The Slaughter Lamb was steeped in its usual evening gloom, the amber light from the windows casting long, distorted shadows across the graveyard. It was a quiet night, just the usual crowd of regulars murmuring over their pints. The only disruption was the flat-screen TV mounted behind the bar, where a news anchor's voice cut through the indie rock with grim tidings.
"—authorities in Hilda-Burge are baffled by a sudden cluster of unexplained comatose cases, now being called a 'sleeping sickness.' In unrelated news, a massive recall is underway after dairy distributors reported entire shipments of milk turning sour upon delivery—"
A man sitting at the bar shook his head, taking a long pull from his beer. "We're living in some crazy times," he muttered to no one in particular.
Eris, who was wiping down the counter with a damp cloth, froze. Her eyes darted from the TV to the man's face, her mind immediately leaping to the glowing, rumbling hole in the crypt. "You think so?" she asked, her voice a little too high.
"The last thing I want to do is relive another pandemic," the man sighed, oblivious to her internal panic.
"Yeah," Eris agreed weakly, scrubbing at a non-existent stain. "Me either." She glanced toward Sarah, who was idly floating near the pressed-tin ceiling, examining the patrons below with detached curiosity. The ghostly witch just shrugged, a gesture of supreme nonchalance in the face of potential apocalyptic portents.
Just as Eris's shift was ending, the door creaked open to reveal a figure attempting, and failing spectacularly, to be subtle. Otto Gordon slid inside, his body coiled with a tension that made him look like a startled heron. He was draped in a dark, overly large coat, and a canvas bag stuffed with suspiciously book-shaped lumps was slung over his shoulder. He tripped on the welcome mat, caught himself on a booth, and then hurried to the bar, his eyes wide.
He leaned so far over the counter his nose almost touched Eris's. "I have everything we need," he whispered, the words spraying with dramatic intensity.
Eris's face lit up. "Really?"
"Shhh!" Otto hissed, throwing a frantic look around the nearly empty room. The man at the bar sipped his drink, watching them over the rim of his glass with amused curiosity. Eris leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When will you be finished?"
"Let me check," she said, and ducked into the back. She reappeared a moment later, pulling on her jacket. "Let's go."
Otto nodded, his expression one of grave importance. "The mission awaits."
The man at the bar chuckled softly into his drink as the two of them swept out into the night, Otto's coat flapping like the wings of a clumsy bat.
They moved through the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds, the darkness beneath the ancient oaks feeling deeper, more alive than usual. The whisper-vine on the fences seemed to murmur a little louder, the words almost forming warnings. They had just passed the Ogham Green when Eris suddenly froze, her hand shooting out to grab Otto's arm.
"Get down!" she whispered, yanking him by the collar of his ridiculous coat behind a large, moss-covered headstone.
Otto landed with a grunt. "What is it? A shadowy cabal? A spectral assassin?"
"Worse," Eris breathed, peering over the granite. "Company."
Silhouettes moved through the misty patches between the graves. A hulking, boulder-shaped form that could only be a troll shuffled past, sniffing the air. A moment later, a shimmering cluster of fairies zipped by, leaving a trail of glittering, irritable light. The distant, heart-wrenching wail of a banshee echoed from another part of the cemetery, and a tall, cloaked figure that moved with an unnatural stillness suggested the presence of something that definitely preferred its beverages to be hemoglobin-based.
Otto's fear evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated academic glee. "A Class-3 territorial troll! And are those Aos Sí? This is unprecedented! The migration patterns alone—"
Eris clamped a hand over his mouth. "Will you shut up? This is serious! We have to close the gate, not take field notes!"
Suddenly, Sarah Torbit popped into existence directly in front of their headstone, making Eris jump. "Coast is clear," she announced cheerfully.
Eris nodded, releasing Otto. "Okay, we can go."
Otto, rubbing his mouth, stared at the empty space where Sarah had been. "How can you tell?"
"I just can," Eris snapped, her patience fraying. She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Now, let's go before something else with fangs or a taste for human misery decides to take a stroll."
*****
The slate tiles of The Slaughter Lamb's roof were still warm from the day's sun, a gentle heat that seeped into Dáinn's back as he lay reclined, his hands behind his head. Above him, the stars over Aldis were not the sharp, cold points of Annwn, but a softer, more distant scattering, their light struggling against the amber haze from the town's streetlights. The constant, murmuring rustle of the whisper-vine woven through the gutters provided a low, secretive soundtrack to the night.
