Ghosts in the Snow Read online

  "I know you would," she replied, her giggles subsiding. Her hair hung to her waist, and his fingers gliding through it felt like heaven. She snuggled against his chest, breathed him in, and smiled. She always felt safe with Risley, safer than she could ever remember.

  He held her close for a time, his hands on her back, his lips brushing against her brow, and she leaned in his arms to look at him, into his eyes.

  His hands slid from her back, up her arms, his touch gentle and warm, and he looked deep into her as if searching for an answer to a question he was afraid to ask. She moistened her lips, holding his eyes with her own.

  "I'd better get you home," he said. He kissed her fingers and led her from the temple.

  * * *

  Dubric decided to patrol the grounds and the castle from midnight until dawn. Every time they passed someone, Bacstair fumbled awkwardly for the sword at his hip, staring as if he expected to see a knife at any moment. Although Bacstair's mild paranoia did not bother him, Dubric was astounded to see so many people, a score or more, wandering the courtyard. Folks went to the privies or the well, sat on the steps and smoked, or even wandered aimlessly. He wondered if they were trying to help catch the killer, cause trouble, or if they suffered from an odd combination of insanity and stupidity. A killer stalked the courtyard. Surely everyone realized that?

  He noted the name of every person he met, man or woman, and worried he would waste the next day questioning a pile of fools. After four bell, while he and Bacstair searched the row of servant privies on the north side of the castle, the ghost of a blonde girl in a laundry uniform flickered before his eyes. She fell forward and howled a silent wail, slipping out of the dark from beside Bacstair. Her eyes bulged with horror and she seemed to stumble. Helpless, he watched her throat slash open in a rush of blood, drenching her as if she had bathed in it, and spattering his cloak and trousers. The other ghosts moved aside to make room.

  Dubric continued his search, trying to ignore the added responsibility tugging at him. Less than half a bell later, Flavin the stable master hollered for him. Bacstair jumped.

  Flavin galumphed through the mud with far less grace than any of his horses. "We found one, sir! By the wall."

  "By the Goddess!" Bacstair gasped, his face pale in the lantern light as a privy door slammed on his fingers. He snatched the fingers back, popped them into his mouth, and mumbled around them, "Are you sure?"

  "Where is she?" Dubric refused to look at Bacstair for fear he would either laugh or curse.

  Flavin's arms flailed as he gestured toward the vast area behind him. "Southeast corner, sir. Near the wells."

  They ran to the southeast corner of the courtyard and Dubric saw Lars kneeling beside the body with his sword in hand. There had been no snow that night. A fingernail moon peeked from behind clouds and the courtyard was dense with dark shadows. The stink of damp mud and blood floated unmistakably on the cold air.

  "He almost decapitated. her, sir," Lars said as he stood. Behind him, a wide, black splatter stained the stone wall.

  Dubric and the others slid to a halt in the muck. The girl lay faceup, her head at an impossible angle, and her dead eyes reflecting the moonlight. A stub of a blonde braid sprouted beside one ear and her intestines slumped beside her, oozing and dark, like snakes trying to crawl into the mud. She wore bleach-speckled shoes but no other clothes, only a shroud of blood covering her from her throat to her knees.

  "Who is she?" Dubric asked as he knelt beside her. Flavin and Bacstair kept a wide-eyed distance, both drawing the mark of the Goddess on their chests, a circle within a circle. Dubric turned his head away. He hated Malanna's symbol almost as much as he hated the ghosts. Damn wife-killing whore Goddess! He closed his eyes and willed the anger away. Lack of sleep made him prone to resentful musings and he had no time for such indulgences.

  "Not sure," Lars said, "but did you notice her shoes?"

  Dubric nodded, even though the uniform her ghost wore proclaimed her job as brightly as the bleach stains. "Laundry worker?"

  "That was my guess," Lars said. He stretched and looked at the courtyard. No one else was near, but folks were coming. "You two stay together the whole time?"

  Bacstair nodded and Dubric asked Flavin, "How about the two of you?"

  "Yessir," Flavin said. "We never left each other's sight, not till we found her." Lars nodded his confirmation.

