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rainbowfic2013-05-20 10:46 am
auguris) wrote in rainbowfic2013-05-20 10:46 am
Transparent 7, Fire Opal 17, Dove Grey 19
Name: auguris
'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Not Haunted
Colors: Transparent 7. Vaporous, Fire Opal 17. Like a hurricane, Dove Grey 19. People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened.
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Pastels (lies/secrets), Glitter (Build), Novelty Bead fromshadowsong26 (She hangs up about the things that I don't know / And dresses demons up with soothing tones and so on / But, left alone, don't know if I found soul or spite / Who were you talking to tonight? / I'll tell you when the time is right. -- Soothing Tones, Drew Sarich)
Word Count: 2900
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Moira takes Mitchell out to his first truly dangerous haunting.
The haunting slipped under her skin the moment Moira stepped out of the safety of her car, cold fury crawling up her nerves. Rotten eggs in her mouth and rusted copper in her nose, and a faint whisper: out out get out out out get out
Moira watched her son exit the passenger's side, wrapping his arms around himself. The natural weather was fair; he felt the ghost, as well. He turned to her as she reinstated the car's wards, running her hands over the energy protecting it from intrusion.
"Someone got a little ahead of themselves," Mitchell said, pointing to the realtor's sign. Underneath the blue and white sign emblazoned with the logo for Krixos Realty hung a smaller sign, simply stating Not Haunted.
"Indeed," she chuckled, heading up the walkway. "Hopefully that same someone is now perusing the classifieds."
Mitchell hung back as she unlocked the door; here on the porch the smell was much stronger, emanating from the very air. The door slammed inwards, followed by a blast of cold air and a wordless shriek that echoed into the neighborhood.
"Lady's sake," Mitchell muttered, voice trembling. Moira brushed his hair back.
"All right?"
He would be testing for his Adept level in a few years time; once passed, he would be licensed to perform exorcisms on his own. He had to be prepared. As loathe as she was to put him in such a dangerous situation -- to see such blatant fear behind his eyes -- the best way to protect him was to guide him through it, so he could eventually guide himself.
Her chest tightened when his expression hardened, his eyes flashing with the magic coursing through his body. "I'm fine, Mom."
The entrance led into the living room. A television lay on its side, screen shattered; a couch was torn into pieces, the remnants of a end tables and lamps strewn about the floor. Deep scratches in the hardwood floor led into the next room; the wallpaper was in tatters.
"Why is it so angry?" Mitchell asked, perhaps rhetorically. Moira answered regardless.
"Any number of reasons. It was likely a murder victim; accidents and suicides rarely leave violent hauntings. Something triggered the manifestation: the old owners moving out, the realtor traipsing about. Perhaps the regular activity of the living kept it calm. Perhaps it knew the old owners when alive."
Mitchell wrinkled his nose. "You think it's been around that long?"
Moira blinked. "If someone was murdered here recently, the realtor would have told me."
"I guess. It just doesn't feel..." Mitchell shrugged. "I don't know. Remember the train yard? That guy was around for a long time. Like the haunting had sort of gathered?" He shook his head. "I don't know how to describe it. There was more of it, compared to hauntings we knew were recent." He met her eyes. "I don't mean to doubt you, it just doesn't feel old."
Moira stared at him. "Mitchell, I didn't feel anything like that at the train yard." She clasped his shoulder when he looked away. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying I didn't feel it. I can't think of what else you might be describing. If you can sense the age of a haunting--"
She sensed something moving towards her and ducked, pulling Mitchell down with her. A stool slammed into the front window, shattering the glass. Moira whirled as she stood, facing a shapeless mass of gray mist that roiled as an angry thunder cloud. It shot towards her and she threw her magic into a thick ward, like a wall; it was bulky but worked, scattering the mist. The ghost shrieked again, so close it might have been her own voice, her own ravaged throat crying out for...
For what?
She had it, for a moment, the ghost's psyche touching her own, before instinctively shoving it away. The ward fell apart and she reached for the ghost, hoping it was weaker. It fled from her magic, dissipating into the floor.
"Mom."
