A true medium… Klein repeated the phrase silently, his mind turning it over like a coin in his palm. He didn't speak again. Instead, he followed Captain Dunn Smith down from the carriage.
Welch's home sat apart from the city's crowded streets — a detached house behind wrought-iron gates, with a small garden to the front. The road outside was wide enough for four carriages to pass abreast. Gas lamps stood at even intervals along the pavement, their glass cages latticed in black metal. The light they cast was soft, fragmented, like a row of paper lanterns lining a dream. Warmth and cold intertwined in the gathering dusk; light and shadow danced together across the cobbled stones.
They walked through the half-open gate, along a path awash in the amber rays of sunset. The air smelled faintly of flowers and the sharp sweetness of grass. Ahead stood a modest two-storey bungalow — neat, quiet, utterly ordinary.
Yet the instant Klein crossed the threshold, his body stiffened. A chill crept up his spine. He turned sharply, scanning the garden, the roof, the swing by the hedge — anywhere the shadows pooled.
Someone — no, something — was watching.
He felt eyes on him from every corner: from the grass, from the walls, from the still air itself. Though the garden lay empty, it felt crowded, suffocatingly so, as if unseen figures pressed around him, whispering from the dark.
"Something's wrong," he blurted, voice tight.
Dunn didn't slow. "Ignore them," he said, calm as a man commenting on the weather.
Since the Nighthawk captain had spoken, Klein forced himself to endure it — that cold prickling of unseen gazes, the maddening sense of being followed by nothing. Step by step, he trailed Dunn to the bungalow's door.
If this goes on any longer, I'll lose my mind…
Just as Dunn lifted his hand to knock, a soft voice drifted from within:
"Come in, gentlemen."
The sound was weightless, like a whisper carried by the wind.
Dunn opened the door. Inside, the chandelier hung unlit above a pair of leather couches facing a marble coffee table. Upon that table burned a single candle, its flame blue. The light spread a cobalt haze across the room, tinting everything — the walls, the curtains, even the air — with an eerie, aquatic glow.
A woman sat on the sofa. She wore a hooded black robe, her cheeks touched with blush, her eyeshadow glimmering pale blue beneath the strange light. Around her wrist hung a silver bracelet, a small white crystal pendant dangling from it.
At first glance, Klein thought, She looks like a caricature of a medium. Then the realization struck him — no, not a caricature. The real thing.
Her emerald eyes flicked to him, studying, unreadable, then shifted back to Dunn. "The original spirits have all vanished," she said softly. "Even Welch and Naya's. All that's left are these little wanderers — but they know nothing."
Spirits… Spirit Medium… So those eyes I felt outside were all… spirits? There were that many of them?
Klein removed his hat and pressed it to his chest, bowing slightly. "Good evening, madam."
Dunn exhaled, frowning. "That complicates things… Daly, this is Klein Moretti. See if you can draw anything from him."
The woman's gaze returned to Klein. Her lips curved faintly. "Please," she said, motioning to a lone armchair, "have a seat."
"Thank you." Klein obeyed, lowering himself onto the chair with exaggerated politeness, though his pulse was hammering.
Whether I survive this, whether my secret stays buried… it all depends on what happens next.
And what made it worse — he had nothing to rely on but luck.
This really sucks, he thought bleakly.
Dunn settled opposite him. Daly reached into a pouch at her waist and withdrew two tiny glass vials. Her eyes glinted as she said, "Don't worry. You're not an enemy. I won't hurt you — unless you'd rather I treat you like one. What I'll use might make you light-headed, maybe even relaxed. It'll loosen you up, let you… indulge in what you're feeling."
Klein blinked, thrown off. That sounded completely wrong…
Across from him, Dunn chuckled. "Don't mind her phrasing. We're not like the priests from the Church of Storms — our ladies can tease a bit. You should understand. Your mother was a devout follower of the Goddess, wasn't she? You and your brother went to Sunday school."
"I understand," Klein said carefully. "Just didn't expect her to be such a… um…" He waved a hand helplessly.
Dunn smirked. "Relax. Daly's harmless. She just enjoys keeping people off balance. She prefers corpses to men, anyway."
"You make me sound terrible," Daly said with a teasing glance.
Uncorking one bottle, she let a few drops fall onto the blue flame. It hissed faintly, exhaling a pale mist.
"Night vanilla, slumber flower, chamomile… distilled together into a floral essence. I call it Amantha — it means tranquility in Hermes. Breathe it in; it's lovely."
