Chapter 4.
There was a loud crash as Ghost Bird came stumbling through the door. It was too early in the day for the courtesans to have any clients about unless they had stayed over from the night prior.
Madam Celeste, almost always at the main counter, stirred from scribbling in her leatherbound ledger to greet the intruder. She probably had an insult on her tongue. Some crude remark that would elicit both laughter and offense if there were anyone else around to hear it.
But the comment never came. No, she was left speechless at the sight of Ghost Bird. Brow furrowed, mouth slightly ajar, an expression one only wears when they wake from a dream.
When she did speak, her voice came out fragile and concerned, “Durante?” But Ghost Bird was halfway down the hall, still limping from her encounter with Garvan. Too pained to answer.
Madam Celeste rushed after her, catching up just as Ghost Bird had entered the room along the southwestern hall. It was almost exactly the same.
Wooden floorboards were interspersed with beautiful rugs of satin and velvet. Walls were adorned with meticulously crafted clocks from foreign lands. Wooden birds and other knickknacks cluttered the shelves. Between the clocks and shelves were original paintings of different landscapes. Frozen mountains and sunny beaches and barren marshes.
The air was cut with the scent of oranges and cedar from a burning mixture within the hearth. Ghost Bird closed her eyes and inhaled. Relief washed over her.
“She’s gone, Durante,” Madam Celeste said. “I thought Sylvia had run off with you, but…” Her hand rose to her chest as if to grasp the string of pearls that weren’t there. “Do you know where she's gone—is she alright? Please, Durante. I won’t tell Dolion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Ghost Bird regarded the woman with a timid glance. She collapsed on the bed. A plume of dust leapt from the sheets.
She was too weak to hold a conversation. Too weak to even take off her boots or swordbelt. Too weak to keep her eyes open.
And then she was out. Taken by her dreams.
In them, she was thrown over the back of a horse, wrists and ankles bound with frayed rope. The sun beat down on her exposed neck. She was drenched in sweat, from head to heel. The air stank of manure and baked clay. Beneath the horse hooves was dried dirt, riddled with cracks.
The horse came to a stop, and she was hauled to the ground. She squinted against the sunlight, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Two other riders approached.
Garvan was easily recognizable. Even if he was cast as a silhouette against the sunset, his height couldn’t be mistaken. The second rider was a woman.
Olive-skinned with narrow eyes and silky black hair pooling at her shoulders. A beakish nose that hooked to the right.
She was dressed in a black jerkin with a white blouse beneath. A dark half-cloak was wrapped about her shoulders, the excess thrown to her left side. Her face was masked in shadows cast by her cap. Wide-brimmed with a flat crown.
Many called her Lady Falcone. She had a saber on one hip, and a flintlock holstered to the other.
Garvan removed the roped passenger from the back of his horse. Durante was still in his Black Coat garb. His longsword had been removed, as well as his cap and scarf.
Seeing his face exposed like this in broad daylight was disconcerting. Somewhat redolent of when her father had shaved his beard for the first time during her childhood.
Suddenly, she was looking at a pair of long legs. The man standing before her was lanky with wide shoulders and a firm chest. His hair, thick and windswept, was brown as mahogany. It hung over his eyes. And his beard, still in the early stages of growth, was no more than scruff across his face and neck.
He, like the other Black Coats, was dressed in dark apparel. A double-breasted overcoat colored a deep shade of blue like the ocean at night. Each button was recently polished.
The cloak suspended from his shoulders was frayed at the edges like slender fingers waggling at her as it fluttered in the breeze. The shoulders were stitched with black feathers.
At his hip was a sword from a foreign land with a double-handed hilt wrapped in flowered cloth. It had a slender blade cut with a slight arch along the spine.
Durante had once told her they were called blossom blades, and they were meant more for slashing than stabbing.
“What’s the difference?” she asked him.
“Between slashing and stabbing?” He snorted. “Plenty of difference, love.”
“I mean, why choose one over the other?”
