Geist

No book arises in the dark, so thanks must go out to the following people: To my agent, Laurie McLean, who is my backbone. To Gabrielle Harbowy, who helped me begin the process of shaping this novel. To my parents and brother, who nurtured the dream and made me whole. To all the friends on all my social media networks, who gave me encouragement and listened to my gripes. To all my podcast listeners, who made me a better writer and have been waiting for this moment.

It was good weather for a riot.

Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking. Deacon Sorcha Faris breathed out the last smoke from her cigar, twisted the remains against the stone parapet and sighed in boredom. A riot was almost as unlikely as an unliving attack. But it was her duty to remain alert for both, so she closed her eyes and let her Center fall away.

Under the gray and altered veil of her geist-Sight, the gathering of humans below her at the Vermillion Palace’s gate smelled of nothing more than desperation and dull resignation. However, there was certainly a good crowd of them; perhaps five hundred dispossessed milled about in the snow-covered square.

Straining her preternatural senses as far as she could, Sorcha still found no tang of the unliving among them. Falling sleet was cooling their anger and they huddled against the southern wall because they had nowhere else to go. Their protest at her Emperor’s presence was subdued; they knew full well he’d been invited by the princes to rule Arkaym, their continent, but they needed someone to blame for their own misery. The majority of the citizens of the City of Vermillion loved the Emperor, but these people had filtered in from the outlying towns for one reason—they were hungry.

There was, however, nothing supernatural about them. Pamphleteers had been spreading discontent since autumn, and now their efforts were bearing fruit. Not all of the princes agreed—they seldom ever did on much, and there were still a couple that disapproved of her Emperor. This likely would not come to much. Still, guarding against the signs of uprising was her job; more than that, her calling.

When she reeled back her Center, the feeling of disorientation passed quickly. For a novice it would have been a strain, but Sorcha had been eighteen years a Deacon. This minor use of her powers was now as simple as breathing. Sorcha might not be a Sensitive, but she had enough rank to sign this one off.

The recent spate of possessions in Brickmaker’s Lane on the very edge of Vermillion had made everyone nervous, but another team of Deacons had dealt with those last week. It was as she suspected: there was nothing to Sergeant Gent’s worries. The palace was built far out in a shallow lagoon. Surrounded on all sides by water, the royal residence was almost impossible for the unliving to enter; excellent planning by the previous owners.

This particular gathering was now officially the preserve of the Imperial Legion—let them decide how best to deal with the ragtag protestors. Sergeant Gent was once again seeing geists in every corner. Sorcha thought, not for the first time, that he should have at least tried to join the Deacons—it might have taught him a thing or two.

She briskly pinned back some of the bronze curls that had escaped her severe bun, and was about to leave her chilly spot on the wall when she caught a glimpse of a familiar back moving into the crowd.

After eight years of marriage she could instantly recognize Kolya, even if she couldn’t see his face. What she couldn’t understand was what he was doing down there. He hadn’t told her that he was planning to do this—but that was the way of things between them, and had been for some time now.

“Sergeant,” Sorcha barked as she picked up her leather helmet from the parapet, “get your men ready.” Running to the door, she buckled the helm on tightly.

Kolya might be a Sensitive, but if he took matters into his hands, he could be surprisingly dogged. Once, it had been an admirable trait, but his wife now found it overwhelmingly irritating. However, if he thought there was something going on down there, he was better equipped to find it than she—a mere Active—was.

Sorcha led the platoon down the stairs. At the bottom, she silently gestured for them to hang back inside the tower. Muskets and bayonets would be of little use if the unliving walked, and in fact any bloodletting would only benefit a geist.

A quick check of her Center again revealed nothing new, yet through the iron railings Sorcha could make out Kolya’s emerald cloak surrounded by the gleam of his own Center in the grayness of the mob. Sensitive and Active, they usually worked as a team, but they’d argued again this morning. For a year they had been living in icy silence, but lately she had begun to crack under the pressure. She was starting to bite back, enraged at his own lack of emotion. So when the report had come in that morning, and she’d been unable to find her husband, she’d decided her Sensitivity was enough for a simple detection.

Kolya obviously thought differently.

“Idiot.” Sorcha tugged on her thick Deacon Gauntlets while trying to ram down her surging anger.

“Are we going in, ma’am?” Sergeant Gent, always too eager, was nearly standing on her toes. The usual reserve most people had around Deacons wasn’t evident in this particular Imperial Guardsman.

“Only if my husband is right.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “So most likely, yes. At my signal, get those people clear and out beyond the gates.”

Gent saluted, but the gleam of excitement in his eye boded ill. Young men, guns and geists were a potent combination. “Sergeant”—Sorcha shot him her best cutting-down-to-size look—“you’ve got it straight that any—
any
—bloodshed here could bring a rain of disaster down on the Emperor’s doorstep?”