She turned to Mitchell, ready to assure him that she was fine. He was looking not at her the wall, as deeply marred as the floor they tread upon. Mitchell tore away pieces of the wallpaper, ignoring her admonition.
The newly bare wall revealed not random scratches but a word: deathlord.
"That's us," Mitchell said. "What we were called, back in the old days. Right?"
Moira put her hands on his shoulders, staring at the title. It wasn't the sort of description a modern wizard would use; even the more radical independents used Necromancer. Deathlord has outlived dangerous and become simply archaic. Outside of academic discussion, she had never heard it used.
"Did the ghost do that?"
"A reasonable assumption."
Something wasn't right, here. As the haunting was subdued for the time being, she could take a moment to explore the house. Perhaps she would find what had triggered this violent manifestation. Moira closed her eyes, pulling her magic across herself and pushing it out in every direction.
"I think it's below us," Mitchell said, twirling her fingers through her magic as it flowed past him.
"Yes. I'm searching for something else."
"What?"
"Anything out of place."
Nothing in the living room -- aside from her son -- reacted to her probing. She pushed further, feeling for any workings or remnants, no matter how old. The ground floor, at least, was clear.
"I'm going to check the upstairs. Stay here and keep an eye on things."
"Sure." He clasped his elbows, looking everywhere but her.
"Don't let the theatrics frighten you. Remember you are alive." She chucked his chin. "I won't be far."
The second floor lay untouched; she could smell the lemony-chemical cleaner wafting from the floor. She checked each room briefly -- three bedrooms, one bath, one empty linen closet -- but found nothing. The ghost didn't manifest beyond the living room. No signs of wizardy, past or present. The haunting felt further than it should, as if she were standing out on the street. The outer walls of a home tended to act as a natural barrier to the dead and the oppression of restless death, but it was rare for the inner walls to do the same. Rare enough that she had never experienced it herself.
"Out out get out!"
That was Mitchell's voice.
She ran, leaping over the banister and throwing down a quick spell to cushion her landing. Gray mist gathered around her son, unable to penetrate his bodyward. He hunched over himself, gripping his hair and muttering, "out out out".
Two strides brought her to Mitchell and she wrapped her arms around him. The instant she passed through the mist her skin froze; if someone hit her too hard she feared she might shatter. Each breath brought winter into her lungs.
She poured her magic out of herself, breathing it into Mitchell, forcing the dead bastard out of her son.
It howled, bits of it catching on her magic, its very self tearing as it tried to escape. That should have been the end of it, but what was left of the ghost coalesced as it drifted back into the floor.
Mitchell stopped muttering, his arms falling to his sides. He was a bit taller than her now, but not so much so that she couldn't cold him close, couldn't tuck his head into her shoulder until the shaking subsided.
Mitchell stepped back, scrubbing his face, muttering, "Sorry."
Moira grasped his chin and forced red-rimmed eyes to look at her. "Don't apologize. This one is even stronger than I anticipated; something strange is going on here." She released his chin. "Come; let us end this."
He stuck close as she found the basement stairs. She wanted nothing more than to rush him home and sit him down and tell him everything was all right; but for that to be the correct course of action would require living in a world where he did not have a duty, a birthright, to calm the dead in order to protect the living. A world in which the dead never lingered, in which his Talent was not necessary to keep it spinning.
That wasn't the world they lived in, so she must teach him of the dangers so that they would not consume him.
She wondered if Nieve had been right, if she should have sent Mitchell to Donat; but the old man was tired, more tired that his years, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. She trusted only Nieve more, and she hadn't yet reached her Mastery when Mitchell's training began.
The stairs did not creak under her weight. She reached the floor and stopped, turning in a full circle. The haunting was here, it must be, but it felt no stronger than it had in the living room.
"Weird," Mitchell murmured. "There's something over there, but..." He shrugged, unable to articulate what was so strange about it.
Moira followed his gaze -- a smooth chunk of obsidian lay on the ground. She strode to it, mouth twisting, stomach tight. Mitchell followed her, kneeling as she did. She grabbed it
out out get out get out have to get out GET OUT GET OUT GET ME OUT
She tossed it, smacking Mitchell's hand away from it. "Do not touch it."
