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Content warning: Nudity and a whole lot of angst.

 

 

Chapter 19

 

Micka stares at its  hand, then groans and takes it. It squeezes his in thanks, and turns away to hide its relief—it had no idea what it would have done if he refused. It pulls him to his feet, tells the staff to keep the change, and leads him from the eating house.

At a quick pace it takes him down one street, up another, through an alley, and into a public square. It slows  and walks them around the square’s perimeter, watching the crowd and the windows and rooftops. And when it is as certain as possible they aren’t being followed, it heads for to the bridge.

Micka is walking slower than before, his shoulders hunched like a pouting child. Silinie, it remembers, always held Ralleen’s arm and told funny stories to when he was stewing. But it doesn’t have any funny stories, and suspects that clinging to Micka would confuse him more.

The traffic on the bridge is thick, forcing them near the stone parapet where the ghosts stand, weeping and cursing and calling for help. It makes the mistake of looking at one, and when the ghost yells at it. the rest realize it can see them. It recognizes several from executions the Master of Death made it watch. There’s the woman hung for poisoning her husband, screaming and spitting. There are the pair of thieves who, as soon as the guards raised them up, screamed “Fuck the Council!” and jumped by themselves. Their ghosts are laughing, as if their deaths were the greatest joke of all.

There are also many without ropes, broken and hopeless men, women, and children for whom ending their lives was better than living them. The adult ghosts weep, beg for help, or scream in rage. The children sit on the rail, watching the crowds with wide, fascinated eyes.

“What are you looking at?” asks Micka.

And because they’re the first words Micka has said since they left the eating house, it tells him. Micka goes pale as it describes the thieves and murderers with ropes around their necks and those who jumped to escape their lives. His face falls when it describes the children, and tears glimmer in his eyes, but he never stops it from speaking.

It’s only when they leave the bridge that he asks, “Do you see them every time?”

“Yes.”

“How do you stand it?”

“I don’t know,” it says. “They’re always here, so I never think about it.”

At the market square, they find red flowers—swamp mallow, the flower seller tells them. It examines the petals, does some calculations in its mind, and asks for a dozen bouquets and a basket to carry them. The man gives it a long look of disbelief and disgust, but stops when it holds up a coin and bundle up the flowers for it. Another stall yields thick red twine, usually used to tie up decorations at full moon festivals.  A third provides red thread. Micka looks disapproving the entire time, but takes the basket and carries it without being asked.

Several stalls further on, it finds willow sticks. Fresh cut that day, the stall-owner tells it, not batting an eye at its filthy clothing, and suitable for weaving any number of decorative pieces. It pays the woman, thanks them, and puts the bundle through the strap of its shoulder bag. Then it remembers that there is no nothing to eat in the manor. It buys another, smaller basket and heads for the food stalls. From the baker it gets a dozen of the raisin-almond it loves and a stack of small flatbreads. The cook house supplies smoked meat and fish rolls. Its last stop is for fresh plums from a fruit stall. With the sticks balanced across its back and its basket in one hand, it catches Micka’s free hand with its own leads him to Kilcharni’s manor.

It wonders why . It wasn’t like Micka wouldn’t follow, at this point, and it would be far better off with a hand free for its weapon. It realizes then it likes holding Micka’s hand, and surprises itelf by feeling a blush rising in its cheeks.

They walk the streets parallel to the river, past manors and warehouses. It’s late afternoon when they reach the burnt-out ruin of the Kilcharni manor. The buildings nearby cast long shadows on it, making the building look even bleaker. When it heads up the short path to the front door, Micka stops.

“This?” he says, confused. “This is House Silinie?”

“No.” it says. “This is House Kilcharni. What’s left of it. Silinie was the name of the eldest daughter.”

“You lied about that, too.”

It accepts the accusation in his voice and tugs gently on his hand. “I lied about everything except the demon, Micka. Now come inside.”

His shoulders sag, but he follows it through the door. His eyes go to the soot-covered stone walls and the missing ceiling. It walks him through the ruined dining room, past the bleeding servants ghosts he cannot see. At the top of the kitchen stairs it hears a noise, so soft that it wonders if it imagined it.

The burning in its chest flares up. It turns and presses its finger over Micka’s lips. He opens his mouth and it pushes hard on his lips he closes it without speaking. It puts down its bag and sticks and basket, and raises a hand to tell him to stay where he is. On silent feet, it moves up the servant stairs.