He might have been an ambitious young soldier, but even he had to take a Deacon’s warning seriously. With a nod Gent turned back to his men to pass on the word, and Sorcha watched the soldiers’ faces reflect disdain. Apparently crowd control was not what the Imperial Guard was famous for; it didn’t make the ladies swoon or provide for good stories in the barracks afterward.

She saw Kolya’s back stiffen as her Center leapt toward him. Sorcha might still be angry, but she was not about to let him endanger his own life.
The other Actives would never let her hear the end of it.

Kolya’s wry observation spilled into her mind. Such leaking was the negative side of working together for so long. It also made marriage that much more difficult.

Ignoring it as best she could, Sorcha lent him her minor Sensitivity while keeping her inner eye open for trouble. The merged vision opened wide like a supernatural searchlight. Their combined strength was unmatched in the Abbey, and now Sorcha could taste what had drawn her husband into the midst of the discontented citizens. The faint tang of the unliving was far too small for her senses alone to detect. So far it was only manifesting as a bitter taste on her tongue.

To the shambling group of ungifted there was nothing different about the air, yet; only the usual stench of the early-morning emptying of chamber pots. But to talented and trained senses, it was like the odor of something rotting in the sun.

The faint whiff of the unliving disturbed her enjoyment of the morning. Deacon Faris hated disruption. She also hated being wrong. Today had started badly and looked to be going downhill; watery surrounds should have meant safety for her Emperor. After all it was the sole reason Vermillion had always been the capital city—building on a lagoon was not the easiest thing. It shouldn’t have mattered that the top surface was ice when the protective tides still moved below.

All those suppositions vanished, however, when the geist burst through the surrounding flagstones and erupted into the crowd. Sorcha envisioned some clerk in the Abbey working overtime to do a rewrite of the textbooks—this geist seemed not to care that its presence was breaking all their rules.

“Now, Gent!” Sorcha barked as she vaulted the railing to where her husband was just turning to face the threat. “Get these people back!” Shoving her way through the still-unaware protestors, she flexed her fingers within her leather Gauntlets—letting the crowd become aware of just what they were dealing with.

Each leather finger was carved with one of the ten Runes of Dominion. Sorcha called on Aydien, and blue fire chased itself widdershins around her hands to finish with a surge on each palm where her sigil was carved.

Actives were sometimes accused by Sensitive Deacons of being overly flashy. Sorcha did find it somewhat embarrassing; all the lights and surges of energy that even the ungifted could see. However, it did clear the space around her rather effectively. Those not yet possessed stumbled out of her way, screaming in shock. After three years the locals had developed a healthy respect for the dangers of a Deacon wearing Gauntlets.

Aydien was the rune of repulsion and worked well on both mortals and lower-level unliving. The crowd was scattering in a most satisfactory way, yet the geist was still pouring out of the ground, ready to possess anyone it could. It would obviously require a more powerful rune to affect it.

Letting the first rune flicker out, Sorcha reached for Shayst. The green surge of energy trickled into her palm. With it she touched the essence of the geist, drawing some of it for herself—much safer than taking from the Otherside. Ten faces in the mob turned toward her immediately, pale and slack. The sheen of sweat was already on them; geists could seldom manage the fine mechanics of the human body.

Behind them Kolya’s green cloak billowed, standing out brightly against the snow and gray paving stones. He had, as their training had taught them, refrained from the natural impulse; his saber remained sheathed. It was a weapon of last resort and of very little use against a geist. Wind sprang up and whipped his fair hair about him, but his expression remained calm even though this geist was acting as no other the Deacons had ever recorded. With Sorcha now on the scene it was unlikely to threaten him. Actives blazed in the ether when they wore the Gauntlets, while Sensitives barely disturbed it as long as they did not wear their equivalent, the Strop.

The geist-possessed stumbled about, drool falling down their chins, eyes rolling in their heads and wordless groans squeezed from their chests. Already Sorcha could smell the faint odor of shit; another faculty that geists could not control. Overall, being possessed, if one survived it, was an unpleasant and embarrassing experience. Old thin women, pigeon-chested boys and ragtag men were now the geist’s weapons in this world.

“Unacceptable,” the Deacon muttered to herself.

Watch yourself.
Kolya’s unneeded warning leaked across their Bond.

His confidence in her abilities, even after all these years, was so reassuring.

Through the enhanced Sight Kolya fed her, Sorcha could make out the swirling vortex of the geist as it embraced the humans. It was growing larger rather than smaller. The power required to control even this many people was immense—in fact, off the scale. Once again, the paper shufflers were going to get a headache over this.