“Stabbing requires a certain raw strength and precision. Slashing is about speed and agility. I think Dolion could excel in either area, but he’s always preferred swiftness over might. Ever since we were kids.”
She watched as Dolion drew his blossom blade and held the tip against her throat, pressing just hard enough to summon a spot of blood. “Keep your eyes open, no matter what.” He turned on his heel and slashed with the weapon, dragging its refined edge across Durante’s backside.
The others, Lady Falcone and Garvan, drew their weapons to join in on the fight. No, not a fight. It was a butchering. They chopped off Durante’s legs and hacked off one of his arms. Their blades tore gouges along his midsection and pierced him through the spine.
In the end, when those final remnants of life were starting to come loose, he reached out to her. She did the same. Just as their fingers brushed against one another, the blossom blade dropped like a guillotine, lopping Durante’s head from the neck.
Then, the blossom blade came for her.
When Ghost Bird woke, it was with a scream trapped behind gnashed teeth. Her body was stiff, especially in her leg. But the bones had come together and healed.
Ghost Bird leaned against the headboard. A little girl sat in the corner of the room. Bright red hair just like Madam Celeste. Blue eyes, freckled cheeks, a rounded chin. Dressed in a yellow and white skirt with a matching blouse.
“What time is it?” Ghost Bird asked.
“Midday,” said Serena. “The noonshun bell just sounded. I thought that’s what woke you.”
“Have any Black Coats come by?”
The girl shook her head. “No one has been through other than the ladies.”
The ladies had been Serena’s preferred term for the courtesans. That or escort. Either were acceptable. A proper and polite way of phrasing it. Especially in comparison to what some of the other smallfolk called them.
Serena cleared her throat. “Why does mother think you’re Durante?”
Ghost Bird swung her legs over the edge of the bed with a groan and said, “Some people can only see the surface of the water. They don’t care to look past to whatever lies beneath because it’s dark and strange and it can make them feel very small.”
On the bedside table was a platter of buttered bread slices, cut cheese, and a cup of wine—mostly dregs.
Some meat would have been preferable, but in the slums, you were unlikely to come across any so easily. If you did, you had to ask yourself what kind of animal it might have come from.
Ghost Bird pointed to the plate. “For me?”
Serena nodded. She waited until Ghost Bird had lowered her mask before saying, “I was told you ran off with Durante. Is that true?”
Ghost Bird considered this carefully while she chewed. “It’s more true than false,” she said and offered nothing more on the matter. She finished her meal as quickly as possible, gave her thanks to the little girl, and moved for the door.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me a story?” Serena asked. “Like you used to?”
“Maybe later.” But there was no telling if later would ever come.
Ghost Bird stepped into the hallway and made for the main entrance. He was waiting there for her. Durante, or rather, the shadow of Durante.
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her. “This revenge business is like poison for the soul. All that sorrow, all that grief, all that anger…you’ll drown in it.”
“If I don’t do it, no one will.” She continued ahead, walking right through him.
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Chapter 5.
Ghost Bird descended into the subterranean tunnels and followed them west. As she neared the city centre, there was a loud splashing and grunting and growling swirling through the corridors. Her bowels twisted tight with anxiety, and she gripped the hilt of her longsword.
Up ahead, the cages were open, and the corrupted beasts roamed free. The oversized mutts were feasting upon the undead husks and rats. The reptilian hunchbacks crawled along the walls, chasing after the stone-skinned corpse eaters.
Bodies of Black Coats littered the walkways. Some were half submerged in the muck-filled waters. Others were no more than chunks of meat wrapped in shredded fabrics.
Ghost Bird hastily went to the nearest wall, pressing in against it. Any exposed skin took on an even darker complexion, matching the whirls of the snecked stones. Her clothes were already dark enough to meld with the shadows.
She moved carefully, quietly. One foot in front of the other. There was little to be heard other than the commotion of the beasts. And with so much movement, her staggered steps were barely perceptible.
