in the city of storms has three genders, with three forms of address–lir, an approximate equivalent to “sir”, geir, an approximate equivalent to “ma’am”, and baiceir, the form of address for the third gender.