(43) The Room Was Silent
Tara’s mana flowed like molasses through her channels, sluggish. She wore a grimace, an empty plate, and a mug on the table before her. She sat in the corner of the inn’s eatery, at a small table meant for solo diners. Aka lay curled around her feet, breathing slowly—probably asleep.
“Haha!”
Tara glanced at the table in her peripheral vision, raucous laughter pulling her attention. She shook her head, attempting to clear her thoughts.
Were they looking at her?
She stared at the table before her pointedly, consciously maintaining her gaze, lest it begin to wander. Her mana crawled through her. She had no concept of what speed mana moved, but she felt she could walk faster than its current speed.
The spell was not difficult to decipher, the pattern closely related to her existing tattoo, yet she found her control of mana had horribly deteriorated, even compared to just this morning.
“Aye, been strange folk about,” a man grunted from a table nearby.
Were they talking about her? Did they know she was alone?
Tara blinked rapidly, again trying to clear her head and focus her mana.
“Are you finished, dear?” Halla suddenly asked, materializing right next to her table.
“Wha—uh, yeah,” Tara stammered.
“Will you take those dishes back to Willem for me? It’s a busy night,” she asked.
Tara nodded, Halla thanking her and heading back to the desk, while the two serving girls bustled to and fro. It was packed.
She weaved through the crowd, avoiding elbows from gesturing patrons and heads thrown back in laughter, all of it mute to her senses. Arriving at the kitchen, she was startled by the sudden silence. As soon as the door swung shut, it was as if the entire inn ceased to exist, save for this room.
Willem looked up from a pot as large as his already-significant torso. Seeing Tara with her dishes, he grunted and motioned with his head toward a bucket of water in the back of the room.
Tara saw a brush next to the wash basin, and clean dishes were stacked on a shelf next to it. Did he want her to wash them herself or leave them to soak?
She glanced back, but Willem was focused on his stew. Faced with the choice of asking what he wanted or making a guess herself, Tara dunked her plate into the water and started scrubbing.
A memory flashed through her mind of mixing the ashes from the campfire with leftover fat from their dinner to wash up their dishes. Her dad would—
She shook her head, focusing on the task before her. Neither dish required much scrubbing, so after only a few seconds, she set them atop a mostly empty drying rack. How were there so few dirty dishes when the dining room was so full? Was the old man doing them and cooking?
What should she do now? If she went back into the dining room, everyone would see her. They would know she was alone. She would have to go through there to get to her room, too, so that was not much of an option.
A grunt yanked her out of her indecision. Willem glanced at her and motioned again with his head. She inferred that he wanted her to come to him, and when she arrived, he handed her a little wooden spoon. Where he had procured the utensil from, she had no idea. Both his hands had been occupied by the ladle with which he had been stirring the stew.
Much to her surprise, he somehow manifested a second spoon, this time for himself, and dipped it into the pot. He blew a couple times and put it in his mouth, gesturing for Tara to do the same.
As she tasted it, he watched her with a raised brow. She stared at him for a couple of moments before realizing what he wanted.
“It’s good. Maybe a little bland, but hearty,” she said, slowly, unsure how to answer.
She, for some reason, felt it would be a grave insult to be anything but honest with a chef, yet she did not want to insult the man’s food, no matter how mild an insult.
With a grunt and a nod, he flicked his spoon toward a shelf along the wall. Tara once again inferred that the motion was meant for her. She surveyed the shelf, trying to figure out what among the ample bottles and containers he could want, until she spied a cylindrical container of salt.
With a small smile, she grabbed it and headed back to the pot.
——————————————
Clayton whistled as he trotted down the alley, a pouch jingling at his belt. Such a boisterous purse would be like candy for thieves, but the dagger, glowing a faint blue, strapped next to it had deterred any sticky fingers thus far.
He was almost disappointed. He loved teaching a lesson to aspiring ne’er-do-wells and reprobates, but alas, it was just as well that he had not been slowed down, even for a hobby he enjoyed.
The fog district awaited, and he had much to spend.
His latest job had gone over without a hitch, which was common for Clayton. However, this one had many potential pitfalls, not the least of which involved working with a partner.
Clayton was a solo act.
Fortunately, the job's details were simple: set the buildings ablaze, slaughter the animals. The client had requested the butchering be messy, to send a message or some such, but his partner handled most of that. All he had to do was light the fires.