Lady, no. Had someone got ahold of her research? Had Nieve-- no, no of course not, it wasn't a new theory, someone else knew, someone else had done this, someone had trapped a lost soul and used it to -- to what? To destroy some poor mundane family's house? To keep the realtor from being able to sell it?
To see what would happen?
She handed Mitchell the car keys. "There is a black obsidian box in the trunk. I want you to bring it here. Quickly, son."
He threw her a questioning look but did as he was asked. Moira stood by the staircase, magic flowing over her skin. Black mist seeped from the obsidian -- the soul tether, it was called -- fading into gray as the manifestation grew.
out echoed against her skin and she let it in, just a brush stroke, get me out.
"Soon, dear," she murmured. The mist dissipated. The dead were much easier to deal with, once you knew what they wanted.
Mitchell returned with the box and placed it where directed. About the length of her forearm and half as wide, it would have been a bit too large if it were empty. The enchantments hissed as she opened it, revealing a handful of broken shards of obsidian. Mitchell's eyes went wide, but he only held the box open while she retrieved the tether and placed it inside.
Silence hung as they returned to the car. Only once the box was safely latched -- enchantments renewed, trunk shut -- did Mitchell ask,
"What is it?"
Moira sighed and told him to get in the car. She could feel it, even through the obsidian and the enchantments and her wards. "A tether," she told him once they started down the road. "Or an anchor, I suppose."
"For ghosts."
She glanced in the rear-view. Of course they weren't being followed. "For souls."
Rain splattered on the windshield, spare drops at first but rapidly growing into a torrent. She slowed, tapping her fingers against the wheel; they didn't have time for this.
"What were those other pieces you had?"
"Broken tethers. The only way to free a captured soul is to physically break the tether, thus severing the enchantment. The soul is freed but the pieces are still dangerous. I haven't discovered a way to truly dispose of the remains, so I keep them locked up."
Telling him the full truth now would be detrimental to his education. The workings were too advanced, the politics too involved. She and Nieve weren't doing anything harmful, but the Assembly would never approve of it, not until they had answers. If the Court found out, she would be in danger -- as well as everyone who knew. Mitchell wasn't ready for that responsibility.
She ruffled his hair; it was getting long again. "You look concerned."
"Who would do something like this? It would have to be someone like us, right? Someone who deals with the dead?" She nodded. "They're doing something really bad. Why else would they need to trap the dead? That's the opposite of what we're supposed to do. You can't tell me whoever did this had good intentions."
"No," Moira murmured. "I cannot. The harm an unchecked haunting can cause is astronomical."
"Maybe they wanted revenge, or..." Mitchell tapped his fingers against the arm rest. "Or maybe it was an experiment. Do you think," he pitched his voice low, "it could have been the Followers of Morgause?"
Moira took a deep breath. "We have no way of knowing, dear."
"We should tell the Assembly. If the Followers are -- why not?" he asked when she shook her head.
"They would send in the Court. There are only a handful of registered Ghost Seers in Krixos. All of us would be put under surveillance. You understand what that means? They would watch us, every moment of every day, waiting for one slip up. The smallest of mistakes would bring the whole weight of Her Court down on your head."
"But if we're not doing anything wrong--"
"Mitchell. Do you never cross the street against the light? Perform a minor working in front of mundanes? Notice a haunting and fail to immediately notify a Master or the Assembly?" He didn't answer. "These would all give them an excuse to sit you down in a small, dark room, and not let you go until they were done with you. And then you would be on their list. For the rest of your life, they would watch your every move. Mistakes would no longer be an option. Do you think you're capable of that? Of never making a mistake?"
"I..."
"Do you think I am?"
Mitchell stared at his hands. "What do we do?"
Moira forced a smile. "We keep a watch out, for those who would do harm. We deal with them on our own."
She pulled into a large empty field, ankle-high yellow grass poking up out of the mud. She wrapped her jacket tighter before stepping into the rain.
"Why are we here?" Mitchell asked as he lifted the box from the trunk.
"We need to destroy it and free the ghost. There are safer places, but then we would have to explain ourselves, wouldn't we?"
