Phantasia

Phoenie hadn’t visited the Industrial Zone since the encounter with the cloaked empathic vampire, ‘leansídhe’ – an event that was still trapped behind the murky haze of hallucinations like a childhood dream struggling to be recalled. With the autumn nights devouring the sky ever earlier, the sun was already dropping behind the silhouettes of abandoned factories and lifeless chimneys.

Andromeda was the first to arrive at the meeting point – a mass of skeletal foundations and crumbling walls plucked clean by scavengers. The journalist and would-be diplomat was dressed in a beige trench coat and wore a multi-coloured woolly beret atop the dark curls of her hair. Katrina had advised them all to be ‘well-prepared’, but Andromeda didn’t feel the need to bring anything but herself.

“What have I got that could possibly help?” she replied when Phoenie inquired, “I’m a sociologist, Phoe, not a ghost hunter,”

“It’s okay, Annie, your clever brain is as much a weapon as anything,” said Phoenie, “Why, I bet you could reason with these dark denizens and coerce them into ceasing their melodramatic scheming!”

“I’m not sure if you can reason with ghosts and demons,” she replied with a sigh, “Assuming that’s what we’re dealing with…”

Next to appear were the contrasting silhouettes of tall, lumbering Katrina and short, scrawny Lyra, both of whom had come from the Orphanage. Katrina’s auragraphic camera hung securely around her neck, nestled between the buttons of her duffle coat, while the turquoise cat she was so attached too was strapped to her back, fulfilling its original role as a novelty backpack. Phoenie wondered what the foul-mouthed Raven, Lyra, could have brought with her, other than clothes so torn it looked as if she’d been attacked by something from the depths of Hell already.

Katrina fumbled a hand through her pocket, then pulled out two small canisters. “I’ve got extra films,” she said, “I’m recording every step we take!”

Lyra stayed back from the Veritas girls, watching them suspiciously with her green eyes. “Youse ain’t gonna last long against those shaman if that’s all youse girls be bringing with ye, but don’t ye be worrying too much,” She held out a hand clad in what looked like a fingerless cloth glove, decorated with sparkling gems, “I was raised by Vagrants, after all,”

Phoenie wondered what mysteries the travelling tribes had left with their orphaned child, and how a sentimental charm could safeguard them against possible violent assault. Surely their protection was Theseus’s duty? Phoenie certainly wasn’t expecting Joel Gibson to appear brandishing a weapon, and when he was next to appear, sauntering over with his cloaked girlfriend, Kaori, her instincts were proven right. Joel hadn’t brought a weapon – he’s brought his guitar.

“Mr Gibson, we are on an important and dangerous investigation,” she said, “You cannot subdue spectral entities of a malevolent nature by strumming a few power chords,”

“Actually,” said Kaori Shimomura, pulling a hand-carved wooden flute from one of her oversized sleeves, “My parents are audiomancers. I’m not sure how they do it, but they use music as a tool in battle. I thought it might come in helpful if the leansídhe tries to take over our minds again…”

“Yeah,” added Joel Gibson, gripping the handle of his instrument and swinging it over his shoulder and brandishing it as if it were some kind of mythical sword and he were a legendary hero striking a pose for the cameras. Much to Phoenie’s surprise, the neck of the guitar shifted and a sharp blade emerged along its side. With a smug grin on his spotted face, Joel proclaimed: “This… is Ragnarok,”

Chapter 48
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