Unholy Ghosts by Stacia Kane

against the wall. The old iron rattled under her feet. Nobody ever used these stairs, or this hall, for that matter. Only the Liaisers, and they didn’t work on Holy Day.
Chess stopped about two thirds of the way up and dug for her pillbox. The extra Cepts she’d taken for the pain in her hand were making her drowsy, and this was probably the only place in the entire building where she could be certain no one would watch. There weren’t even security cameras here, not after the Liaisers raised a stink about being observed as they prepared for their journeys. Chess didn’t blame them. You had to go naked to the dead.
Her right hand didn’t want to obey, so she was forced to set the pillbox on the stair next to her and use her left hand to open the clasp. It would have to be her right hand she’d injured.
Inside the box was the little bag Bump gave her the night before. She took a long barrette from the inside pocket of her jacket. Its slide was just the right width for doing bumps, and had a convenient dip in the center. She pinched it between her left thumb and forefinger and scooped out a little of the powder. Her right thumb closed her nostril as she lifted the barrette.
“I’m telling you, something isn’t right.”
“Bruce, Bruce. You’re overreacting.”
Chess peered down between the bars of the stairs. What was the Grand Elder doing here with Bruce Wickman? Bruce was a Liaiser. They never seemed to talk to anyone but one another or the dead. And why talk here, instead of the Grand Elder’s office?
If they looked up they would see her. Good thing nobody ever did.
“I’m not, sir. The dead are…they’re unsettled. I’m not the only one who noticed. If you’d loan me some materials, I could speak to one of the old Debunkers’ spirits and see what they think.”
“What do you mean, unsettled?”
“Restless. Like something’s bothering them, scaring them. We’ve been having a hard time communicating with them.”
“Their Festival just ended two weeks ago. They always get like this when their week of freedom ends. Don’t you remember two years ago, Bruce, when they tried to escape three days after the gates closed? You were here then, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but this isn’t—”
The Grand Elder pressed his palm into the center of Bruce’s back. It looked friendly, but Bruce jerked forward a little. “I’ll look into it, Bruce. You tell the other Liaisers that I’m going to consider your request. But I’m sure things will go back to normal shortly.”
Bruce nodded unhappily while Chess tried to ignore the tiny flecks of ground Nip falling from her hairpin. Her foot itched but she didn’t dare move, not on these loud stairs.
So Bruce thought the City was unsettled? Hmm.
The Grand Elder did have a point. As the anniversary of Haunted Week drew near, the same astrological and atmospheric conditions that had allowed them to come back in the first place prevailed again; the planets aligned, the magical energy of the earth underwent its yearly shift, and in that space the power surged enough to give the ghosts what they needed to break through. The exact moment of alignment didn’t last long, of course, but it took a little time for everything to go back to normal.
Despite her unqualified affection for and respect of the Church, Chess had always wondered if the Festival was more than just a chance to remind people of their debt and celebrate the Church, was in fact unavoidable: the dead had to be released from the City in a controlled way, under Church-and-psychopomp guard, or they would escape on their own—with dangerous results.
Not that it mattered. The Festival happened, end of story.
“Okay, Grand Elder. I’ll tell them. But please…please consider it.”
“I will. Go on, now, Bruce. Facts are Truth.”
“Facts are Truth, sir.”
The itch was starting to sting. The Grand Elder stayed where he was, staring at the elevator doors. Why didn’t he just go already? He had places to be, and