He didn't return her smile.
Together they tromped through the mud. The rain hadn't lessened any; on top of everything else, now Moira was concerned with getting the both of them home safely. Mundane drivers seemed to forget themselves when water fell from the sky.
Mitchell set the box down where she indicated. "What should I do?"
"Step back," Moira said. "This is a bit more advanced than you're ready for, I'm afraid. Don't look at me like that. Do you think I was ready for my Mastery at sixteen?"
She waited until he was several paces away before opening the box. She removed the tether quickly, before rainwater gathered inside, and set it down on a small mound of muddy dirt. This would have been easier with Nieve, but she was afraid the other Seer would let on more than she was ready for Mitchell to hear.
Moira placed her hand on the obsidian, murmuring, "come out, now," to the ghost inside. Mist grew around her, frost gathering across her skin. Mitchell made a noise, but she only shook her head.
The mist grew in volume until it was the approximate shape and size of an adult woman; human or wizarding, it was impossible to tell at this stage. Its chest and head were distinct, hollow eyes gazing down at her, while its bottom half remained vague. She found herself breathing rapidly, unable to take in enough air; she grasped the portion of the spirit still attached to the tether, Projecting herself a mite, just enough to gain a steadier grip. Mitchell gasped, "Mom!" but she paid him no heed, there was no time.
She yanked the spirit from its tether; a sound like glass shattering echoed in her head, drowning out the rain and the ghost's renewed shrieking and her son's words. She drew back into herself, gaze stuck on the ghost. Light burst forth like a thousand stars as the path opened, and the spirit soared to the otherside. Despite herself, she could not look away and she
found herself there, surrounded not by a curtain of rain but by the Lake, held by it, and she opened her mouth and it flowed inside and
"Mom?"
She took a breath of cold, clean air. She did not choke on Lake water.
"Mom, please--"
"Dearboy," she whispered, cradling his chin in her hand. "I'm not lost. Only tired."
Relief replaced fear, like the sun chasing the night. "I'll clean up, okay? Go ahead back to the car."
It was safe enough, as long as he didn't do anything foolish with the shards. Moira let herself walk back to the car and wait; it was nice to get in out of the rain.
auguris'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Not Haunted
Colors: Transparent 7. Vaporous, Fire Opal 17. Like a hurricane, Dove Grey 19. People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened.
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Pastels (lies/secrets), Glitter (Build), Novelty Bead from
shadowsong26 (She hangs up about the things that I don't know / And dresses demons up with soothing tones and so on / But, left alone, don't know if I found soul or spite / Who were you talking to tonight? / I'll tell you when the time is right. -- Soothing Tones, Drew Sarich)Word Count: 2900
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Moira takes Mitchell out to his first truly dangerous haunting.
The haunting slipped under her skin the moment Moira stepped out of the safety of her car, cold fury crawling up her nerves. Rotten eggs in her mouth and rusted copper in her nose, and a faint whisper: out out get out out out get out
Moira watched her son exit the passenger's side, wrapping his arms around himself. The natural weather was fair; he felt the ghost, as well. He turned to her as she reinstated the car's wards, running her hands over the energy protecting it from intrusion.
"Someone got a little ahead of themselves," Mitchell said, pointing to the realtor's sign. Underneath the blue and white sign emblazoned with the logo for Krixos Realty hung a smaller sign, simply stating Not Haunted.
"Indeed," she chuckled, heading up the walkway. "Hopefully that same someone is now perusing the classifieds."
Mitchell hung back as she unlocked the door; here on the porch the smell was much stronger, emanating from the very air. The door slammed inwards, followed by a blast of cold air and a wordless shriek that echoed into the neighborhood.
"Lady's sake," Mitchell muttered, voice trembling. Moira brushed his hair back.
"All right?"
He would be testing for his Adept level in a few years time; once passed, he would be licensed to perform exorcisms on his own. He had to be prepared. As loathe as she was to put him in such a dangerous situation -- to see such blatant fear behind his eyes -- the best way to protect him was to guide him through it, so he could eventually guide himself.
Her chest tightened when his expression hardened, his eyes flashing with the magic coursing through his body. "I'm fine, Mom."