  Dubric glanced up from her body and looked around the courtyard; he heard people yelling as they ran toward him. It is the middle of the night, for King's sake! Why are folks up and about at this hour?

  "Why don't you do your damned job and catch the bastard?" a harpy screeched as if from the depths of the seven hells. Twinges danced down Dubric's spine at the voice. The three men and the page turned to look.

  A pair of floor maids ran through the dark, with broken mop handles clutched in their hands and the sharp, snapped ends pointed at Dubric. With curly red hair that seemed black in the moonlight, they were the same height, similar-featured, and both were furious. He had never seen Allin and Gaelin Mugain angry before—he had always regarded the sisters as nice, pleasant girls—and he fumbled for a moment.

  Then he stood, his knees creaking. "We are doing all we—"

  "Bull piss," Allin, the shy one, said. "You're doing nothing!"

  The small crowd assembling behind them growled their agreement.

  Dubric held his hands before him, hoping to calm their anger. "I suggest you all go back inside. It is dangerous to be—"

  "It wouldn't be dangerous if you did your damned job!" a man's voice hollered from somewhere in the mob.

  "Have you people lost all sense?" Bacstair said. "You could get killed out here!"

  "Shut your yap," Allin said. "Dubric needs to pull his head outta his ass before we—"

  Dubric didn't hear the rest of her rant, losing it to the icy weight in his head. The ghost of an egg maid appeared before him, with blood streaming from her belly and throat. Beside him, Flavin mumbled a retort, and he did not hear that, either. King be damned, he hated ghosts, and the wretched things just kept coming! Every girl thus far had been found where she worked, in one way or another, long after the killer had gone. But if he hurried, for King's sake, if he hurried, got to the coops in time…

  He looked at Lars. Young, fast, smart, eager Lars. He could look, he could listen. Find out who the bastard was, for King's sake. "Son-of-a-whore," he snarled and grabbed Lars's arm, leaving Flavin and Bacstair to deal with the unruly mob.

  "Sir?" Lars looked at Dubric in surprise, as Dubric yanked him away from the crowd.

  Despite his heartbeat slamming in his ears, and the doubt surging through him, he leaned in close and whispered in Lars's ear. "Listen to me, and do not ask any questions, all right?"

  Lars nodded.

  "I am going to tell you to go to the castle and get Dien, but instead I want you to go to the coops."

  Lars's eyes narrowed, confusion still written on his face.

  "When you get there, I want you to look for 'ghost stuff.' Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And if you find anything, hide and stay put until I find you. No matter what, stay safe. If you do not find anything, come back. Either way, pull your sword before you get there. For King's sake, listen, and use your ears not your eyes. And do not, under any circumstances, do anything stupid."

  Lars nodded one last time and they turned toward the loud group of eight angry citizens. Gaelin screeched an obscenity at Flavin, who seemed unable to comprehend the insult. Bacstair screamed at a short, half-drunk man while the rest of the mob encouraged a fight. Tempers had flared, and everyone had forgotten the dead girl. What in the King's name was going on?

  Dubric shook his head and barked, "Lars, get to the castle, and find Dien." Lars ran toward the castle, but the mob barely noticed. If he had told Lars to stand on his head and moo, no one would have cared. He muttered to himself as he jotted a list of names in his book.

  As soon as L
ars disappeared into the darkness, Dubric stomped toward the mob. He had reached his limit of tolerance for insanity. "Enough is enough! You are all interfering in an official investigation. Get back inside or I am throwing the lot of you in the gaol!"

  "Ha," the drunk said as he shoved Bacstair. "Eight of us, three of you."

  "Yeah! Go ahead and try," Allin screeched, her voice cracking in rage.

  Dubric pulled his sword. "Flavin, you stay here and guard the body. Anyone tries to touch her before I get back, you have my permission to make them wish they had not."

  Flavin stepped over her with one foot on each side of her head, then pulled a borrowed sword from the sheath at his hip.

  The mob's eyes grew wide and a few stumbled backward. Dubric stepped closer. "Bacstair, think of that sword as a heavy dough knife. All right?"

