Strange Aeons [Book 1]

12. When the Smoke is Going Down [part II]

Sneaking out from his home was quite easy, being a master of Displace magic. He had left an emergency call spell on his children's room, in case something happened, and Francesca didn't wake up. In the last week, she had taken the habit of lying down after a couple pills, blaming him for the stress that gave her insomnia.

He felt a slight pang of guilt about it all. He disliked the lack of peace ad equilibrium his life had undergone in the last weeks, and the toll it exacted. He had more stress and anger to manage, Francesca's grown chillier, his kids looked at him with cautious curiosity, as he was a rare beast. Just like he sometimes watched them.

Maybe he was, after all, considering the right choice.

He appeared directly at the appointment place. He didn't even know why he did feel that strange sense of shame and remorse. He was doing what thousands of people normally did every day, so many of them in the light of day. There was nothing to be ashamed about. No one could judge him. Especially in the Order.

«Sorry, I'm late. The bus broke down.» an Irish accent spoke behind him. He turned towards her, his face frowned in a disapproving glare. She had a bottle in a brown bag under her arm.

«Do I have to remind you that you can, apparently, teleport with ease?» he remarked, beckoning her to come closer. She rolled her eyes and took the bottle out of the bag. It was an 18 years old Jameson whisky bottle. It was bright even under the pale moon, the only source of light around.

«I was tired. It's been a long day, ok?» she answered, stopping and looking down. Taking a deep breath to face what was going to happen.

There had never been a corpse in the coffin.

For ten years, the gravestone had been watching over an empty grave. It was clean and well taken care of, with fresh flowers in a small marble vase. Garaham had just changed them. A little electric light was shining just enough to let them read the golden words on the black marble, standing right under the an oval golden-framed photograph.

The photo portrayed the serene face of a sixty-years old man, with a crown of white hair and a balding head, smiling under a pair of half-moon glasses parked over a stout nose decorated with thick moustaches. Gentle black eyes were staring at anyone who looked at him, as at the letters below.

Logan Andrew Harrower
Beloved Father and Uncle
Life is a Voyage Homeward Bound

«Ten years.» she whispered, looking at that smiling face, already feeling the deep sensation of a hand squeezing her stomach. «Jeez louise, his brother didn't come, even this year.»

«It's not a short trip from Lexington, and the Harrowers aren't famous for their tendency to take time off from work.» Garaham said, his eyes transfixed on the same point hers were. «I'm sure they celebrate at home. It's not like it makes any difference at all, is it?»

She scoffed, uncorking the whisky and sniffing the powerful, delicious smell of well-aged alcohol. «We know he's not here.»

«He's probably in Empyreum, with the Angels. Let's find some solace in that.»

«Crappy necromancer, couldn't even turn into a decent Elysial.» Banshee grumbled as she started to pour the expensive whisky over the headstone. But it wasn't her usual comeback sneer. She was as serious as Banshee could ever get, watching the golden liquid wash the dust of the days before away from the marble, collecting over the soil and being avidly drank by the thirsty earth.

«I don't know if it's worst not coming on a beloved one's grave or coming and insulting the craft he cherished for all of his life.» Garaham reproached her.