The entrance led into the living room. A television lay on its side, screen shattered; a couch was torn into pieces, the remnants of a end tables and lamps strewn about the floor. Deep scratches in the hardwood floor led into the next room; the wallpaper was in tatters.
"Why is it so angry?" Mitchell asked, perhaps rhetorically. Moira answered regardless.
"Any number of reasons. It was likely a murder victim; accidents and suicides rarely leave violent hauntings. Something triggered the manifestation: the old owners moving out, the realtor traipsing about. Perhaps the regular activity of the living kept it calm. Perhaps it knew the old owners when alive."
Mitchell wrinkled his nose. "You think it's been around that long?"
Moira blinked. "If someone was murdered here recently, the realtor would have told me."
"I guess. It just doesn't feel..." Mitchell shrugged. "I don't know. Remember the train yard? That guy was around for a long time. Like the haunting had sort of gathered?" He shook his head. "I don't know how to describe it. There was more of it, compared to hauntings we knew were recent." He met her eyes. "I don't mean to doubt you, it just doesn't feel old."
Moira stared at him. "Mitchell, I didn't feel anything like that at the train yard." She clasped his shoulder when he looked away. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying I didn't feel it. I can't think of what else you might be describing. If you can sense the age of a haunting--"
She sensed something moving towards her and ducked, pulling Mitchell down with her. A stool slammed into the front window, shattering the glass. Moira whirled as she stood, facing a shapeless mass of gray mist that roiled as an angry thunder cloud. It shot towards her and she threw her magic into a thick ward, like a wall; it was bulky but worked, scattering the mist. The ghost shrieked again, so close it might have been her own voice, her own ravaged throat crying out for...
For what?
She had it, for a moment, the ghost's psyche touching her own, before instinctively shoving it away. The ward fell apart and she reached for the ghost, hoping it was weaker. It fled from her magic, dissipating into the floor.
"Mom."
She turned to Mitchell, ready to assure him that she was fine. He was looking not at her the wall, as deeply marred as the floor they tread upon. Mitchell tore away pieces of the wallpaper, ignoring her admonition.
The newly bare wall revealed not random scratches but a word: deathlord.
"That's us," Mitchell said. "What we were called, back in the old days. Right?"
Moira put her hands on his shoulders, staring at the title. It wasn't the sort of description a modern wizard would use; even the more radical independents used Necromancer. Deathlord has outlived dangerous and become simply archaic. Outside of academic discussion, she had never heard it used.
"Did the ghost do that?"
"A reasonable assumption."
Something wasn't right, here. As the haunting was subdued for the time being, she could take a moment to explore the house. Perhaps she would find what had triggered this violent manifestation. Moira closed her eyes, pulling her magic across herself and pushing it out in every direction.
"I think it's below us," Mitchell said, twirling her fingers through her magic as it flowed past him.
"Yes. I'm searching for something else."
"What?"
"Anything out of place."
Nothing in the living room -- aside from her son -- reacted to her probing. She pushed further, feeling for any workings or remnants, no matter how old. The ground floor, at least, was clear.
"I'm going to check the upstairs. Stay here and keep an eye on things."
"Sure." He clasped his elbows, looking everywhere but her.
"Don't let the theatrics frighten you. Remember you are alive." She chucked his chin. "I won't be far."
The second floor lay untouched; she could smell the lemony-chemical cleaner wafting from the floor. She checked each room briefly -- three bedrooms, one bath, one empty linen closet -- but found nothing. The ghost didn't manifest beyond the living room. No signs of wizardy, past or present. The haunting felt further than it should, as if she were standing out on the street. The outer walls of a home tended to act as a natural barrier to the dead and the oppression of restless death, but it was rare for the inner walls to do the same. Rare enough that she had never experienced it herself.
"Out out get out!"
That was Mitchell's voice.
She ran, leaping over the banister and throwing down a quick spell to cushion her landing. Gray mist gathered around her son, unable to penetrate his bodyward. He hunched over himself, gripping his hair and muttering, "out out out".