Easy money.
He had not even had to harm anyone this time, which meant not only was his purse fat, but his conscience was clear. A little vandalism would not dampen his spirits. The ladies in the fog would pounce on the downtrodden like flies on dung. No, he would make sure he got as much out of them tonight as they got out of him.
With a hearty chuckle and merry whistling, he vanished into the pink-hued fog, his whistling quickly drowned by the shouts from callers on balconies and around entryways.
————————————
Fire, smoke, the scent of burning flesh.
Clayton awoke with a start, shooting up in bed, his body slick with sweat.
A bad dream. Damn, must’a let the girls give me too much drink. Hopefully, I didn’t overpay ‘em, he thought with a chuckle.
Torn between wiping his drenched body down or simply rolling to the other side of the bed, his gaze drifted toward his bedroom door.
It was open.
That was not right. He closed his bedroom door every night, without fail. One belonging to a profession like his did not shirk the basics, even while intoxicated.
A shaft of light shone through the crack, pale, moody, like the midnight moon.
Beyond the door was a small hallway that led to the staircase. There was a single window in that hall, and it faced an alley. The moon should not be shining so brightly.
He rose, grabbing the dagger from beneath his pillow and clutching it against his side, hidden from the front. He moved slowly, deliberately, his footfalls silent. When he reached the door, he flattened himself against the wall, next to the doorframe, and held the blade of the dagger in front of him.
In its reflection, he could see the hall beyond, a violet light shining through the window, but nothing otherwise out of the ordinary.
He nudged the door open with a toe, his back still flat against the wall. The door moved soundlessly on oiled hinges, and Clayton noted that the deadbolt was still engaged, as if it had somehow fazed through the frame.
Receiving no response to the open door, he slithered around the frame and entered the hall, crouched and dagger bared. He stalked along the hall until he arrived at the window and, using his peripherals, saw a huge light in the sky above the alley.
He forced himself to ignore it—the outside could wait—instead, slowly clearing his entire house. He checked every crack and crevice, every door and window. He left no stone unturned, yet he found nothing.
Finally back in the hall to his bedroom, he looked out the window and gasped. The moon was enormous—far larger than it should be. Its violet glow nearly blinded him, and he quickly averted his eyes from the pain.
“Fuckin’...did those girls spike my drinks…” he muttered, closing the door to his bedroom and reengaging the deadbolt.
He had experienced hallucinations before, but generally, he was not cogent during them. They were frightening because he thought they were real. This, by contrast, frightened him not because the hallucination was scary, but because he was coherent enough to wonder what was causing them.
Slipping back into bed, he slid his dagger under his pillow and lay his head back. Just as his eyes drifted closed, a thought popped into his mind to check the door a final time. He was positive he had closed the door and locked it, but considering he was hallucinating, double-checking was probably wise.
A crack in the door shone a thin shaft of violet light, illuminating his bed like a bright spear aimed at his throat.
The door was open.
Before it stood a man, horribly burned, his eyes boiled away, sockets empty. His hair was mostly gone, though a few strands fluttered from the side of his skull in the nonexistent breeze. His clothes were long gone, and his skin was charred, cracked, and black. The sight was grotesque, and he stood with his mouth opened soundlessly, as if to scream.
Clayton recognized the man. He had seen him not a day ago.
This was the farmer whose house he burned down.
Clayton stared at him, maintaining eye contact. How could the old man have turned? How had he become undead? Why was he after Clayton, specifically? He had not even killed the man!
Did he run inside the house while it burned and get trapped or something? How would an undead even get into his house, let alone so silently?
He fingered the dagger beneath his pillow and, with a motion that few would even be able to track, leaped from bed, launching his blade at the creature.
Somehow, in the blink of an eye it had taken for Clayton to verify where his feet would land and look back at the door, the undead had vanished.
His dagger plunged blade-first into the door, burying itself up to the hilt. Clayton crouched next to the bed, staring at the door, eyes wide, watching his peripherals.The room was silent.
There was no one here, no one but him.
With shaky footsteps, he approached the door, yanking his dagger from it and rubbing the new hole with two of his fingers, thinking.
What in the gods’ names did they drug me with, he wondered, crawling back into bed.
His sheets were thoroughly soaked through, and he tossed and turned the rest of the night, constantly glancing at the door.
Waiting.
Yet the creature never returned.