Brace
Just like Berend suspected, Isabel’s sword proves far more effective against the ghosts. It’s light and springy in his hand, lacking the weight and authority of his own two-handed saber, but when it cuts through the misty forms, the spirits recoil and visibly dim. Their figures remain intact; they’re not like Mikhail, broken and screaming.
Out of reach of the blade, the ghosts rally their energy, brightening and pressing forward again. Something—Geray, the house, or some mystical nonsense Berend won’t even try to understand—is giving them strength. Unfortunately for him, he is made of flesh, and can’t do the same. He’s not as young as he once was, and it’s so very cold in this hallway. The candle hisses and gutters, but for now, it stays lit.
A hand of fog rakes at him with talons like a hawk’s. He brings the sword up, but it’s no use—the ghostly arm passes right through it, and its fingers reach his chest. He feels as though he has swallowed ice, the cold moving down the inside of his body. There is no pain, no sensation of being cut, but the ghost tears through his clothing and skin, leaving bloody marks from his shoulder down to his belly. The wounds ooze, and frost collects at their edges.
They aren’t deep. Eventually, Berend guesses, the spirits will draw enough blood to kill him, or he’ll freeze to death in the aura that surrounds them, but for the moment, he is still able to fight. He’ll keep them off of Isabel until she finishes whatever she’s doing.
It is that moment when she slumps over, hat askew, her body curled around the chalk circle inscribed on the wooden floor.
She’s dead, comes the heavy, fearful thought, sinking into Berend’s chest and stealing what little warmth he still possesses. She’s dead, and that means I’m dead, and so is Lucian, and all of this has been for nothing.
He looks into the blackened eyes and gaping mouths of the spirits hovering just outside of his reach. They flicker, shining brighter when the guttering candle dims and fading when the flame rallies itself again. There is malice in their faces, and pain, and a wordless, unsensing madness. Berend wonders if they can see him, if they understand why he’s there. They’re aware of him, at least. He expects they’ll try something if he turns and checks on Isabel.
He looks into the blackened eyes and gaping mouths of the spirits hovering just outside of his reach. They flicker, shining brighter when the guttering candle dims and fading when the flame rallies itself again. There is malice in their faces, and pain, and a wordless, unsensing madness. Berend wonders if they can see him, if they understand why he’s there. They’re aware of him, at least. He expects they’ll try something if he turns and checks on Isabel.
He clenches his jaw and tightens his numb fingers around the icy hilt of Isabel’s sword. He’s not dead yet. It’s not the charge that kills you, he remembers, not if one is properly braced and can rely on the men on either side of him. The retreat is where one dies.
And it’s not like Berend has anywhere to retreat to.
He takes the quick little sword and hacks at the ghosts, giving no thought to any kind of defense—it’s worthless to block, anyway, as the hands of fog descend on him, stealing the breath from his body and piercing him like a terrible winter wind. The blade slices through what feels like empty air, meeting no resistance, while the hands tear at his flesh and his clothing.
Time fades from his awareness. His limbs have lost feeling, from the cold or from whatever the spirits are doing to his flesh. The pain becomes distant. He’ll keep at it, he guesses with his last thought before he gives in to this pale, lonely imitation of the battle-trance he once knew, until it’s over, one way or another.
Then, suddenly, the ghosts stop.
They’re so dim as to be barely visible, but their skull-like faces are masks of agony, and they quiver like leaves in the wind, anchored in place. The wind, Berend notices after a confused moment, has also stopped. Stillness descends upon the house, as though it is holding its breath—or, perhaps, that is just what Berend is doing.
Behind him, Isabel sits up with a gasp. She’s alive. Berend turns around, careful of the candle and the sword.
He feels pressure in his ears build up and then release. All the windows in the house shatter with a cacophony of breaking glass.
It’s quiet again. The ghosts are gone, and warmth is returning to the hallway. Berend’s fingers and toes burn as they regain feeling, and he can’t help but grimace.
Isabel has pulled herself up to her knees, and no farther. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, punctuated by dry, painful retches. Nothing comes out. When was the last time either of them had eaten anything?
Taking one last look around for any lingering spirits, Berend sits down against the wall beside her with a heavy sigh. Aside from the broken glass—as it turns out, this hallway had two small, square windows, now empty frames, looking out on the neighboring house—the place looks perfectly ordinary.
“What happened?” Berend asks, addressing Isabel and the house in general. Pain ripples across his torn skin and settles in his bones. He’s exhausted.
Isabel sits up, rubbing at her face with two shaking hands. She doesn’t say anything. She picks up her hat, holding it as if she’s not sure what to do with it.
She seems very small, crouched against the wall beside him, though Berend knows she’s nearly as tall as he is. He leans a bit closer, watching her face for signs that she’ll lose consciousness again. She’s very pale, and her eyes don’t focus, but she’s staying awake. For now.
He’s surprised to find that she mirrors him, her shoulder meeting his. There they stay, in the eerie, quiet hallway, for the space of a breath.
“Geray,” Isabel says. “He’s in the basement.”
Berend hands her the candle and her sword, hilt first. “Are you all right?”
Again, she doesn’t answer. Instead, she places her hat on her head, takes the objects, and uses the wall to get herself onto her unsteady feet. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the empty pistol.
Berend takes it and gets up, trying not to groan too loudly. He’s too old for this. At least, he hopes as he follows Isabel down the stairs again, the worst is over.
Forward to Chapter Twenty-Nine
Just a short chapter to prepare for a (hopefully) delicious and satisfying conclusion to Part One. Thanks for reading!
Space Whales Press 
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