Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences by Pip Ballantine Page B

“Without testimony from an archivist, I’m afraid all I can do is guess, but I believe that Mr Bannigan gained the attentions of the sluagh.”
    “The restless dead,” Caity murmured. “Said to be rejected from heaven or hell, and even the Otherworld.”
    “What Mr Bannigan did not realise,” Miss Snow said, her expression going quite grim, “was that gaining the attention of such forces always goes awry.”
    “You mean the sluagh are here? Now?”
    “Indeed, dear girl, and they have not wasted time. In distorting the legend of—” Even her mouth hitched on the name, “—the Irish god, they have created a landscape where slaughter has taken root, not bounty. They will feed on the dead and harvest the innocent for their hungers. That is what toying with artefacts will gain one.”
    Caity heard it again, the scattered report she recognised as gunfire.
    She shot to her feet, a cry on her lips, and dashed up the steps.
    “Caitriona, wait!”
    She did not. Sprinting through the pub, she pushed her way outside and choked on the wind.
    It tasted of hatred, smelled of an anger deeper than any human heart could carry.
    Shouting filled the city as calls of violence turned to flame.
    Caity froze.
    Which side had lit the wick of war?
     

     
    Miss Snow fetched first the golden figure laying on its side in the salt. She wrapped it carefully. Even touching it bothered her, and she wore gloves.
    Whether this were truly the symbol of Cromm Crúaich or not, Miss Snow was not qualified to know. That it contained a power eager to be harnessed was without a doubt truth.
    She carefully pocketed the item in her coat, still inside out, and hurried up the stairs behind the scattered Miss Kennedy. She found the girl on her knees just outside the pub, watching in horror as smoke rose from the square.
    “Up, you go!” Miss Snow ordered, seizing the Irish lass by the arm and hauling her bodily to her feet. “Can’t stay here, the fire’s spreading!”
    Sure enough, the first tongues of flame licked the dark sky. Given the direction of the wind, it would blow the flames their direction quick as tinder.
    Good girl that she was, Miss Kennedy followed. The streets were filling with British and Irish alike, a veritable mob screaming at each other. Fists and shillelaghs flew, fires were set deliberately, and glass shattered in shop fronts as looters seized the opportunity to make a point.
    They ran fast as they could, dodging groups of men prowling for Irish and British blood to spill, until the gates of the cemetery loomed out of the smoke-encrusted black.
    Remembering the arch, Miss Snow tucked her hand into the crook of Miss Kennedy’s elbow and dragged to the locked fence. “Up and over, my dear,” she shouted.
    The girl did not balk, clambering up the grating with only a minor disagreement between her feet and hanging skirt.
    As soon as she was on top, Miss Snow scaled the fence with the easy agility of a trained agent.
    Almost immediately, the air lightened, smelling now of tilled earth, burning wood and smoke rather than the wrongness that permeated the rest.
    Miss Snow took a deep breath as she landed beside Miss Kennedy, who had wrapped her arms around herself and watched her city burn.
    For the first time, Miss Snow wasn’t quite sure how to address the situation.
    She touched the girl lightly on the arm. “They’ve taken their payment in fortune and flesh,” she said, as kindly as she could. “Twelve souls for the story, and a burning for the end as proper. It’s unlikely they’ll linger past the night.”
    “What of Galway?” Miss Kennedy asked, her voice a whisper strained to the point of breaking.
    Drawing the girl away from the wrought iron gate—a protection this city did not know it afforded its dead—she tucked an arm about Miss Kennedy’s waist. A companionable gesture.
    A comfortable one, no less.
    “Chin up, Miss Kennedy,” she said. “Although it’s true Galway is caught in the eye of the storm,