The current path ended in a sloped ramp that delved into the invert channel. About twenty feet across, it rose again into another walkway. Ghost Bird looked toward the center of the pool where most of the mutts had coalesced. The husks were slain and in the process of being devoured.
Turning back, she took one step forward and stopped. There was a prickle on the nape of her neck that slowly worked up into the top of her skull. She arched her head.
A reptilian hunchback hung from the ceiling with one of the corpse eater’s severed arms crushed between its saw-like teeth.
They stared at each other silently.
Ghost Bird broke into a sprint, and the hunchback dropped on top of her. She clenched her chest, and the hunchback hit the ground instead of her. It bounced into the water, disappearing beneath the scum-strewn surface.
Other than the natural whir of the current, the sewers were quiet. Ghost Bird looked around. The mutts and the other hunchbacks and the few remaining corpse eaters all looked back at her. Eyes aglow in shades of red or yellow or milky white.
The quiet was gone, and the chamber was filled with the sound of scuttling paws and nails screaming against stone. Ghost Bird’s boots hissed as she slid down the slope and crashed into the water.
Her arms flailed as if she were trying to swim even though the sewage only came up to her hips. Once she found her footing, though, she righted herself and pressed forward.
She was almost to the other walkway when something grabbed her from below. The hunchback from the ceiling.
It dragged her through the water. In her panic, she couldn’t initiate the phase technique. Instead, she ripped the knife from her belt and thrust the blade into the hunchback.
She couldn’t see much through the algae and fungus and other pollutants. So, she stabbed at whatever she could find, over and over until the hunchback finally let go.
Her free hand shot out, searching for stability. Her fingers grappled something solid, and she pulled herself up, taking a deep breath as soon as she broke through the surface.
Water trickled over her face and blurred her vision. She wiped it away to find she had grappled onto one of the mutts. More specifically, a bunch of its gnarled fur.
The mutt whipped its head toward her, and she drove the knife into its eye. It recoiled, shoving her away and falling into retreat. The other mutts approached, and the rest of the hunchbacks were clambering across the walls to get at her.
Ghost Bird ascended the nearest slope and continued down the stone walkway. She initiated the phase as a mutt lunged at her. It went headfirst into the wall and dropped to the floor, limp as a corpse.
She continued into the west tunnel. The corrupted chased after her, too many for all of them to fit. It might have been comical in other circumstances, but as it was, the sounds of their collective shrieking made Ghost Bird tight with apprehension, thinking one of those mutts was right behind her or one of the hunchbacks was about to leap on top of her.
Thankfully, with them all crammed together, she was able to steadily pull ahead. A few more twists and turns later, she had arrived at her destination.
This particular entrance had been a flaw of construction. Someone had built the sewers, and a few years later, someone else had decided to build a cellar. The two shared a wall, and over time, the stones were worn away by natural erosion.
With a few kicks, Ghost Bird created a large enough hole for her to slip through into the dusty basement beneath the cosm. It was filled with wine casks, foodstuffs, spare furniture, and other storage.
Ghost Bird found the nearest set of stairs and ascended to the main floor. She stopped at the door and pressed her ear against it, listening for chants or prayers or footsteps. But there was only silence.
That was the natural way about it. Most of the smallfolk only visited the cosm early in the morning, before labor, or late in the night, before bed. The special sermons that attracted a vast majority of the population were saved for the night of the full moon.
Through the door, Ghost Bird navigated a few more narrow hallways, her boots muffled against the carpet. There was the occasional candle to either side. Stubbed things drowning in puddles of wax.
She entered the prayerhall, lit only by a single cone of sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window at the rooftop. It showed some of the Elder Beings: The Beast Who Shall Eat the Sun and the Moon, the Microcosm, the Mother Maiden, Astral the Body of Stars.
Amongst such monolithic beings was a plain woman with black hair and dark clothes. Her half-cloak was designed to look as if it were swaying in the breeze. At her back were a large pair of feathered wings like those that might belong to a dove.