Two strides brought her to Mitchell and she wrapped her arms around him. The instant she passed through the mist her skin froze; if someone hit her too hard she feared she might shatter. Each breath brought winter into her lungs.
She poured her magic out of herself, breathing it into Mitchell, forcing the dead bastard out of her son.
It howled, bits of it catching on her magic, its very self tearing as it tried to escape. That should have been the end of it, but what was left of the ghost coalesced as it drifted back into the floor.
Mitchell stopped muttering, his arms falling to his sides. He was a bit taller than her now, but not so much so that she couldn't cold him close, couldn't tuck his head into her shoulder until the shaking subsided.
Mitchell stepped back, scrubbing his face, muttering, "Sorry."
Moira grasped his chin and forced red-rimmed eyes to look at her. "Don't apologize. This one is even stronger than I anticipated; something strange is going on here." She released his chin. "Come; let us end this."
He stuck close as she found the basement stairs. She wanted nothing more than to rush him home and sit him down and tell him everything was all right; but for that to be the correct course of action would require living in a world where he did not have a duty, a birthright, to calm the dead in order to protect the living. A world in which the dead never lingered, in which his Talent was not necessary to keep it spinning.
That wasn't the world they lived in, so she must teach him of the dangers so that they would not consume him.
She wondered if Nieve had been right, if she should have sent Mitchell to Donat; but the old man was tired, more tired that his years, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. She trusted only Nieve more, and she hadn't yet reached her Mastery when Mitchell's training began.
The stairs did not creak under her weight. She reached the floor and stopped, turning in a full circle. The haunting was here, it must be, but it felt no stronger than it had in the living room.
"Weird," Mitchell murmured. "There's something over there, but..." He shrugged, unable to articulate what was so strange about it.
Moira followed his gaze -- a smooth chunk of obsidian lay on the ground. She strode to it, mouth twisting, stomach tight. Mitchell followed her, kneeling as she did. She grabbed it
out out get out get out have to get out GET OUT GET OUT GET ME OUT
She tossed it, smacking Mitchell's hand away from it. "Do not touch it."
Lady, no. Had someone got ahold of her research? Had Nieve-- no, no of course not, it wasn't a new theory, someone else knew, someone else had done this, someone had trapped a lost soul and used it to -- to what? To destroy some poor mundane family's house? To keep the realtor from being able to sell it?
To see what would happen?
She handed Mitchell the car keys. "There is a black obsidian box in the trunk. I want you to bring it here. Quickly, son."
He threw her a questioning look but did as he was asked. Moira stood by the staircase, magic flowing over her skin. Black mist seeped from the obsidian -- the soul tether, it was called -- fading into gray as the manifestation grew.
out echoed against her skin and she let it in, just a brush stroke, get me out.
"Soon, dear," she murmured. The mist dissipated. The dead were much easier to deal with, once you knew what they wanted.
Mitchell returned with the box and placed it where directed. About the length of her forearm and half as wide, it would have been a bit too large if it were empty. The enchantments hissed as she opened it, revealing a handful of broken shards of obsidian. Mitchell's eyes went wide, but he only held the box open while she retrieved the tether and placed it inside.
Silence hung as they returned to the car. Only once the box was safely latched -- enchantments renewed, trunk shut -- did Mitchell ask,
"What is it?"
Moira sighed and told him to get in the car. She could feel it, even through the obsidian and the enchantments and her wards. "A tether," she told him once they started down the road. "Or an anchor, I suppose."
"For ghosts."
She glanced in the rear-view. Of course they weren't being followed. "For souls."
Rain splattered on the windshield, spare drops at first but rapidly growing into a torrent. She slowed, tapping her fingers against the wheel; they didn't have time for this.
"What were those other pieces you had?"
"Broken tethers. The only way to free a captured soul is to physically break the tether, thus severing the enchantment. The soul is freed but the pieces are still dangerous. I haven't discovered a way to truly dispose of the remains, so I keep them locked up."
Telling him the full truth now would be detrimental to his education. The workings were too advanced, the politics too involved. She and Nieve weren't doing anything harmful, but the Assembly would never approve of it, not until they had answers. If the Court found out, she would be in danger -- as well as everyone who knew. Mitchell wasn't ready for that responsibility.
