Matabar

Ardan opened the trunk and pulled out a valise made of worn, cracked leather and fitted with brass clamps — some blackened in places — and two little horn-like clasps that locked together in a tight, snapping embrace.

Ardi had to put in a fair bit of effort to pry them apart. Inside, he found two pairs of spectacles that were somewhat reminiscent of the ones Anvar had worn. He put on one pair himself and handed the other to Milar. Milar considered them for a moment before removing his hat and slipping on the glasses. Two massive lenses set in brass protruded about five centimeters from the rims. Instead of temples, they had a thick strap with a small accumulator in a box attached to it, from which a thin, braided cable ran to the lenses.

"What are these?" Milar asked, looking around at the still-buzzing street full of automobiles.

"While you were checking the address, I decided to pay a visit to the library."

"Funny, Magister… You practically live there anyway, so don't try to make excuses," the captain retorted, waving a hand in front of his eyes and alternating between taking the glasses off and putting them back on. "Am I missing something, or…?"

"Look at the lamppost."

The captain hesitated for a second. Then he turned around and-

"Damn you!" He swore, immediately looking away as he yanked the glasses off and began rubbing his eyes.

"Oh, sorry."

"Ard, are you messing with me?" Milar kept rubbing at his eyes. "What did I do to deserve that?"

"There's a dial on the side. Turn it almost all the way to the left," Ardi said. He reached for the one on the bridge of his own glasses and dialed it nearly all the way down. "They're engineering glasses for calibrating Ley equipment."

"And why do we need-" Milar broke off, blinking as he turned to face the skyscraper. "Ah… they'll let us see Ley traces?"

"Ley radiation," Ardi corrected automatically. "But yes, you're right."

"Couldn't you just use that" — Milar waved his hand vaguely through the air — "that Aean'Hane nonsense of yours to see it all?"

Ardi shook his head. Then, slipping the glasses back on, he peered at the lamppost once more. He saw the same thing as before — the metal pole, the lamp atop it — but now, through the lenses, a thin chain of sparks was visible inside as well, crawling upwards from the ground and spiraling through the crystalline structure of the bulb. And if he followed those sparks farther, the ground beneath his feet bristled with them, forming a complex tapestry of magical strands.

In the New City, Ley-cables could be found beneath every street. And…

Ardi tilted his head back, noticing that high above them, almost scraping the sky, sparks darted between the rooftops as well.

"It's hard to look at the world's underside here," he said under his breath. "Everything is… so bright and tangled. I can't quickly filter out the noise."

"I still don't understand half of that, but let's say I agree," Milar muttered, sounding displeased. "At least I can see that you're not just polishing your fancy stationery at the Grand all day."

Ardi then pulled out two pairs of gloves made from an unusual, slightly greenish-blue leather. Thin, snake-like veins ran through it, situated under compressed folds and seams stitched with tough kapron threads.

They were made from the hide of a magical beast (in scientific terms, an anomaly of artificial origin) known among common folk as the Manticore: a chimera created by the Firstborn Aean'Hane in the War of the Birth of the Empire — a creature with a human head, a wolverine's body, and a snake's tail. The Firstborn had fashioned them from captured Galessian warriors and other unfortunates who hadn't managed to flee their villages and cities before the Firstborn armies had overrun them.

But that was all ancient history.

The present-day reality was that Manticores boasted a high resistance to Ley influences, having been designed to hunt Star Mages, and indeed all humans, first and foremost. Not many Manticores remained in the world — maybe a thousand or two — so any gear made from their hides was extremely valuable.

"Don't touch anything without these gloves," Ardi cautioned, handing Milar the second pair. Then he took out special insoles from the valise — also made from Manticore hide — and slipped them into his shoes.

The captain did the same.

Next, Ardi retrieved the following items from the valise: a small silver rod, a mirror set in a copper frame, two vials of thick, crimson liquid, and a flask resembling a perfume bottle. But instead of cologne, the crystal container held a swirling substance that gleamed like polished silverware. Finally, he took out-

"Where are the dried Fungi-Algae?" Ardi asked, rummaging through the nearly empty bag.

"Dagdag said they ran out last quarter," Milar replied with a shrug. By now, he seemed to have grown used to the glasses, fiddling with the dial as he shifted his focus from one object to another. "They're expensive, from what I can tell. Dagdag said that we likely won't get a new batch before next quarter's annual budget gets sorted. That happens in the Month of the Sun."