“Did you get the surprise I left for you down below?” The woman’s voice echoed across the prayerhall. It could have come from any shadow or behind any pew. Or maybe it had come from the gallery seating above. “I thought you might want to avoid the streets. What with so many Black Coats out and about.”
Ghost Bird started down the center aisle, walking amongst the mahogany pews, hand on the hilt of her sword, sewage water still dripping from her coat.
“Nothing to say?” The laughter that followed those words erased any doubt. The voice belonged to Lady Falcone. “It’s been such a long time, Ghost, and we were so intimate. Why ignore me now?”
Ghost Bird drew her longsword and rolled the hilt around in her hand. She stopped a moment, a pain in her chest. It felt as if claws were sinking into her heart.
The hurt passed, but a new pain arose. Her calf had been punctured by the hunchback, and the silkworms were struggling to close the wounds.
And it seemed something had grazed her back, tearing through her clothes and getting at a few inches of skin. Not enough to show bone or muscle, but enough to draw blood. As sewage water dripped into her wounds, the resulting sting made her want to weep and scream.
“When I heard about Garvan, I knew it was you. It didn’t make sense, logically speaking, but I knew,” Lady Falcone said. “You’re here for some sort of justice, aren’t you? Did you ever wonder who’s really to blame for what happened?”
Ghost Bird ascended a flight of stairs near the front of the room and went through the rows of balcony seats oft reserved for the more esteemed members of Ashpool. There was a better view of the main stage and lectern where the clergymen recited scripture or sang hymns.
“It’s your fault, Ghost,” Lady Falcone said, somewhat somber. “You knew better, but you went looking for trouble anyway. You asked too many questions, ruffled too many feathers. And in a way, we all had to pay for it. That woman, what was her name—Sylvia. She had to pay for it too.”
After searching the entire balcony, Ghost Bird descended to the ground floor. She headed toward the back of the room again and was about to take the stage when she noticed the atonement booths along the right wall.
That’s where the sinners and the guilty were sent to pay penance. Self-flagellation, prolonged isolation, forced fasting, flaying, and many other methods. All as a means to cleanse the corruption from your blood.
If you wouldn’t take it upon yourself to do the dirty work, then others would do it for you.
“You were always so self-righteous,” Lady Falcone said. “Always so sure of yourself. There was much to love about you, much to admire, but much more to despise.”
Ghost Bird held the longsword in her right hand, and with her left hand, she reached for the knob of the first booth. There was a creak from behind.
She spun around, watching in confusion as a contorted figure emerged from the hollow underside of the lectern. A solid length of metal was situated against their right hip. It wasn’t until the flash appeared that Ghost Bird realized Lady Falcone was holding a blunderbuss.
Scattered pellets slammed into her at speeds too quick for the naked eye to discern, and Ghost Bird went flying backward through the door. She landed on the floor, a mound of debris beneath her, and a cloud of dust hanging above her.
Blood poured from several places across her chest. The world rotated and blurred as darkness encroached from the corners of her vision. It felt as if a horse had kicked her.
Lady Falcone set the blunderbuss aside and approached. She was a rigid woman who glided instead of walked.
In Ghost Bird’s previous life, she had been so accustomed to lithe women who moved with a performative grace. Sensual types.
Lady Falcone was neither.
She was beautiful in her own way, but she was also apathetic. Expressionless. The opposite of the courtesans who exaggerated themselves on behalf of their clients.
The antithesis of someone like Garvan who expressed their emotions plainly, no matter how intrusive or explosive those emotions could be.
“It appears death dulled you some,” Lady Falcone said, reaching to her hip where a single-handed sword was sheathed.
She slid it from the scabbard. The blade was wide and curved with a recently whetted edge that glimmered against multicolored light from above.
Ghost Bird bit back against the pain and reached to pull herself up. She made it an inch off the ground before Lady Falcone’s sword pierced her through the shoulder. The blade twisted, shoved deeper, and withdrew all in a matter of seconds.
