Blameless

Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his cramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably, all of the excellent croissants. Traitors.

The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes of poltergeist phase.

Above the little dog’s barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.

“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia’s voice was cold with disapproval. “You ought to have seen to the unfortunate soul weeks ago and never let it get this bad.”

The man rolled his eyes dismissively. “On the contrary, Female Specimen, I rented this house because of the ghost. I have long been interested in recording exact stages of homo animus disanimation. And since my trouble with the Vatican, I switched the focus of my studies onto ghosts. I have managed three papers on this one alone. Now, I must admit, she has become much less. The staff refuses to come down here. I keep having to fetch wine myself.”

Alexia narrowly avoided walking through a floating ear. “Which must be very vexing.”

“But it has been useful. I theorize that remnant animus is carried on aether eddies as weakening of tether commences. I believe my work here has proved this hypothesis.”

“You mean to say that the soul rides the aether air, and as the body decomposes, its hold on the soul disintegrates? Like a sugar lump in tea?”

“Ya. What else could explain random floating of noncorporeal body parts? I have excavated the corpse, just there.”

Sure enough, a hole had been dug into one corner of the cellar floor, inside of which lay the mostly decomposed skeleton of a dead girl.

“What happened to the poor thing?”

“Nothing significant. I got much needed information out of her before she went mad. The parents could not afford graveyard fees.” He tut-tutted and shook his head at the shame of it. “When she turned out to have excess soul and went ghost, the family enjoyed still having her around. Unfortunately, they all then died of cholera and left her here for the next occupants to enjoy. Been that way until I came along.”

Alexia looked about at the floating wisps. A toenail bobbed in her direction. In fact, all of the remnant body parts were floating softly toward her, as water will go down a drain. It was both eerie and unsettling. Still she hesitated. Her stomach, and its nearby problematic companion, objected to both the smell of death and the certain knowledge of what she must do next. Holding her breath, Alexia crouched down near the gravesite. The hole for the body had been dug directly into the dirt of the cellar floor with no attempt made to preserve the corpse for supernatural longevity until the German came along. The child would not have had long to be a proper ghost before the madness of decomposing flesh began taking her away. It was a cruel business.

What was left was a sad crumpled little skeleton, mostly defleshed by maggots and mold. Alexia carefully removed one glove and reached down. She chose what looked to be the least decomposed part of the child’s head and touched her there once. The flesh was incredibly squishy under her fingertip and compressed easily like wet sponge cake.

“Ugh.” Alexia drew her hand back with a jerk of disgust.

The faintly luminescent wisps of body parts floating around the cellar vanished instantly, dispersing into the musty air as preternatural touch severed the last of the soul’s tether to its body.

The German looked around, mouth slightly open. The little dog, for once, stopped barking. “Is that all?”

Alexia nodded, brushing her fingertip against her skirt several times. She stood.

“But I did not even have my notebook out yet! What a—how do you say?—wasted opportunity.”

“It is done.”

“Extraordinary. I have not observed a preternatural end a ghost before now. Quite extraordinary. Well, that confirms that you are in truth, what you say you are, Female Specimen. Congratulations.”

As if I have won some sort of prize. Alexia raised her eyebrows at that, but the little man didn’t seem to notice. So she made her way firmly back up the stairs.

The German trotted after. “Truly, truly extraordinary. Perfect exorcism. Only a preternatural can accomplish such a thing with one touch. I had read of it, certainly, but to see it, right there, in front of me. Do you find the effects more rapid for you, than for the males of your species?”

“I would not know, never having met one.”

“Of course, of course. Ya. Cannot share the same air, preternaturals.”

Alexia made her way back to the parlor, where Madame Lefoux and Floote had left her one of the croissants. Thank goodness.

“How was it?” asked the Frenchwoman politely, if a little coldly. The last ghost Alexia had exorcised had been a very dear friend of Madame Lefoux’s.

“Squishy.”

Madame Lefoux wrinkled her pert little nose. “One imagines it must be.”

The German went to look out the window, clearly awaiting full sunrise. The sun was beginning to show just over the rooftops, and Alexia was pleased to see that Nice might, just possibly, be slightly less dirty than Paris. The dog vibrated its way around the room yipping at each visitor in turn, as though it had not remembered their presence, which might be the case given its apparent lack of a brain, before collapsing in an exhausted pouf under the settee.

Alexia finished her croissant using only her untainted hand and then waited patiently, hoping against hope that sometime soon they might be offered beds. It felt like a very long time since she’d slept. She was beginning to feel numb with tiredness. Madame Lefoux seemed to feel much the same, for she had nodded off. Her chin dipped down into the bow of her cravat. Her top hat, still partially wrapped with Monsieur Trouvé’s scarf, tipped forward on her head. Even Floote’s shoulders were sagging ever so slightly.

The first rays of the sun crept in over the windowsill and speared into the room. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf watched avidly as the light touched Floote’s trouser leg. When Floote did not immediately burst into flames or run screaming from the room, the little German relaxed for what Alexia suspected was the first time since they had knocked on his door.

With still no offer of a sleeping chamber forthcoming, Alexia took a deep breath and faced her host squarely. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, why all this bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass Octopus.”

Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend’s direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger. She regarded the little German with interest.

“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that none of you are—how do I put this?—undead.”

Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires called her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.

“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”

“But ‘undead,’ certainly, is not apt.”

The man’s eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead’ suits very well.”