She ruffled his hair; it was getting long again. "You look concerned."
"Who would do something like this? It would have to be someone like us, right? Someone who deals with the dead?" She nodded. "They're doing something really bad. Why else would they need to trap the dead? That's the opposite of what we're supposed to do. You can't tell me whoever did this had good intentions."
"No," Moira murmured. "I cannot. The harm an unchecked haunting can cause is astronomical."
"Maybe they wanted revenge, or..." Mitchell tapped his fingers against the arm rest. "Or maybe it was an experiment. Do you think," he pitched his voice low, "it could have been the Followers of Morgause?"
Moira took a deep breath. "We have no way of knowing, dear."
"We should tell the Assembly. If the Followers are -- why not?" he asked when she shook her head.
"They would send in the Court. There are only a handful of registered Ghost Seers in Krixos. All of us would be put under surveillance. You understand what that means? They would watch us, every moment of every day, waiting for one slip up. The smallest of mistakes would bring the whole weight of Her Court down on your head."
"But if we're not doing anything wrong--"
"Mitchell. Do you never cross the street against the light? Perform a minor working in front of mundanes? Notice a haunting and fail to immediately notify a Master or the Assembly?" He didn't answer. "These would all give them an excuse to sit you down in a small, dark room, and not let you go until they were done with you. And then you would be on their list. For the rest of your life, they would watch your every move. Mistakes would no longer be an option. Do you think you're capable of that? Of never making a mistake?"
"I..."
"Do you think I am?"
Mitchell stared at his hands. "What do we do?"
Moira forced a smile. "We keep a watch out, for those who would do harm. We deal with them on our own."
She pulled into a large empty field, ankle-high yellow grass poking up out of the mud. She wrapped her jacket tighter before stepping into the rain.
"Why are we here?" Mitchell asked as he lifted the box from the trunk.
"We need to destroy it and free the ghost. There are safer places, but then we would have to explain ourselves, wouldn't we?"
He didn't return her smile.
Together they tromped through the mud. The rain hadn't lessened any; on top of everything else, now Moira was concerned with getting the both of them home safely. Mundane drivers seemed to forget themselves when water fell from the sky.
Mitchell set the box down where she indicated. "What should I do?"
"Step back," Moira said. "This is a bit more advanced than you're ready for, I'm afraid. Don't look at me like that. Do you think I was ready for my Mastery at sixteen?"
She waited until he was several paces away before opening the box. She removed the tether quickly, before rainwater gathered inside, and set it down on a small mound of muddy dirt. This would have been easier with Nieve, but she was afraid the other Seer would let on more than she was ready for Mitchell to hear.
Moira placed her hand on the obsidian, murmuring, "come out, now," to the ghost inside. Mist grew around her, frost gathering across her skin. Mitchell made a noise, but she only shook her head.
The mist grew in volume until it was the approximate shape and size of an adult woman; human or wizarding, it was impossible to tell at this stage. Its chest and head were distinct, hollow eyes gazing down at her, while its bottom half remained vague. She found herself breathing rapidly, unable to take in enough air; she grasped the portion of the spirit still attached to the tether, Projecting herself a mite, just enough to gain a steadier grip. Mitchell gasped, "Mom!" but she paid him no heed, there was no time.
She yanked the spirit from its tether; a sound like glass shattering echoed in her head, drowning out the rain and the ghost's renewed shrieking and her son's words. She drew back into herself, gaze stuck on the ghost. Light burst forth like a thousand stars as the path opened, and the spirit soared to the otherside. Despite herself, she could not look away and she
found herself there, surrounded not by a curtain of rain but by the Lake, held by it, and she opened her mouth and it flowed inside and
"Mom?"
She took a breath of cold, clean air. She did not choke on Lake water.
"Mom, please--"
"Dearboy," she whispered, cradling his chin in her hand. "I'm not lost. Only tired."
Relief replaced fear, like the sun chasing the night. "I'll clean up, okay? Go ahead back to the car."
It was safe enough, as long as he didn't do anything foolish with the shards. Moira let herself walk back to the car and wait; it was nice to get in out of the rain.
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