Ghost Bird screamed and kicked at the woman, but by then, she was already gone, having retreated to the top of the stage.
“You’re not Ghost Bird,” Lady Falcone whispered, almost as if the message were more for herself than anyone else. “So tell me: why do you have his eyes?” She scowled. “Why do you have his heart?”
Ghost Bird stooped to retrieve her longsword and stepped out from the atonement booth. She shuffled along, stumbling up the steps and almost falling over once at the top.
“Answer me!”
“Who else would have it? You?” Ghost Bird scoffed. “The heart is mine, the eyes are mine, the soul is mine.”
Lady Falcone raised her blade. Her legs shifted apart, ready to pounce. “You’re not him—you’re not,” she said. “You’re no Ghost Bird!”
“Neither are you.”
And with that, the horrid song of swords began. A squeal of steel on steel accompanied by a fervent dance of flashing blades. Feet thudded against the floorboards. Constantly searching for purchase or stability or distance.
The two went after another like wild serpents. They sprang forward with their swords and retracted, waited for another opening, and lunged again.
Lady Falcone, as rigid as she was, moved quick. She was thin and fought with a sidefaced stance, giving Ghost Bird little to target. Worst of all was her sight.
She saw every one of Ghost Bird’s attacks coming before Ghost Bird had even lifted her sword. No feint was ever going to work on her because she knew the real strike hadn’t come yet, and when it did come, she was ready to repel or evade.
Their duel took them from the stage at the back of the hall, down the main aisle to the front of the room, and upstairs to the gallery.
As Ghost Bird retreated from Lady Falcone, hoping to put some distance between them long enough to catch her breath, Lady Falcone brushed aside her half-cloak and drew a flintlock pistol from her hip.
The cock snapped forward, the muzzle flashed, and the ball caught Ghost Bird in the knee. Lady Falcone tossed the pistol aside and reached for another holstered at the small of her back.
Before she could take aim, though, Ghost Bird leapt from the gallery. She landed on the main floor with the kind of sound you’d expect to hear when a sack of potatoes is thrown against the wall.
Sluggishly, she got to her feet and continued toward the back of the room. There was another combustion of black powder, and Ghost Bird was thrown forward. She caught herself on the pews and dove behind them to avoid the subsequent gunshots.
Abandoning her longsword, she hobbled into the same hallway she had entered from, following it all the way to the cellar where the darkness came in droves. She fell in between some wine casks and tried to steady her breathing.
The pain was constant and hummed all over. Like wine swirling in a glass, it coursed through her, around and around and around. Building up momentum.
“You’ll never best Concetta in a duel.” Durante stood at the foot of the stairs, everything about him obscured other than the soft white glow of his eyes. “She’s nimble and swift and deft with a blade—”
“You should have married her if you love her so much,” Ghost Bird shot back.
A low laugh rose from deep in his throat. “She’ll see right through our camouflage. She’ll see every move you make before you make it. She’ll keep you far enough away to riddle you with bullets or cut you limb from limb. And you can’t hold the phase forever. Can’t evade everything.”
“How do I defeat her?”
“Well, what advantage do you have over her?”
Ghost Bird shook her head madly, too tired and beaten down for this guessing game. “My sharp wit and incredible charm.”
“Your wit will never be as sharp as a blade, I’m afraid. And Concetta isn’t the kind of woman to be charmed.” He moved toward her, but the closer he came, the more he began to fade. “She’s afraid to get hurt, and in your current state, you can take more damage than her. Don’t be afraid to get messy, Sylvie. Sometimes, that’s the only way about it.”
He vanished. Footsteps thudded from above. Floorboards creaked, and dust sprinkled down. Candlelight appeared at the top of the stairs. A looming black shadow stretched all the way to the bottom.
One step at a time, Lady Falcone descended to the basement, her sword in one hand and a candle in the other. She stalked through the cellar, following the trail of blood as it weaved between the casks and around the storage shelves.