Casper sat nearer the roof's edge, a sleek statue of midnight fur, his tail twitching as he watched the comings and goings from the pub below with an air of royal boredom.
Dáinn's voice broke the comfortable silence, his tone one of genuine, ancient perplexity. "What is a 'cell phone'?"
Casper cut his eyes sideways, the green orbs glowing in the dark. Dáinn lifted his head from his hands, waiting.
The cat let out a long-suffering sigh, the sound of a tutor faced with a particularly dim pupil. "It is a flat, glowing rectangle the humans use for… well, everything."
Dáinn sat up, the leather of his gear creaking softly. "What is 'everything'?"
"They record their lives on it," Casper explained, his telepathic voice dripping with condescension. "They keep their currency—their gold and silver—as little numbers inside it. They use it to shout at one another from across continents, to summon horseless carriages, to gaze at pictures of badly prepared food…"
His voice trailed off abruptly. His ears swiveled forward, and his body went still. A slow, wicked grin spread across his feline features. "Well, well. Look what the night dragged in."
"What is it?" Dáinn asked, his previous line of questioning forgotten.
"Come and see for yourself," Casper purred.
Dáinn rose to his feet with a hunter's silent grace and moved to the edge, peering down into the tangled shadows of the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds. Below, two figures were making a furtive but notably un-stealthy path between the headstones. One was the blond-haired girl from the bar, Eris, moving with an athlete's nervous energy. The other was a gangly young man in a comically oversized coat, stumbling over roots and glancing about with such theatrical paranoia he might as well have been carrying a sign that read 'UP TO NO GOOD.'
Casper and Dáinn shared a long look. The cat's grin widened. "It appears there may be mischief afoot. And it's heading straight for our favorite hole in the world. Shall we investigate?"
Dáinn's face settled into its familiar, stern lines, his blue eyes glinting with a light that had not softened in millennia. The pursuit of mystery, and the retrieval of lost hounds, demanded no less.
"Yes."
*****
They moved in a frantic, crouched scramble, weaving between the leaning headstones and thick clusters of whisper-vine that seemed to grasp at their ankles with velvety leaves. The crypt loomed ahead, a darker blotch of shadow against the night. Sarah Torbit hovered by the entrance, her translucent form phase-shifting with nervous energy. Her head swiveled back and forth like a spectral owl before she waved a frantic, shimmering hand for them to come in.
Eris nodded, and with a final, dramatic sprint, they covered the last few yards to the crypt's gaping doorway. Just as they were about to cross the threshold, Eris skidded to a halt. Her eyes caught on the stone frame, where thick, thorny vines she didn't recognize snaked over the ancient rock. They were a waxy, deep green, studded with vicious red-tipped barbs, and they looked… fresh.
Seeing that Eris had stopped, Sarah floated back out. "What's the holdup? This isn't a sightseeing tour."
Eris pointed an accusing finger at the new overgrowth. "These. These weren't here before."
Sarah shrugged, a ripple passing through her ghostly shoulders. "It's a plant. It grows. The mortal realm is notoriously… fertile."
Otto's head popped out from behind the crypt door, his eyes wide. "What's wrong? Has the portal spawned guardians? Are we too late?"
"These vine things are new," Eris said, her voice tight.
Otto stepped out, standing next to her. He held his chin, striking a thoughtful pose despite the circumstances. "Fascinating. Euphorbia milii. Crown of Thorns. A defensive, almost… punitive flora. You think its sudden appearance could be a sympathetic reaction to the gate? A biological attempt to quarantine a metaphysical wound?"
Eris threw her hands up. "I don't know! Is there another explanation? A sudden interest in landscaping?"
Otto straightened, his eyes blazing with sudden, dramatic resolve. He punched a fist into his open palm. "I don't know! But!" he declared, his voice ringing in the quiet cemetery, "We close the gate, and then we will know for sure! The evidence will present itself upon the cessation of the anomalous event!"
Eris stared at him for a beat, then nodded, her own determination crystallizing. "RIGHT!"
Sarah chuckled, a sound like rustling silk, as she followed them back inside. "Such fervor. Let's hope it's enough."
