A Spirit’s Due

As if the myriad of fingers pointed my direction weren’t enough accusation, Tobias ensured it remained abundantly clear I had ordered the ghosts by blurting out as much.

I crossed my arms and glowered at Tobias. Would that my displeasure could supersede Damian’s displeasure, but with the announcement Damian turned to me.

He didn’t bother folding his arms or glowering. His stillness announced his displeasure. I shuffled back and raised my hands before he spoke a single word, “Why?” The word struck me harder than any accusation.

Why indeed. I could no longer recall why, but his eyes demanded an answer “You wished for an authentic party.” The words sounded inadequate to my ears.

Damian sighed heavily. “Not that authentic. Deal with the guests.” His boots echoed loudly in the stone corridor as he strode away.

I swiveled toward the guests scattered about the main chamber. Both those alive and dead who watched me with either amused anticipation or white jitteriness.

“The King’s Spirits Ball will not commence.” The mortals fled more hastily than I anticipated. The ghosts glanced at each other and shrugged before evaporating away.

I turned, glanced up the corridor thinking to follow Damian. I’d have to apologize to Damian, but this turnout had not even been what I’d planned. So many souls had answered my spell. Not just the one.

A chill finger tapped me on the shoulder, and I jumped. All the ghosts had not departed, and, apparently, the king who’d begun this tradition still wanted his due.