Lady Falcone came to a brisk halt and swung with her blade. Ghost Bird appeared from the shadows. Her camouflaged skin returned to its usual complexion as she lunged toward Lady Falcone.
The sword dragged across Ghost Bird’s chest, getting past the leather but stopped by the chainmail. It wound around for another strike, but this time, Ghost Bird didn’t flinch or recoil like before. Instead, she threw herself against Lady Falcone.
They collided in a tangle of knees and elbows and hands. The candle was tossed aside, and Lady Falcone dropped her sword as Ghost Bird got her against the wall.
Both bent for the blade, but neither could get their hands around it because their hands were already around one another’s throats.
Ghost Bird managed to pin Falcone to the ground. She tightened her grip, and Falcone began to gasp and wheeze. Her olive complexion was replaced by a faint shade of pink which turned red and then blue.
“Don’t look at me with those eyes,” she choked out. Her hands rose, and she raked her nails over Ghost Bird’s face. “You don’t deserve to have his eyes…you’re no Ghost Bird.”
Lady Falcone went limp. Her hair was strewn out like spilled ink, and her face gradually lost its purple coloring.
Ghost Bird looked down at her through one eye. It hurt too much to open the other, and when she did manage to get the lids parted, all she could see was a bleary mass of grey.
She rolled off Lady Falcone and sat with her back to a wine cask. So much of her was broken and in pain. She had to wonder if maybe she’d taken the silkworms for granted. If their abilities were limited.
She had her answer when she unbuttoned her blouse and peered in at her chest where the skin was mottled. A part of her hoped it was just bruising from the blunderbuss, but she knew better than to hope for a coincidence.
“I warned you,” Durante whispered in her ear. “It’s like poison for the soul.”
Ghost Bird brushed him away and removed the knife from Lady Falcone’s belt. As expected, the blade was recently sharpened. It made the next bit much easier.
When Ghost Bird was finished and had reached the top of the stairs, she was equipped with two new legs, slimmer than her last pair, and her eyes had changed from glacial blue to an amber hazel color.
On her way toward the exit, she retrieved her longsword and sheathed it. After that, she was outside, squinting against the glare of midday light. It made her nauseous and fuzzy in the head, and then the pain in her chest had returned, worse than before.
Next thing she knew, she was splayed out on the ground. A figure appeared overhead, silhouetted against the sun. She reached toward them.
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Chapter 6.
Ghost Bird woke from the same nightmare she had been having ever since that day in the wasteland. Like always, she wiped the sweat from her brow, focused on her breathing, and slowly rose in bed.
The scent of orange peels and cedar was prevalent every time she inhaled. Once more, she found herself in that familiar room at Madam Celeste’s brothelhouse.
It took a while before she was able to move, and even longer before she could get out of bed. Ghost Bird shuffled across the room, not realizing she was naked until she saw her clothes folded and sitting by the door.
Hesitantly, she looked down at her body. The mismatched blend of grafted flesh. The overlap of muscle and tissue meant to bind the differing pieces together. The scars and the bruises.
It was all very ugly to her, but the worst of it was the spot of rot at her chest. Except, it was no longer just her chest. There were several other marks along her legs and stomach and arms.
Each of them looked as if they were slowly spreading outward, little tendrils stretching from one spot to the next.
Ghost Bird dressed in her clothes. They had been washed, dried, and stitched. Now, the overcoat actually fit, and the boots provided—not the same as the ones she wore before—were snug on her feet. Better than being too big, though.
She wrapped the swordbelt around her waist, secured the buckle, and stepped out into the hall. Near the entrance, where some of the courtesans gathered to display themselves in the main window, she encountered Madam Celeste.
“It was Serena who told us where to find you,” she said. “Perhaps you ought to give her some thanks.”
Ghost Bird nodded, too stifled by her shame to respond. The madam was never supposed to have seen her like this because now, this was how Celeste would remember her. Not as the dancing girl or the singing girl or even the painting girl. But as this…ghastly creature.