"If they were cheaper, I'd buy them myself…" Ardi sighed, carefully lifting the last item from the bag: a small glass sphere filled with a greenish fog — the vapor from Marange acid mixed with certain ingredients to keep the gas inert. Otherwise, it would be impossible to store and transport.

"How much do they cost, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ninety-two exes per gram," Ardi answered, distributing the valise's contents into his pockets. "A bit less for dried ones, about ten exes cheaper."

Milar spun toward Ardi so sharply that the young man heard his neck and shoulders crack even from a few steps away.

"They do something that's worth nearly a hundred exes a gram?!"

"When you use them, for a short while — fifteen minutes to an hour — your body doesn't rely on oxidative phosphorylation."

Milar blinked a couple of times, which looked oddly comical through the Ley glasses — his eyes appeared enormous, like a startled fish.

"In Galessian, please?"

"You can go without breathing," Ardi clarified.

"But how do we-"

"You already have some amount of Ley in your body," Ardi interrupted, trying to stick to the basic facts in order to avoid having to recite the entire lecture Professor Kovertsky had once given them. "Dried Fungi-Algae temporarily make the mitochondrial membrane oxidize not a reduced co-enzyme, but…" He tripped on his own words, stifling a laugh at Milar's fish-like stare. "Basically, your cells stop using air and start feeding on the Ley accumulated in your body."

"I almost get it," Milar said with a nod, pointing a finger at Ardi. "But don't smirk like that — your eyes look as huge as mine right now."

Ardi merely shrugged.

"So… why would we need those fancy mushrooms?"

Ardi recalled the house on Fifth Street in Baliero.

"Last time, hallucinations that affected all the senses were created by some Ley-flora," he explained, racking his brain to try and figure out a replacement for the Fungi-Algae. "Mold spores, to be precise. Avoiding their effects without-"

"Ard," Milar cut him off.

"What?"

"I know you're unbelievably smart and a rising star of Star Magic, but… Eternal Angels, you overcomplicate everything sometimes."

Milar stepped closer, nudged the younger man aside with his shoulder, and rummaged around in the trunk, moving aside metal boxes, tin canisters, and a few locked iron containers. Then he pulled out two gas masks.

They were leather masks with rubber padding on the inside, and they had the same large lenses as their glasses. Below, where the mouth would be, there was a hefty filter canister strapped to the neck with fabric belts.

"With these," Milar tapped the glasses, "it's gonna be a pain. And besides, I'm not sure if the filter will be able to handle…"

"Whatever, take it," he finally decided, smacking the gas mask against Ardi's chest. "Attach it to your belt. If you realize we need to put them on, say the word. You will notice if we need them… right?"

Ardan wasn't confident in his ability to detect hallucinogenic Ley-flora before it started affecting his senses. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure there would even be anything like that in "the castle." Baliero might've just been a fluke.

"Probably."

"'Probably,' you say?" Milar repeated, giving him a comical, wide-eyed look amplified by his glasses. "I'm getting used to your endless, uh, linguistic waffling, Magister."

"Sorry," Ardi smiled sheepishly, genuinely apologetic. "Old habit. I don't know if we'll actually need anything I asked Dagdag to pack for us."

"You mean to tell me I made him rummage around the warehouse for two hours for nothing?" Milar began to protest.

"Well, it's not like we can go up there empty-handed!" Ardi threw his hands up in exasperation, nearly smacking Milar with his staff. "Oh, sorry."

They glared at each other for a few heartbeats, on the verge of breaking out into a fit of laughter at how ridiculous they looked. Then, almost in unison, they both turned toward the high-rise. All this time, passersby had been bustling about, throwing sidelong glances at the odd pair — treating them like they were escapees from a mental institution — before hurrying to get on with their own important business, relieved that none of this concerned them.

"Well then, let's-"

"Hold your horses!'" Milar told him abruptly, and dug around in the trunk a little more before thrusting a familiar black revolver and a holster with an Imperial crest into Ardi's hands. "Can't go in without iron, right?"

Ardi cast a skeptical glance at the firearm but didn't argue. He checked the cylinder for bullets, then fixed the holster at his hip, alongside his Ley accumulators.

The captain, as always, fastened the clasp on the scabbard of his saber, which hung from short leather straps. It swayed with each step he made, thumping lightly against his leg in a rhythmic, faintly thudding cadence.