The Death has their head over a hole in the floor, trying to see into the dining room. They don’t even hear it before it breaks into a run, feet hitting the solid bits of the hallway. By the time the Death reaches for their weapons it is in the air, its knee smashing into their face. The Death falls backwards. It lands straddling them, daggers driving into their shoulder joints to pin them. The Death tries to struggle and it shoves the weapons deeper.

“Tell your House that I have located the contract, and will bring it to them by late tomorrow,” it hisses. “Understand?”

The Death nods. It yanks the daggers from the Death’s shoulders and stands. “Get out of here.”

The Death rolls to their feet, face twisted with fury. “I’ll kill you for that, fucker.”
It kicks them in the chest, sending the Death backwards and through the hole to the floor below. They hit hard. It jumps down after, landing in a crouch, weapons out. The Death struggles to rise, tries to walk and falls over again.

“Go now or die here,” it says. “I don’t care which.”

It hears Micka’s running footsteps, but doesn’t turn to look. The second time the Death rises, they stay upright. It points to the door with a dagger, and the Death limps toward it, hissing in pain with each step. Only when they have gone through, does it sheath its daggers and turn to  Micka. His face is pale and his eyes wide with fear.

“We’ll collect the lamps from the kitchen,” it says, as gently as possible, “then we’ll go down to the training room.”

Micka doesn’t say a thing as it picks up the sticks and food and leads him downstairs. He stares two sets of bloody clothes on the floor as it collects its sewing kit and four lamps and extra oil. It light a lamp and gives it to Micka to carry before leading him to the hidden door and down the steps. In the training room it puts everything on the wooden floor. Micka does a slow turn, taking in the dummies and the work table, the thin rug without a blanket and the small chest.

“Are . . .” Micka hesitates, swallows hard, and tries again. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What?” the question shocks it. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re a Death. Why else would you bring me here?” Micka shakes his head, angry at himself. “I should’ve realized it when you said you see the dead. Only ones priests and Deaths do that. I’m such an idiot.”

“You aren’t.”

“I grew up in House Giliari,” Micka says, bitterly. “I know what a Death is, and what they do.”

“No Micka,” it protests. “I brought you here to tell you the truth.”

“Bullshit.” He’s almost crying with fear and anger. “Do it.”

“Micka.”

“Just kill me!” He shouts, his hands balled into fists by his sides.

It reaches under its jacket. Micka’s entire body shakes, and tears stream down his face. It undoes its weapons belt and holds it out to him. “Take them.”

“Wh . . . what?”

“Trust—” it stops before finishing, because it has in no way earned his trust. “House Kilcharni is gone, Micka. The demon killed its last scion.”

It puts the daggers on the floor between them, and steps back. A faint bit of hope appears in Micka’s face which immediately turns to confusion when it strips off its jacket and starts pulling off its shirt.

“What . . . what are you doing?” Micka sounds dismayed, and his skin goes from pale to red. “You can’t take your clothes off in front of me.”

“It’s fine, Micka,” It tosses the shirt aside, and undoes the skirt.

“No it’s not!” Micka turns his back. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m the last Death of House Kilcharni,” it says, stripping off its slip. “And even though the house is gone, I’m still stuck here.”

Bruises cover its body, and its bandages are dirty with sweat and dried blood. It pulls the long clothes off its wounds, both so it can clean them later, and to show Micka it isn’t hiding anything. Micka almost looks when it hisses in pain, but stops himself and locks his eyes on the training room door instead. When the last bandage is off, it takes a deep breath and strips off the loincloth as well. “Turn around.”

“I don’t want to,” he says. “You shouldn’t be exposing yourself like this.”

“For fuck’s sake,” it says, and the weariness in its voice surprises it. “Just turn around, Micka. Please.”

He does, the movement slow and unsure. He stares at the floor, his face still bright red. It waits. At last he raises his eyes, and they go wide as he realizes what he’s seeing. He looks up and down its body, pausing at its groin and chest, and lingering on the brand before going back up.

“I’m not human, Micka,” it says. “House Kilcharni cursed me. They made me a thing, they made me a Death, and they made it so I have to avenge them, or I will die screaming.”

 

Chapter 20 comes April 18th!

 

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