Page 74 of Inkpot Gods

Then she’s gone, vanishing off into the dark with a speed and silence that unnerve Asphodel: the old auf is more headstrong than most of her kind, both by nature and in accordance with Uncle John’s orders. He wanted her to be able to care for his niece, and that meant giving her more of her freedom than would be advised for an ordinary auf. And even so, it’s unusual for Miss Cottingsly to give orders or instructions, or to do anything other than do as she’s told by the living masters of her household.

Asphodel uses her shovel to close the casket, and begins piling mud on top of it, one scoop at a time. She’s barely six strokes in before an unfamiliar voice behind her barks out the question she least wants to hear at this hour of the night, in this storm-choked place:

“Halt! Who goes there?”

She turns. There is a man behind her, all but invisible in his black coat and hat, a brighter lantern than her own held at the level of his cheek. She should have seen the light approaching, would have, had she not taken the sudden shuddering appearance of her shadow for the lightning that still flashes overhead. She is wet, filthy, still holding the shovel, and standing in front of an open grave: the question is a formality, as her arrest will not be.

Her uncle will be able to buy her freedom, but her reputation may never recover from this night’s work.

Still, she tries: “I saw this shovel on the ground, and thought some graverobber had been afoot tonight. Thank God you’ve found me! I can give this over to you, and you can find the culprit before they get too far away.”

The guard is momentarily taken aback. Then he takes in her dark clothing, her gloved hands, and his eyes narrow. “I think I’ve found the only culprit I’m likely to encounter tonight, miss,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” she says, taking half a step back, very aware of her proximity to the still-open grave. If she falls in, she’ll never hear the end of it. It doesn’t matter that she’s technically alone in this graveyard, apart from the watchman: her uncle has his ways of knowing everything that happens in the city, and he’ll know. He always knows.

“Miss,” says the guard. “There’s no point in pretending you can run away from me here. In that dress, in this weather, I’ll have you before you make it more than ten feet. Save me the work and yourself the twisted ankles and come with me willingly. We can sort this out in the warmth and dryness of the guardhouse.”

Asphodel eyes him warily. He sounds sincere enough, but … she knows she’s comely, knows some men will say almost anything to get a young woman alone with them. The sort of man who guards a graveyard is unlikely to be the sort of man who finds mud repulsive, or who would shy away from pressing his attentions on a woman discovered in his place of work. Still, she also knows he isn’t wrong. If she tries to run in this weather, over this uneven ground, she’s more likely to hurt herself than she is to get away.

Slowly, she straightens and adjusts the angle of her body, so that she’s facing him entirely, not shying away by any real degree. “I promise you, sir, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I find you in the graveyard in the dark with a shovel, and it starts to sound like nonsense when you say things like that to me,” says the guard. “Come along. The guardhouse is this way.”

He gestures with his lantern, and the motion casts strange shadows all around him, like the light is bouncing off of another figure, someone standing silent and motionless behind him, in the deep, unyielding darkness. Asphodel allows her shoulders to drop back to their normal level and raises her chin, smiling slightly.

The guard is smart enough to recognize the shift in her posture for the threat it is. He stiffens, his eyes going wide, then spins to look behind himself.

This casts the light from his lantern squarely on Miss Cottingsly’s unpleasantly smiling face, her teeth fully exposed by lips that are pulled back in an expression akin to that of a corpse whose skin has tightened as it dried, leaving the skull unpleasantly displayed. Her eyes glitter in the light.

The guard has time for a sharp inhale, the sound building toward the start of a scream, before her hand closes over his face and tightens down. There is a horrifying crunching sound, like a walnut being smashed in a strong man’s palm, and the front of his head collapses inward, obliterated by the force of Miss Cottingsly’s grip. She takes her hand away, and Asphodel is treated to a brief, unpleasant glimpse of the wreckage she has made before the guard falls forward, landing heavy in the mud. He doesn’t move. That’s probably a mercy, considering what’s been done to him.

“Was that entirely necessary?” asks Asphodel, tone mild, not accusing.

“If you didn’t want to be arrested and lose the night, yes,” says Miss Cottingsly. “The body is in our carriage. Shall I bring him as well?”

He’s hot and fresh, covered in mud, and leaking everywhere. The mess will be incredible. And still, she pauses to consider, finally nodding and saying, “If you think you can do it without ruining the upholstery, yes. We could use the extra material.”

Making an auf isn’t exactly raising the dead, isn’t taking a single body and using the great art to bring them back to life. It’s a complicated process that involves inserting and removing and admixing a variety of components, and having a body to harvest as they work will make things all the easier.

Miss Cottingsly hoists the guard over her shoulder and vanishes once more into the rain, as Asphodel turns again to shoveling more muck into the hole. The coffin is still there; if they can get the earth they’ve moved replaced before the morning comes, they might be able to obscure all sign that they were here in the first place. It’s an outcome to be dearly wished for.

Water trickles down the back of her coat, wetting her to the skin as she shovels. No other lights or voices appear from out of the dark, and she’s well into her work before Miss Cottingsly returns again, beginning to pile muck on top of Asphodel’s efforts with sure, strong strokes of her arms.

“Go back to the carriage,” she suggests. “I’ll have this finished in a moment’s time.”

Asphodel nods. “Yes, Miss Cottingsly,” she says. “I appreciate everything you’ve done tonight.”

“Only my job, miss.”

“Even so.”

Asphodel hesitates before she turns back toward the carriage, watching Miss Cottingsly work. Her arms are no thicker than Asphodel’s own, her muscles no more pronounced, but she moves the mud with a graceful ease, making every heaping shovelful look like it weighs nothing at all. It’s always like that, with the auf. They lose a certain vitality to death, but they replace it with unspeakable strength, power well beyond human limits.

Except that all auf fade and fall to pieces, given time enough. The storms of seeming life that alchemy has sealed inside their skin come to an end, and the auf follows. She’s going to change that, tonight.

She finally turns and slogs through the mud back to the waiting carriage, the horses pawing at the street, the driver a dark blob in the shadows, his hat pulled low over his face to keep him from getting rain in his eyes. The anonymity it affords him is a pleasant side effect. Asphodel nods to him and steps up into the warm dry interior, immediately struck by how the smell has changed.

The air inside the carriage smells of mud, decay, and bright fresh copper, the dead guard’s blood blending with and overcoming everything else. Added to the petrichor and ozone coming from outside, and it’s a surprisingly familiar perfume, the scent of alchemy. She closes her eyes, relaxing into her corner of the carriage, and waits for Miss Cottingsly’s return.