He caught up to Ardi, and they both craned their necks back to stare at the tower. The steel spires glinted white-hot in the flickering lightning that cleaved the sky, threatening to unleash a storm onto the capital at any moment.

"What do you think, Magister?" Milar asked in a half-whisper, lighting yet another cigarette. "What's waiting for us up there?"

Milar smoked so much he could probably keep a small tobacco shop afloat single-handedly. It was no wonder that Elvira, his wife, was trying to make him quit— though the health risks weren't yet scientifically proven, as Ardi knew from his lectures, it was an undeniable drain on the family budget.

"I don't know," Ardi replied plainly, for once not trying to dodge the question. "But I hope we haven't come here for nothing."

"We could've gone to Bri-&-Man," Milar muttered. They were still standing near the entrance, ignoring the perplexed, mildly irritated stares of the uniformed attendants posted by the building's massive glass doors. "It's like the Eternal Angels — or your Sleeping Spirits — are protecting them from us, so we can't show up."

Ardi recalled Alla Tantov, Trevor Man's assistant, and shivered a little. Truth be told, if he had to choose between a strange castle perched at the edge of the clouds and the planet's largest private company, he'd pick the castle — maybe even two of them. Something told him that whatever they might find up there, among these so-called "ghosts and ghouls," was still safer than dealing with people whose pockets were as deep as the Crown's.

Milar pulled out another cigarette and extended it toward Ardi."Want one?" He asked without turning.

"You know I don't smoke."

Milar shrugged."You will someday, partner," he said, tucking the spare cigarette behind his ear and straightening his hat. "It's only a matter of time. Everyone in our line of work ends up smoking sooner or later. Alice once swore she wouldn't… but anyway, let's be off. We'll shoot at some nonexistent ghosts for the sake of a potential lead in a very real case which, if it remains unsolved, will be our last. And for you — your first and last."

And after that cheery proclamation, Milar muttered something else under his breath — like an old man complaining about a changing world — and kept muttering until they reached the attendants.

Despite the grumbling thunder and the warm, gusting winds of spring, those attendants were bundled up almost as though it were winter. But that was hardly surprising. The New City stood high above sea level, and the wide, open avenues had no courtyards or enclosed areas to slow the wind. The result was a constant bitter draft that made the place seem colder than it actually was.

"Good evening," the nearest attendant said politely, opening the door for them.

"I'm not so sure about that," Milar grumbled.

From what Ardi had learned of the captain's temperament in recent months, Milar would lose his usual optimism whenever he got nervous, turning into a sullen, irritable investigator who never hesitated to speak his mind — or press a gun to someone's temple if he thought it necessary.

A rush of warm air from the building's exhaust vents greeted them in the entryway. They were apparently used to channel excess heat from the generators and heating mains. This flow created a thermal curtain that kept the chill from invading the entryway.

But calling this an "entryway" was almost an insult. The space between the two sets of glass doors was so large that their shoes had time to really sink into the plush carpeting. Even the air smelled faintly of flowers.

Stepping through the second set of doors, they entered the main lobby. Here, instead of carpets, the floor was inlaid with intricately-patterned wood panels — cherry, pale linden, and other varieties — and finished with a glossy varnish that, despite its mirror sheen, miraculously did not blind them with the reflections of the large chandeliers overhead. Those fixtures hung from the lofty ceiling like inflated golden orbs, and they contained fine crystal threads that channeled shimmering Ley energy.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The walls were unpainted but proudly displayed white marble shot through with dark veining. Farther back stood rows of brass mailboxes; closer to the front, there were a few couches and low tables laden with newspapers. Nearby, a live fire crackled in a squat fireplace, greedily consuming the logs within.

Burly concierges manned a long reception desk near the entrance. Because of the building's thermal curtain and wide vestibule, the lobby felt anything but cold and was actually quite warm.

Ardi unbuttoned his coat and loosened his tie. He was still wearing one of the jackets he'd taken from "Bruce's" storage room, and it wasn't exactly suitable for spring weather.

Yes, the salary of a Green Star Mage working for the Second Chancery, plus a student stipend from the Grand University, was enough to live on quite comfortably… unless you actually needed to practice Star Magic. Then every ex vanished into new spells, research fees, or supplies. So, a new suit would have to wait until he received his bonus for closing this case — if they ever managed to close it.

Milar was already at the reception desk. A plump but pleasant-looking man in his thirties, with a receding hairline and soft, gray eyes, was dabbing at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. His left pant leg was pinned up — clearly a prosthetic.

