Stilcho knew. He had raised this ghost. Revenge, Stilcho had whispered simply,
and this ghost, wandering aimless on the far shores of nowhere among other lost
souls, had turned and lifted its bloody face and licked its bloody lips. Revenge
and Roxane. That had been enough to bring Janni back to the living.
But there were penalties for revenants such as Janni. Memory was one.
Attachments were another sort. Hell was not the other side alone. Such dead
brought it with them and made it where they walked, even with the best
intentions. And this one had been too long out of hell, ignoring orders, going
where it pleased in the town.
The aspect grew worse. Blood dropped onto the steps. There was a reek in the
air. It would not be denied, would not go away; and Stilcho walked away down the
tangled path to the iron gate, where the brush and the trees and the earth
itself gave way to dark air, to the black river that gnawed and muttered at the
shore on which the house sat. He looked back, never having hoped the ghost would
retreat. “For godssakes, man-“
“He’s in trouble,” Janni said. “My partner’s in trouble, dammit-“
‘Not your partner. No longer your partner. You’re dead, have you got it yet?”
Stilcho blinked and ran a hand through his hair, grimaced as the ghost achieved
his worst aspect. Stilcho had a real body, however scarred and maimed; and Janni
had none; or had whatever his mood of the moment gave him, which was the way
with ghosts of Janni’s sort. “If She finds you off patrol again-“
“She’ll do what? Kill me? Look, friend-“