Fool in Love Ghoul in Hate | Greer Stothers #5
Waldemar simpered for the crowd, dipping his head at the prettiest of the women, and finding his vanity rewarded when she flushed and covered her mouth.
Vibrating with the pleasure of it all, he ducked beneath a red cord, to enter a spell-locked door.
He could’ve taken a back channel and avoided this; most did.
But doing so would’ve put him in private proximity to those who thought him dead, and he wanted his re-entrance to be rather public.
The House of Commons, when he finally entered, was full of witches. He’d arrived during the statements portion, where brief speeches could be made on matters of national or regional importance. Waldemar’s death, no doubt, qualified.
Rows of seats, upholstered in emerald, faced a carpet of the same color. This led to a clerk’s table, and a stand spelled for voice projection.
Waldemar walked the carpet with his chin high. Gasps and exclamations followed his progress. He allowed this to wash over him while keeping his face wiped clean of enjoyment, only stopping once, in front of a shock-whitened Pietro Angeli.
Pietro leaned forward, his pristine teeth exposed by his gaping. “Pemberton! I’d heard terrible things. I’m glad they aren’t true.”
“No, they are.” Waldemar smirked, and continued his walk.
He bypassed the clerk’s desk, ignoring the stare of the small, bald man, and stepped up before the plinth (allowing the man currently in position to retreat with bulging eyes).
“Forgive my unscheduled interruption. You know who I am. And you know of the fate that befell me last night. Yes—” He raised his voice over the growing murmur.
“Waldemar Pemberton was killed. Murdered, by one of our own, and consumed by the ghoul assigned to the task.” With this, he let his shape slip.
Only briefly, as the thin limbs of a ghoul fitted his suit unflatteringly, but long enough to make the point clear.
As the mutters rose to shouts, he adjusted his sleeves, and continued.
“As a result of these… circumstances, I possess knowledge of the witch who commanded the creature. Pietro Angeli is responsible for my murder.” He raised an arm and pointed (noting with annoyance his sharpened claw of a nail) to where the white-toothed man sat whimpering in shock.
Before his fellows could move to detain him, Pietro Angeli pulled an amulet from his breast pocket and snapped it, releasing a swarm of runes that cloaked his form.
Being a superior wielder of illusion, Waldemar had no trouble following Angeli’s progress out of the room, but many of his fellow witches could only shout in consternation.
In the midst of this, Waldemar hopped down from the plinth, shouldering his way through the witches who’d vacated their seats, until he found Lambert. “Shall we walk?” he said, interlocking their elbows.
Nobody prevented their exit through the great double-doors. Several witches milled in the hall outside, but – as one homed in on Pietro’s trail, illuminating his footsteps with a spell – they hurried off.
Waldemar didn’t stop, leading Lambert at a casual pace around a corner, into the Hall of Contemplation.
Curtained booths lined one side, where men might sit and agonize over the direction of their vote on various bills.
Arched windows dominated the other wall, with stained-glass portraits of former ministers.
Waldemar slowed briefly in each patch of sunlight, luxuriating in their warmth.
For a time, the only sounds were the clicking of their heels.
“Why?” said Lambert, finally.
“What would you get from our legal system – a noose? That’s far too light. Now, you’ll never have the relief of confessing and clearing your conscience. This will hang over you, rotting you, until—”
Seizing Waldemar by the shoulders, Lambert walked him, forcefully, toward a booth of contemplation. “As always, Pemberton, you’re almost correct. The guilt might have caused some real distress, if I’d killed anyone else. But for your murder? I doubt I’ll ever feel a thing.”
“Is that right?” Waldemar allowed himself to be shoved inside, his teeth lengthening as he grinned.
Lambert followed him in, already loosening his cravat. “That’s right.”
Minutes passed. A passing pair of parliamentary witches, having heard the rustles and banging, paused before the booth.
They exchanged an uneasy look. One leaned in to peer behind the curtain and then shot back, grabbing his companion’s arm and marching them away.
“Good heavens,” he squeaked, on a delay.
“He appears to be open-mouth kissing that ghoul.”
Many months later, when Waldemar’s father passed, it was discovered that ghouls cannot legally inherit a witch’s estate.
To everyone’s surprise – most of all his own – Waldemar Pemberton did not care.
The only one who took exception was Lambert Beadle, who found it financially damaging to be constantly replacing bedsheets and chaise longues torn up by claws (though the shouting matches this inspired always terminated in a manner that they found mutually beneficial).
As for Pietro Angeli, he fled the country and picked up a lovely tan. All in all, it was admitted to be one of the more positive murders to have been committed that year.