Milar, who'd been about to demand something in his usual brusque fashion, noticed that prosthetic and hesitated.

A war injury, Ardi thought, remembering Professor Lea's lectures. It probably led to metabolic issues as well.

And sure enough, he spotted a faint, blue anchor tattoo between the man's thumb and forefinger: a telltale sign of naval service.

"It's pretty empty in here," Milar remarked casually, showing his Second Chancery credentials.

The concierge glanced at them and flinched for the briefest moment, but otherwise did not let his composure slip. His colleague, on the other hand, kept his eyes glued to the registry book, trying to look busy.

"Most tenants have moved away over the past six months," the concierge replied. His voice trembled slightly at first, but he steadied himself quickly. "And I suspect, Mr. Investigator, that you already know why."

Indeed, the lobby was deserted, apart from the two of them and the building's staff — the concierges and elevator operators.

Milar scanned the area and let out a low whistle, one that sounded so suggestive that Ardi hadn't known a person could actually whistle like that until now.

"Rent here must be far from cheap."

"It starts at forty exes a month for the smallest apartment," the concierge said, sounding suddenly resigned, his tone drifting into a routine explanation. "And to buy one — hey, Ashton! What's the going rate these days?"

But Ashton, who was trembling so hard the counter shook, seemed lost in his ledger, too occupied to speak.

"Ah, to hell with it," the former sailor muttered. "The asking price starts at around fourteen thousand. It's dirt cheap, actually, because so many want to sell after… well, you know." He gestured at the ceiling. "Sometimes, people come to check out the place to rent or buy an apartment, but once they hear the details — whoosh — they're gone."

Milar whistled again.

"That's almost up there with Niewa Avenue or First Street in Baliero."

"It's pricier over there."

"I know." Milar winked and whistled a third time. "The world of the wealthy really is different from ours."

"You can say that again, Mr. Investigator."

"By the way," Milar went on in a lighter tone, twirling a finger in the air, "care to fill us in on the… unique circumstances here? Why's everyone fleeing like rats from a sinking ship?"

"They would've fled already."

"Huh?"

"The rats, Mr. Investigator. They usually sense trouble long before people do," the concierge explained. "We last had rats in the basement a year ago, but everything started going wrong only six months back. And… there's been all sorts of trouble. Like in Apartment 47 — some poor girl got boiled alive. She was taking a shower, stumbled into the tub, and knocked the hot water valve all the way open. She ended up cooked to death."

"Well, that might have just-"

"Been an accident?" The concierge allowed himself to cut Milar off. "Then in 72, a writer shot himself. He wrote about faeries and whatnot. He wasn't successful at all, but… he was a nice man. We often chatted. Sometimes, he'd spend hours in the lobby by the fireplace — he couldn't afford heating and said he was just here for the view. Riglanov, maybe you've heard of him?"

Milar and Ardi both coughed at once, exchanging glances that clearly said, "Could he be related to that other Riglanov?"

"He had an old-fashioned first name," the concierge went on. "Named after his great-grandfather. Anvar."

Milar exhaled heavily. Ardi did as well.

"When did he shoot himself?"

"A year ago. When the rats were starting to make themselves scarce. I feel sorry for him — he never finished that book."

"What was it about?"

"I told you, faeries and such. Mendera and so on. A typical dime-store historical fantasy, though he called it a heroic epic and humanity's greatest mystery."

Milar pulled out his notepad and jotted down a few notes.

"Mind if we have a look at that apartment?"

"You're not here specifically for—" the concierge pointed at the ceiling again "—the… phenomena?"

"There'll be time for that."

"Well, all right. Sure, I'll get you the key. But the place is ruined — there's nothing left but soot and cinders."

"What happened?"

"A fire," the concierge said with another shrug, as if all of this had become routine. His voice held the tranquil resignation of someone who'd simply come to accept the building's strange fate. "The place was completely torched, and here's the odd thing: the apartments next door weren't damaged at all, not even a singed beam."

"Of course," Milar muttered, scribbling another note down. "I'll still take the key."

"By all means." The concierge hobbled over to a wooden shelf composed of small, square pigeonholes and pulled a key out of one of them. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Feel free to tell us what you think we should hear," Milar urged. "We're listening."

"I can go on if you like," the ex-sailor said, setting the key on the desk. "One tenant was allegedly mauled to death by a dog no one's ever seen in the building. Another woman stabbed her husband in the groin because she mistook him for her lover, then the lover shot both her and himself."