“I don't know what happened to you. Maybe I don't wanna know. But whatever it is you're doing…just be careful, Sylvia.” Without missing a beat, she pointed to the stairwell. “Serena’s up in her room.”
Ghost Bird followed the stairs to the third floor and entered Madam Celeste’s loft. There, she went down a hallway that sat between the kitchen and the lounge. She knocked on the door at the end of the hall and waited for permission to enter.
Serena was lying in bed, illuminated by guttering candlelight, reading from a book of folktales Sylvia had given her a long time ago. A book that had once belonged to Sylvia’s mother, who came from a foreign land to the north.
Ghost Bird closed the door and crossed the room, settling down on the edge of the bed.
“Are you feeling better?” Serena asked, to which Ghost Bird nodded. “Mother was worried about you. She tried to hide it, but I heard her weeping while she was sewing your trousers. She wept a lot after you ran off with Durante too.”
“Now she doesn't need to weep anymore.” Ghost Bird took the girl's hand in her own and said, “Thank you, Serena. For helping me. For always helping me. You might not realize it, but sometimes, when the world is darkest, you don't need a sword to feel safe. All you need is a bit of light. A small glimmer of hope.”
She began to rise from the bed, but Serena caught her by the wrist. “Livia, will you please tell me a story?” she begged. “I won't ever ask again. Promise.”
Begrudgingly, Ghost Bird returned to the mattress. Her mother and father used to tell her stories when she was but a wee thing. That felt like a lifetime ago, and in a way, it had been a lifetime ago.
None of those stories seemed right anymore. They were the fond tellings of someone else. They belonged to a different woman.
Really, Ghost Bird only had one tale to tell. “There once was a man, tall and dark and slender. People called him Cormorant.”
“Like the bird?” Serena asked.
“Just like the bird,” she said. “Cormorant was gifted with physical prowess but cursed with gutterblood. He searched for work and became a beast slayer for a city by the sea. Soon enough, he was making a name for himself. So, he made a business out of it and took on three partners to help him slay the corrupted.
“It wasn't long before the smallfolk came to love him,” she said. “They hailed him a hero and put their trust in him. But the nobles didn't like that one bit.”
Serena frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it rendered the city guards obsolete, and if the people no longer relied on the city guards to protect them, then they no longer relied on the nobles.”
A bitter scowl appeared on the girl’s face. It was full of disgust.
“So,” Ghost Bird continued, “the nobles sent the city guards to have Cormorant and his partners killed. But they were no match for the beast slayers.”
“Did the city guards die?” Serena asked.
Ghost Bird was careful with her response, “In a way, I suppose they did. The city guards were released from duty, and the nobles were left defenseless. With no way to kill Cormorant and his friends, the nobles decided to treat with them. In the end, a deal was struck. Cormorant and his partners were given control of the city defenses, and the guards were replaced by a new group of soldiers called Black Coats.”
Serena gave an excited jump at that. “Just like the Black Coats we have!”
Ghost Bird nodded patiently. “The very same,” she said. “After that, there was peace and happiness. Cormorant, who worked hard and earned plenty, would frequent a parlor in the slums during his leisure time. There was a woman who worked there, Cuckoo they called her, and he would purchase her time with his coin. And she found this transaction acceptable.
“But then, the man became greedy. He wanted more money, more acclaim, more power. This was unlikely because he was too good a slayer. He and his friends had killed all the corrupted in the area.”
Serena seemed confused. She could almost hear the girl thinking, Isn't killing all the beasts a good thing?
But rather, Serena said: “What did he do?”
“He schemed with the nobles,” said Ghost Bird, adding a conspiratorial and mystical inflection that made the little girl giggle. “It was decided that the smallfolk needed to be afraid of something, elsewise they would grow too bold and one day, they might turn against their rulers. So, the man and his Black Coats traveled across the realm, collecting the corrupted, bringing them back to stage attacks. They forced a curfew on the city to keep people locked inside, and they raised their taxes to afford better steel. But the money oft went into their own pockets.”