The interior of the crypt was charged with a heavy, wrong energy. The air was cold and carried a scent of wet stone and something sweetly metallic, like old blood. And there it was: the hole. It was larger now, a jagged maw in the floor from which a sickly, greenish-silver light pulsed rhythmically, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. A low, humming thrum vibrated up through the soles of their shoes.
They approached the edge, peering down into the dizzying, glowing depths. Otto's academic panic vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated wonder.
"WOW!" he breathed, stars practically visible in his eyes. He looked at Eris, his face a picture of rapturous awe. "Eris, this is… it's a stabilized planar fissure! The energy signature is… it's so cool!"
Eris snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Focus! We need to close it, not give it a Yelp review!"
Otto nodded, shaking himself as if coming out of a trance. "Right. Yes. Of course. Apologies. Did you bring the primary textual source? The spell book?"
Eris nodded, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out the heavy, leather-bound manuscript, its pages looking brittle and dangerous in the eerie light.
Otto placed his overstuffed satchel on the ground with a thud, rifling through it with frantic energy. A notebook labeled 'Portents & Prophecies' tumbled out, followed by another titled 'Common Spectral Apparitions: A Field Guide.' "I just need my comparative ritual notes," he muttered, "and my diagram of infernal sigils… it's here somewhere…"
*****
Dáinn moved through the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds with the silent, ground-eating stride of a wolf on the hunt, the shadows themselves seeming to part for him. Casper flowed alongside, a liquid patch of darkness, his paws making no sound on the damp earth.
"Appears we have some new residents," the cat commented, his telepathic voice dry as he glanced toward a mausoleum where the air shimmered with a faint, cold energy. "The neighborhood is certainly going downhill."
Dáinn gave a curt nod, his sharp eyes missing nothing. At that moment, a figure detached itself from the deeper gloom beneath a weeping angel statue. It was a vampire, its pallid skin stark against the night, its eyes gleaming with a hungry amusement. It moved with an affected, theatrical grace, stopping directly in Dáinn's path.
Dáinn didn't break stride, merely coming to a halt and fixing the creature with a scowl that had made lesser beings dissolve into mist. "What do you want?"
The vampire's smirk was a flash of white in the darkness. It opened its mouth, no doubt to deliver some preening, insouciant remark about claiming territory. Then its eyes fully focused on Dáinn—on the ancient, untamed power in his blue gaze, on the way the very air grew still and heavy around him. The smirk vanished. With a sound like a sigh of displaced air, the vampire simply dissolved into a swirl of black mist that scattered on the night breeze.
Casper let out a soft, chuffing sound. "Well. Someone in a nearby dorm is about to have a very disappointing Tinder date."
Dáinn let out a low groan, the sound rumbling from his chest. "I was among the elders who protested cutting off contact with this world," he mused, his gaze sweeping over the distant lights of the university. "I thought that without our guidance, without the old pacts, they would struggle. That their brief, noisy civilization would flicker and die."
He fell silent for a long moment, the only sound the murmuring rustle of the whisper-vine.
"And?" Casper prompted, leaping gracefully onto a moss-covered sarcophagus.
"And I was wrong," Dáinn admitted, the words seeming foreign on his tongue. "They have not merely survived. They have… thrived. In their own chaotic, baffling way. It seems they need us not as guides, but as wardens. To keep our own kind corralled, and to stay out of their way."
Casper trotted up next to him, his green eyes luminous. "A radical thought. Have you considered, for even a moment, treating them less like a failed garden and more as… your equals?"
Dáinn stopped walking. The question hung in the air, as tangible and unsettling as the vampire's presence had been. He looked down at the cat, his stern features unreadable. Casper simply cocked his head, waiting.
"I had not," Dáinn said finally, the admission quiet.
He stared out at the human world, a place of glowing rectangles and roaring metal carriages, of kids who prayed to Anime deities and bartenders who bore the marks of ancient lineages. A place that had created its own strange, resilient magic.
"Maybe…" he mumbled, almost to himself. "Maybe we are the ones who need to change."
Casper let out a soft, chuckling purr. "Now that," he said, "is a lot to ask of beings who measure time in eons and think a century is a passing mood."
Dáinn's lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile. "True," he conceded, his gaze still fixed on the distant, buzzing life of Aldis. "But it may need to be considered."