"Riglanov?"

"No, someone else entirely."

"You got an armory in here or something? Everyone seems to have some sort of iron on them…"

"That's just it, Mr. Investigator," the concierge said with a helpless shrug. "Since the building opened, there's been no real trouble beyond minor annoyances like the stationary Ley shield acting up, or the generators needing a tune-up, or the elevators going on the fritz. Nothing major, and any issue got fixed before the tenants even noticed."

"And then?"

"Then about a year ago, everything changed. You want more stories? A boy jumped out a window. A girl walked into the hallway and… vanished."

"Vanished as in she's literally gone?"

He nodded.

"No one ever saw her again. It's like she walked through a wall or something," the man explained with a mirthless chuckle. "And that's not even mentioning the recurring stench of rot. Tenants on different floors and in different apartments have all complained, but we never found a source. Then there are the nightmares — people complain about awful dreams, about screaming, moaning… crying too."

Upon hearing that last part, Ardi leaned forward.

"Pardon me," he asked the concierge, "but did the rotting smell have a hint of sulfur to it?"

The former sailor thought about it for a moment.

"Somebody did mention something like that, yes. But I never noticed it myself."

"And the nightmares," Ardi continued. "Do they involve dead relatives?"

"Friends too," the concierge confirmed.

Ardi let out a resigned sigh, and Milar shot him a look that said, "Don't tell me…"

"And the screaming, moaning and crying — are they always in a woman's voice? No children, no men, no animal sounds?"

"Female voices only," the concierge nodded. He paused, seeming to realize something. Clearly, the man wasn't a fool; he'd managed to adapt to the horrors around him precisely because he'd forced himself to view them as accidents, coincidences — anything but what they truly seemed to be: glimpses of the deeper world where monstrous beings lurked, Star Mages buried themselves in dusty tomes, and the lingering echoes of the Firstborn's forgotten craft still resonated.

The sailor did not believe in Riglanov's fairy tales. He refused to believe in them. And in his naïveté, he'd presumed that this disbelief served as a reliable, impenetrable shield.Yet those same fairy tales had their own opinion on the matter…

Sleeping Spirits, Milar had found the worlds of the capital's wealthiest and its common folk strikingly different, and Ardi was now seeing just how vastly everyday life diverged from that of the world that Star Mages dwelled in.

The concierge grew paler and paler, his hands trembled more noticeably by the second, and his eyes stayed fixed on Ardi's epaulettes, staff and grimoire.

"So that means-" He began hesitantly.

"Hand over the key, my good man," Milar tapped the countertop. "The one to the castle."

"The Stronghold."

"What?"

"Mr. Le'mriti called his floor the Stronghold."

The captain, not bothering to hide his opinion, gave a contemptuous snort at that.

"Well, this just proves once again that having plenty of money doesn't always mean you have any taste to go with it."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Investigator," the concierge, who was now paler than the reflections of the Ley-lamps on the countertop, agreed. He took out a key. Unlike its cousin that opened apartment 72, this one suited the castle it guarded.

Twice the normal size and clearly forged by hand in an antique style, the key could have served as a paperweight. Its handle was shaped like a snake coiled into a ring, and the shaft featured huge, seemingly rusty teeth. It all looked quite extravagant in a modern building.

"Thank you," Milar said, taking the key and turning toward the elevators.

"Will you be long?" The concierge asked anxiously, clearly a lot more nervous than before.

"I hope not, my friend."

"In that case… If you don't come back soon… should I send someone for help?"

Milar turned halfway and smiled amiably. "Thank you for your concern, sir. And for your service," the captain nodded at the tattoo on the man's hand. "But my partner and I will handle this problem ourselves. Right, partner?"

Ardi nodded. He hoped he'd done so confidently. And yet, judging by the looks Milar and the sailor gave him, his attempt had been less than convincing.

Ardi and the captain went over to the elevators, where two more staff members were waiting for them. Both seemed perfectly ordinary in appearance, wearing uniform jackets of a yellowish hue with bright copper buttons, white gloves, and caps with lacquered visors. They trembled slightly, and their gazes pleaded mutely, begging the pair not to engage them in conversation.

"Take us up," the captain said shortly.

One of the elevator operators pressed a button, and in an instant, the doors of a spacious cabin slid open. It was paneled in cherry wood, had a gilded control panel with levers and buttons, and a floor covered by a thick pile carpet.