  "Yes, sir." Bacstair pulled his sword, as well, and it trembled for a moment before it settled steady in his hands.

  The drunk babbled and almost fell in his hurry to get away from the long blade.

  Dubric drew a calming breath and let it out. "I am only going to say this once. March directly to the east tower door. We are going to the gaol. Anyone who runs off, I will find you and drag you there later this morning. Trust me, you will wish you had walked there on your own. Now move!"

  Allin screamed and lunged at him, broken mop handle in her hands. He flexed—he might be old, but he was still strong—and his elbow slammed hard into her nose. A loud snap cracked through the air and blood shot down the front of her coat. She fell like a sack of manure into the mud and screamed. The fight went out of the mob just as fast.

  "Get back on your feet," he snarled as he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her upright. "I said march and I mean march!" He shoved her toward the humbled mob.

  Gaelin screeched and turned toward him, her hands curling into fists as she dropped her mop handle. "You—"

  His sword flashed up and he whispered, "Do not tempt me. One more body will not make a bit of difference."

  That stopped her. She glared at him and turned back to the mob with a toss of her head before helping her sister to her feet.

  * * *

  Lars hurried toward the main castle doors, but passed them and kept on running, his feet almost silent in the mud. Dubric knew something, but what? Was this 'ghost stuff' more than just the imaginings of a scared boy?

  In his heart he knew the lackey had spoken the truth. He'd seen it in the boy's eyes. And Dubric believed him.

  He slid to a stop at the southwest corner of the castle and took a moment to catch his breath. The stable loomed ahead and to his left; the dairy barns were to the right but still hidden behind the castle. Past the barns, near the northwest corner of the castle, were the coops. He glanced at the slim line of crescent moon shining near the constellation of the Great Ship plowing through waves of clouds—Malanna's light guiding the way in troubled seas. He said a quick prayer as he pulled his sword.

  "Guide my hand, O Gracious One, and allow me to harm no innocents. But if I find that damned ghost, let me send him to the seven hells." Lars drew the mark on his chest, a circle within a circle, the four blessed phases of the moon—Dubric wasn't here to see and roll his eyes—and he took one breath and stepped around the corner.

  Dark buildings, mud, and everything looking dim and hazy in the thin moonlight. Nothing more. Smelled like manure.

  He cursed, remembering he was supposed to listen, not look, and ran across to the stable, hugging the deep shadows.

  Through the dark, quiet and sleek, he moved north along the west side of the stable, then the barn, the side away from the castle, listening, always listening with his heart as well as his ears. The horses sounded nervous and restless in their stalls, as did the cows in their pens, and he felt nervous, too, long before he got within sight of the coops. At the far corner of the last barn, where the smell of chicken dung and cow manure blended into one nasty stench, he took a breath and listened. After a moment, he heard something, a faint sound, crisp and metallic in the air. His breath fell shallow and silent and his eyes closed halfway as he listened. What is it? A cool metallic flick, like a knife dragging on a table? No, that wasn't quite right, but he'd heard that sound before. Somewhere. He switched his sword to his left hand, wiped his right palm dry on his pants, and returned the sword to his stronger hand. Still listening, he slipped behind the first coop.

  Yes, that was better. He heard a grunt, a mumbled curse, and a rustle of cloth. No more cow manure, everything stunk of chicken dung now, but he ignored the stench and listened. Another curse, muttered, low, hard to hear. He slipped to the next coop, closer, closer, and there was that metallic sound again, somewhere between this coop and the next. The slick metallic sound, then a soft, fleshy one, and his belly clenched. Had the killer found another? Was he cutting her? He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. Quit being a runny-nosed kid. Be a man. Take one look. That's all. Just one. See the damned ghost.

  Moonlight flickered in the space between the two coops, leaving long shadows and crevasses of dark within the edges of dim illumination, but he saw nothing. No one was there. No body. No killer. Nothing but the dark.

  Relieved, Lars let his breath out in a rush and he heard a rustle and a curse as something in the dark moved, as if whatever waited between the coops turned to look right at him.

