Chapter 554: Mist and Lies at Cordu’s Pub

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not—there just isn’t time for that.

My parents can’t support me, I don’t have much education, and I’ve been on my own in the city, chasing after a future.

I’ve hunted for so many jobs, but none of them ever hired me. Maybe nobody wants someone who isn’t good with words, hates socializing, and can’t really prove any skills.

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For three days straight, all I ate were two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me tossing at night, but I was lucky—I paid my rent a month early, so I could keep living in that dark basement, safe from the winter’s biting winds.

At last, I found a job—night shift at a hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

The hospital at night is even colder than I pictured. The corridor lamps stay off, everything shrouded in gloom. Only a sliver of light escaping between rooms shows me where my feet are.

The smell there is terrible. Every so often, somebody brings in another body zipped inside a bag, and we help load it into the morgue.

It’s not a good job, but at least it pays enough for bread. The slow nights mean I can study, seeing as hardly anyone comes near the morgue—unless there’s a body to deliver or take away for the crematorium. Of course, I can’t afford books yet, and it’s hard to imagine ever saving up enough money.

I have to thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I doubt I’d have gotten even this job.

I dream of getting the day shift someday. Right now, I sleep through sunrise and wake up at night. It’s making me weak, and every so often my head throbs.

One day, a porter brought in a new body.

I heard it was my predecessor—the one who left out of the blue.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I slid open the cabinet and quietly unzipped the bag.

Inside was an old man. His skin looked greenish-white and wrinkled, and even in the dim light he seemed scary.

Most of his hair was gone, and what remained was chalk white. They’d stripped him of every stitch of clothing—not even a rag left.

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On his chest I saw a strange mark, dark blue and black. Hard to describe exactly, given how dimly the bulb flickered.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Looking at my former coworker, I wondered—if I kept living like this, would I end up just like him when I’m old?

I told him, ‘Tomorrow I’ll take you to the crematorium myself. I’ll make sure your ashes reach the nearest free cemetery, so they don’t dump you in some river or field just to save trouble.’

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but whatever—at least Sunday was coming, I could catch up then.

After that, I zipped him up and slid the cabinet closed again.

The room seemed even darker than before…

Since then, every time I fall asleep, I find myself wandering through a thick mist.

I keep feeling something’s coming, that sooner or later, something not quite human will come looking for me. But nobody believes me. They say it’s the job, the place—that I’m just losing my mind and ought to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, whose tale had suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown tweed coat and pale yellow trousers. His dark hair was slicked flat, and beside him sat a plain, battered hat.

He looked utterly ordinary, just like most of the bar’s patrons—black hair, pale blue eyes—neither good-looking nor ugly, really, nothing that stood out.

But the storyteller in his eyes was a young man, seventeen or eighteen perhaps, tall and lean. He had matching black hair and clear blue eyes, but his sharp features left a deep impression.

The young man turned to his empty glass, sighed, and said,

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and came here to swap tall tales with you.”

As he spoke, a sly grin curved across his lips.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“Was all that just a story?”

A burst of laughter exploded around the bar.

When it died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the slightly flustered customer and said,

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new yarn every day! Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée because he was broke, today he’s the poor guy guarding corpses!”

“Yeah, and all that stuff about thirty years east of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right bank—can’t trust a word!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big rural village, wearing short jackets in shades of black, gray, or brown.

The young man called Lumian propped his hands on the bar, slowly stood up, and grinned.

“You all know I don’t make these stories up. My sister writes them—she’s crazy about it! She’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

Saying that, he turned and gave the out-of-towner a dazzling smile and a theatrical shrug.

“Looks like she’s a pretty good writer.

Sorry to have fooled you.”

The man in the brown coat—plain as could be—showed no anger. He just stood up, smiled, and replied,

“It was an entertaining story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself before asking someone else?” Lumian smiled.

The guest nodded along.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His blond hair was dusted with powder, his deep blue eyes were smaller beneath pale lashes, and his outfit—a white vest, blue fitted coat, and black pants—said he’d dressed for the occasion.

He wore a cool expression and seemed unfazed by the stares of local farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than her two companions. Her long, light gray hair was twisted into an elaborate braid, a white veil standing in for a hat.

Her gray eyes matched her hair, and the way she gazed at Lumian was openly amused, as if she found all this endlessly entertaining.

Under the pub’s old gas lamps, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips stood out—she was considered a real beauty by Cordu’s rural standards.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream jacket, and Masiel boots. Little silver bells hung from her veil and boots, jingling with every step, drawing the eyes of every man in the place as she entered.

To them, that was the sort of fashion you only saw in provincial Bigo or the capital city, Trier.

Lumian nodded toward the trio of strangers.

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked, curiosity piqued.

Ryan Coste stepped in to explain for her.

“That surname gives people the chills. I almost slipped when I heard it.”

Seeing the puzzled looks on the faces of all the farmers and herders around them, he went on:

“Anyone who’s ever dealt with sailors or merchants knows a saying that goes around the Five Seas:

“Better to cross swords with pirate lords or kings than mess with a man named Frank Lee.

His surname’s also Lee.”

“Is he really that scary?” asked Lumian.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But when a legend travels that far, you figure there must be something to it.”

He let the topic drop, then turned back to Lumian.

“Thank you for your story. It deserves a drink. What’ll you have?”

“Absinthe,” Lumian answered right away, settling back on his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… the Green Fairy?”

“I have to warn you—it’s harmful, you know. Absinthe can mess with your mind, even make you hallucinate.”

“I never thought the fashions of Trier had already made their way here,” Leah commented with a bright smile.

Lumian let out a casual, ‘Oh.’

“So Trier folk drink Green Fairy too…

Us? Life’s hard enough. Who cares about a little extra harm, if it helps us relax.”

“All right.” Ryan sat back down and nodded at the bartender. “One Absinthe. And add a Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why not order me a Green Fairy too? I told you the whole truth and could tell you everything about this kid as well!” The first skinny middle-aged man yelled, “You outsiders still aren’t sure if that tale was real or not!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back with a laugh.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian quickly added,

“Why can’t I be the storyteller again? That way I get another Green Fairy!”

“Because nobody knows if your stories are true.” Pierre grinned smugly. “Your sister’s favorite tale was always ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’. Once a liar, always a liar.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a glass of pale green liquor his way.

Ryan looked to him and asked,

“Is that all right?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle all these drinks.” Lumian didn’t care one bit.

“Add another Absinthe,” Ryan said with a nod.

Pierre’s face instantly split in a wide grin.

“Our generous outlander here! Just keep in mind, this kid’s the biggest prankster in town. You’d best keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village, and he’s never left. Come on, before that, he was barely thirteen—how could he have worked guarding bodies at the hospital? Closest place like that is down the mountain in Daliege, it’d take an entire afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought back to the village?” Leah asked, her tone sharp.

She tilted her head, setting both bells to ringing.

Pierre nodded.

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“So, ever since, he’s taken Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even his name, Lumian, was picked out by her.”

“I’ve forgotten what my original name even was,” Lumian teased, sipping his absinthe with a carefree smile.

If anything, he seemed to feel no shame or embarrassment at all about having his past exposed like this.