Milar was just about to step inside when Ardi caught him by the shoulder.

"That's a bad idea."

"Partner, don't start with your elevator hating again."

"That's not what this is about."

"Mm-hm?" Milar clicked his tongue and squinted at him.

"An elevator isn't the safest way to travel in this building," Ardi explained.

At his words, the elevator operators turned even paler, exchanging worried glances. If Ardan had read them correctly, the building manager would be getting two resignation letters tonight. Maybe all four…

"By the Eternal Angels, Magister, that's almost thirty floors!"

"And we'll get there alive," Ardi insisted.

Milar sighed and shook his head.

"You're sure this isn't about your frobia?"

"Phobia."

The captain arched an expressive eyebrow.

"Right. It's not about that, then?"

"No, it isn't," Ardi said, shaking his head. This time, he was entirely serious.

"Damn," Milar sighed again, then, tapping two fingers against the brim of his hat, he offered a parting gesture to the elevator operators. Judging by the looks on their faces, they were barely resisting the urge to flee this cursed building right then and there.

Well, technically, the place wasn't cursed. It was simply inhabited by something that had no right to be there.

"The thirtieth fucking floor," the captain cursed as he made his way to the stairwell.

Whenever Ardi found himself in buildings like these — costly and lavishly decorated — he always paid attention to the stairwells. They served as a sort of hidden underside to wealth, something no one usually noticed, especially where functioning elevators were in place…

The Castle Tower was no exception. Here, just like in its sibling buildings, a simple concrete stairwell reinforced with iron bars wound its way between floors. It was almost like a stone skirt threaded onto a steel frame.

And right now, Ardi and Milar were ascending it. For Ardi, this posed no difficulty. He kept his breathing steady and felt no strain in his legs (well, perhaps he felt just a little strain, but that was only because of the stimulating herbal brews!). But Milar had to pause roughly every five floors, taking a breather before continuing on.

"All right… phew…" During one of these stops, Milar was panting heavily and wiping sweat from his forehead, and he loosened both his jacket and vest as they rested. "You… distract me a bit… with something useful… about whoever we're supposed… to be kicking out of here…"

Ardi, who was not out of breath in the slightest, and was feeling only a slight fatigue in his numbed limbs, instinctively checked that his grimoire was still at his side.

A storm raged beyond the window. Black clouds flooded the sky and thunder echoed among the rooftops that vanished from view due to the flickering of the city's distant lights. Lightning struck ceaselessly, leaping from cloud to cloud, slicing them open with the gleaming blades of crackling swords.

It was a bad night.

The worst kind of night that could possibly accompany them on the task ahead.

"It's a Weeping Woman."

"A what?"

"A Weeping Woman," Ardi repeated, then caught himself and clarified. "Some call them White-"

"You mean a White Lady?" Milar interrupted, having finally caught his breath. "She's the one said to wander around in white, heralding misfortune, death, wars, and all sorts of other nastiness?"

Ardi nodded.

"But that's… a children's tale."

"Partly," Ardi set his staff against the wall and brought his forehead close to the windowpane. Its cool surface licked his skin, reminding him of the icy flakes of the Alkade's snowfalls. "The Weeping Women, White Ladies, Banshees… they go by many names. In truth, they're a type of Fae from the Summer Court. Their essence is springtime — blooming, the birth of all new life. And so anything that opposes those notions causes them pain. Then they cry out, and sometimes, they do it so loudly that people can hear them."

Ardi fell silent. He'd read about Weeping Women in books and in the scrolls of Atta'nha. Humans and Firstborn alike considered them mere spirits of spring. The Fae, however, called them the "Unfortunate Spring Maidens," because, along with the arrival of new life, they always suffered from the ever-present accompaniment of death.

All in all, they were harmless beings — though their wails could frighten someone, and if you weren't careful, even hurt you a bit. But not so much as to cause lasting harm.

"What you're describing, partner, doesn't match what's going on here at all."

"That's because this one isn't an ordinary Weeping Woman, Milar," Ardi said, hands gripping the windowsill.

"I'm not liking your tone right now, Magister…"

"Neither am I," Ardan agreed. A fresh lightning bolt tore through the sky, and as it flashed outside, he saw his own face reflected within the glass.

His cheeks really had hollowed out, shadows had pooled beneath his eyes, and his skin had gone somewhat ashen. In a way, he and Aversky were looking more and more alike.