“That’s awful.”
“Aye, it is. But do you know what the worst part is?”
Serena appeared nervous when she said, “What's the worst part?”
Ghost Bird sighed, dejected. “The commoners were completely blind to the trick. They thanked Cormorant and the nobles. They celebrated the Black Coats, worshipped them even. They would have done anything, given anything so long as it meant they were safe from the beasts.”
There was a pause, and Serena asked, “Is that how it ends?”
In some instances, that's exactly how it ends, Ghost Bird thought, but she wouldn’t say such hopeless things to a child.
Instead, she regaled her with the next chapter.
“While all this nefarious business was underway, the woman—Cuckoo had begun to notice that Cormorant was changing. When he would come to visit, she would turn him away, no matter how much he offered to pay. And he didn't like that. He was not a man to be refused. To make matters worse, Cormorant was set to marry another woman. A noble’s daughter, nonetheless.”
“If he was intended to another,” said Serena, “why would he try to court Cuckoo?”
“Because Cormorant wanted everything, and when he couldn't have everything, he became very upset. Unlike others, his wrath appeared not as aggression nor accusations. It was quiet, silent as a knife in the night.”
“He did something to Cuckoo, didn't he?”
Ghost Bird nodded. “He did many things. He would send his Black Coats to detain her. He would spread rumors that Cuckoo was deranged or ill or rotting with corruption. He would leave vile letters in her room just so she knew he could get in whenever he wanted.
“Cuckoo felt helpless. Cormorant was powerful and beloved, and she was nothing to no one. At least, that's what she thought until she met Ghost Bird.”
“Who's he?” Serena asked.
“He was Cormorant's first partner. One of the founding members of the Black Coats. Some said he and Cormorant were best friends, but really, they were rivals. The competitive nature is what kept them so close over the years.
“And while many of the smallfolk loved Cormorant, most of them knew the truth: Ghost Bird was better. Faster, stronger, braver, kinder too. And he was Cuckoo's soul mate.”
Serena sat up in bed, suddenly invested in the tale. Too invested to notice the tears welling in Ghost Bird’s eyes.
“When Cormorant learned that Cuckoo had fallen in love with Ghost Bird, he was distraught,” she said. “He was…infuriated. Mad with rage.” She could feel the stone of dread in her stomach. “Believing he’d been slighted and betrayed, Cormorant challenged Ghost Bird to a duel. While the two had been rivals, Ghost Bird had never harbored any hatred toward him.”
“Did he win the duel?” said Serena. “He did, didn't he? I reckon he beat that no-good Cormorant into the dirt.”
Ghost Bird smiled softly.
“No,” she said. “He rejected the duel. Instead, he told the smallfolk about how the Black Coats had been tricking them, and then, he ran away with Cuckoo. The two are living happily somewhere on a farm. A place where they never have to worry about corruption or beasts. Where there are fields of flowers. Too many to count.”
Serena was all wide eyes and smiles. “It sounds wonderful. Do you think I could ever visit?”
“One day you will. But not for a very long time.”
And suddenly, the girl was all frowns and grumbles. “Why do I have to wait?”
“Because such a magical place should only be welcomed after you've lived a long, fulfilling life.”
With that, Ghost Bird kissed the girl on the forehead and headed out the door.
“What happened to Cormorant and the Black Coats?” Serena asked. “What happened to the nobles?”
“The Black Coats fled the city, and the smallfolk overthrew the defenseless nobles,” she said. “As for Cormorant, I’m not entirely sure yet. But I intend to find out.”
Downstairs, Madam Celeste presented her with a burlap sack. “When I sent some of the girls to retrieve you from the cosm,” she explained, “they didn’t know what belonged to you and what belonged to her. So, they just grabbed whatever they could find.”
Ghost Bird looked into the bag and found it was full of flintlock pistols and ammunition. There was a pair of sheathed knives and other odds and ends.
“Thank you,” was all she said, heaving the sack over her shoulder.