  Lars froze. Dubric had warned him not to be stupid, not to take chances, just to listen and wait and hide.

  There was nothing there but shadows and darkness, but, oh Goddess, it was moving this way!

  The moonlit shape of a body appeared on the ground as if by magic. There was only mud, then— blink!—a girl lay between the coops, on her belly, her back opened like a book, and her arms splayed wide and dimly blue in the moonlight. The ghost moved, ever closer, one with the darkness, its shape flowing and becoming part of the night. The glimmer of moon slipped behind a cloud as if it, too, were afraid, the Great Ship became lost in the obscuring waves, and the dark became endless and overwhelming.

  Lars held his sword in shaking hands, and his feet had taken root in the mud. His eyes searched the dark for movement, but everything was black and his mind refused to accept the impossibility of what his eyes were not seeing. He heard nothing but the beat of his heart in his ears, the terrified whoosh of his breath, and the heavy footfalls of death advancing toward him. He was stupid; he had disobeyed, and this time the price due for his inadequacy was far higher than banishment. Soon he'd be dead, like the girls, his kidneys taken for—

  He smelled blood, smelled death and guts and rotting evil. Although his eyes searched the dark, he saw nothing but the endless blackness of the night, tainted with the stench of death.

  The breath on his cheek was hot and rancid, and the killer laughed in his ear, even as he turned.

  He felt cold metal against his throat and he stumbled, falling backward onto the mud.

  CHAPTER 6

  Dubric shoved all eight troublemakers into the same dank cell and slammed the door. Olibe Meiks, Bacstair, and Dien stood behind him and the ghosts flickered just beyond his sight. "Meiks, make sure these idiots do not get into mischief. Bacstair, go help Flavin get the body to the physicians'. Dien, you come with me."

  The men nodded and Dubric turned, walking between the ghosts with his eyes closed.

  They had climbed the east tower, up the stairs to the great hall, and had walked halfway across to the west tower when Dubric heard a woman call, "Lord Byerly! Please wait."

  Cursing, Dubric turned. A short, round woman huffed down the main stairs, lifting her frilly nightdress and showing her thick calves and dimpled knees. She was barefoot and her eyes glimmered with tears. "Sir! One of my egg maids is missing!"

  "Calm down, Altaira. What happened?"

  He strode back to the stairs as Altaira covered her heart with one hand and fanned her face with the other. "It were Rianne, sir! She's gone from her room."

  Dubric did not bother to ask any more
questions. He ran for the servants' wing, ignoring the pain in his chest and knees.

  The main door to the servants' wing stood open and Dubric ran through, Dien beside him. The hall for unmarried men forked to the left, supervisors straight ahead, and unmarried women to the right. The five bell rang from the temple as Dubric hurried down the women's hall. A few faces peeked through the doors and six linen maids cowered against the wall to give him room. Three privy maids took one look at him and dashed away. Other maids scattered. Far ahead, he heard the low rumble of many voices.

  The hall turned and he slowed his breakneck pace. Milkmaids and egg maids clustered in the hall and stared at an open door. They parted for him; some seemed angry, most merely frightened.

  Dubric looked through the door to see three girls huddled together on one bed. Their faces were blotchy from crying and the pair on the outside comforted the girl in the middle.

  "It is all right," he said, approaching them slowly with his hands held before him.

  One blew her nose. The middle girl clutched a ragged blanket to her and pulled it over her knees.

  "What happened?" he whispered as he knelt before them. All three girls trembled and shook their heads.

  "Please. Tell me what happened."

  "The slasher got her," someone in the hall said, and Dubric glanced at Dien.

  Dien closed the door, blocking out the sight of the crowd, and stood before it with his arms crossed.

  "Did someone come in here?" Dubric asked the girls. He tried to keep his voice soft despite the urgency he felt.

  The two on the ends shrugged, but the one with the blanket cowered away.

  "Did she depart on her own free will?"

  Again a pair of shrugs, but the center girl nodded.

  He glanced at Dien, then asked the girls, "Do you know where she went?"

  Two shook their heads; the one with the blanket stared at her knees.

  He looked at her. "Where did she go?"