"This one is a Homeless Weeper," Ardi went on. "Her essence is twisted. She's no longer a joyful spring spirit, but a vengeful creature. Instead of celebrating life, she welcomes death, pain, and destruction. She summons situations in which people suffer… and she feeds on their suffering."

Milar straightened, pushing off from the wall that had been supporting him."You can't summon circumstances, Magister," the captain patted Ardi's shoulder, "People are responsible for their own lives. And if there's some spirit… Well, you did say that the she-wolf taught you how to drive out Homeless Fae."

"The Homeless ones, yes."

"Then this should be easy," the captain said, a glint of hope flickering across his face.

Ardi didn't comment.

Milar frowned.

"It should be easy, right?"

Ardi gripped the windowsill tighter. His heart was pounding so hard it almost drowned out the booming thunder — thunder that was parading haughtily across the rooftops of the Metropolis.

"One Weeping Woman, even a powerful one, wouldn't have enough strength to do everything we were told she's done. And she certainly couldn't spread her influence across thirty floors."

"Why not? The Fae in the old tales are mighty creatures. Or are there several of them in there?"

Ardi let the captain's slight jab — calling them "creatures" — slide.

"Iron. There's tons of iron and steel in a building like this. The Fae here, like anywhere else in the Metropolis, would be severely hampered," a memory of the ice-cream café flashed through Ardi's mind. "And even if they do appear in the city, it's only for a couple of minutes at most. After that, they can't withstand it. But she's lived here for more than a year."

"So… that means…"

"She's already crossed the line, Captain."

Milar swallowed hard, and Ardi understood him perfectly.

"You've talked about Homeless Fae that have crossed the line before, Magister," Milar turned and looked up the stairs. "So that means… a demon's up there?"

Ardi offered him a stiff nod. Up in that castle, at the top of this New City high-rise, dwelled a demon. A real one. It would be like the monstrosity that had nearly destroyed an entire train last summer. It would have succeeded, too, if not for Mart and his artifact.

"Do we have anything we can use against a demon?"

"Optimism," Ard ventured, not sounding entirely sure.

"Very funny, partner. I'm glad to see you still have a sense of humor about this."

"I'm not joking," Ardi shook his head. "Positive thoughts will protect us from the Weeper's influence a little. Especially since she likely isn't that strong, or she wouldn't have stayed locked up in there."

"That's something, at least," Milar sighed, undoing the clasps on his holster and loosening the ties above the hilt of his saber. "Could I shoot her or cut her down?"

"She's built a physical shell for herself over the past year. If we destroy it, she'll go back to wherever she came from."

"She'll go back… Eternal Angels! How'd she even get here in the first place?"

"No idea, Milar. Something like this can't just happen spontaneously."

They traded glances and spoke in unison:"The Spiders."

Milar clicked his tongue, then reached under his shirt and undershirt, pulling out a holy symbol of the Face of Light. The silver triangle gleamed in the glow of the Ley-lamps.

"This is shaping up to be quite an evening, partner. A demon… Damn it all. A year ago, I was hunting terrorists and other bastards. I even thought that was the worst fate could hand me. Yet here I am, already tangled up in another children's horror story after spending less than half a year in your company, Magister."

They lapsed into silence for a moment.

"We really should've brought Aversky along from the start," Milar declared abruptly, pressing one of his many medallions.

"He won't make it."

"And why's that?"

Without a word, Ardi pointed at the sky, where lightning flashed. Milar squinted at it, scrutinizing the sight, but finally gave up.

"Well? What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Look closer," Ardi said, tapping the glass.

Milar peered more intently… and grew pale. For the first time in months, Ardi glimpsed an expression on the captain's face that might've been called fear — it was subdued, but fear nonetheless.

"By the Eternal Angels," the captain blessed himself with the holy symbol of the Face of Light.

Outside the window, a lightning bolt was splitting the sky, again and again, along the exact same path. The exact same path.

It was the same lightning bolt, repeating over and over.

"We're already in her domain, Captain," Ardi breathed. "And I doubt she'll let us leave."

Milar uttered a string of colorful curses, then kissed the silver triangle and resumed climbing.

"All right, then we'll just have to send her back to where she belongs ourselves," he said. "Maybe we'll even get a nice, fat bonus for it — hopefully it'll be about as big as the mess we're in. We just need to bring back a souvenir as evidence."

Ardi sighed and hurried after him.