As she spoke, the aroma filled the air — cool, sweet, almost hypnotic. Klein felt his tension melting, his thoughts drifting loose, as if he were staring into a calm sea at midnight.
Daly opened the second bottle. "This one's the Eye of the Spirit. Bark and leaves from drago and poplar, dried seven days, boiled thrice, steeped in Lanti wine — with the proper incantations, of course." She tipped it toward the flame. The blue light leapt, and a heady, intoxicating scent spread outward.
Klein's vision wavered. The room swam. Daly's eyes shimmered strangely, her blue makeup glinting in double.
"This helps me commune with the spirit world," she murmured. "It's also… pleasantly bewitching."
Her voice seemed to come from everywhere — close, then distant, circling him like the scent itself. The colors around him deepened: reds richer, blues deeper, shadows swallowing the corners. Whispers rose and fell like waves.
This feels like that luck ritual I did before… just without the headache…
Through the haze, he saw her — Daly, seated on her sofa, her gaze fixed on him, green eyes luminous in the dark. "Let me properly introduce myself," she said, smiling. "I am the Spirit Medium, Daly."
Klein's thoughts swirled but held. He managed to murmur, "Hello…"
"The human mind is vast," Daly's voice echoed, "like an ocean. What we know of ourselves — our memories, our consciousness — are only the islands that break the surface. Beneath lies the greater sea, and above it, the boundless sky of the spirit world.
"You are the spirit of your body. You know the islands and the depths below. Even if your surface memories are erased, the ocean beneath remembers. Every event leaves its mark."
Her words wove through him, soft as a lullaby, irresistible. Klein imagined it — a dark sea stretching endlessly, waves glimmering with faint light. His own memories lay scattered like shells on the seabed.
He let his expression twist, his voice tremble. "No… I can't remember… I've forgotten…"
Daly tried again, guiding him deeper, but Klein held firm. His mind stayed clear beneath the fog.
At last, her tone softened. "Enough. You may leave."
The fog thinned. The murmurs faded. The blue candle dimmed to a steady glow, and the smell of wine and flowers returned — just scent, nothing more.
Klein blinked. He was sitting upright again, hands on his knees. Dunn lounged across from him, and Daly was calmly stoppering her bottles.
"Why do you use the theories of those lunatics — the Psychology Alchemists?" Dunn asked quietly.
"They may be mad," Daly replied, "but they're not wrong. Their theories explain what I see."
Before he could answer, she sighed. "Our culprit left no trace at all."
Klein exhaled too — a long, careful breath. He forced a smile. "Oh, it's over already? Felt like I just… took a nap."
That was a pass, right?
Thank the Goddess I practiced with that ritual beforehand.
"Take it that way," Dunn said dryly. Then, turning to Daly: "You examined Welch and Naya's bodies?"
"Yes. The corpses speak more clearly than the living, sometimes. But they truly did kill themselves. Whatever drove them to it erased every trace afterward."
She stood, gesturing to the candle. "I need rest."
The cobalt light winked out, and the room slipped into a dim, reddish gloom.
†
"Congratulations," Dunn said as they stepped outside. "You can go home. But remember — tell no one about what happened. Promise me that."
Klein nodded. "Of course." Then, hesitating, "Shouldn't we… check for curses? Or lingering spirits?"
"If Daly didn't mention any, there's nothing to check," Dunn replied simply.
Klein fell silent, uneasy. "Then… how can I be sure I won't have problems later?"
"No worries." Dunn's tone was casual. "Statistically, about eighty percent of survivors experience no aftereffects. That's… roughly speaking."
Klein's expression froze. "And the other twenty percent?"
"Well," Dunn said, strolling toward the carriage, "you could join us as a civilian aide. That way, if anything happens, we'll notice. Or," he added with a faint grin, "you could just become a Beyonder. We're not babysitters, after all."
Klein blinked. "I can… become one?"
Dunn paused halfway into the carriage and looked back. "Not impossible. Depends."
"Really?" Klein asked, stunned. Who are you kidding?
Dunn chuckled, his gray eyes dim under the carriage's shadow. "You don't believe me, huh? Truth is, when you become a Nighthawk, you give up a lot — starting with freedom.
"And even if that doesn't deter you, there's another problem. You're not clergy or a devout believer. You don't get to choose your path."
He stepped up fully, resting one hand on the doorframe. "And one more thing. Of all the cases handled each year by us, the Mandated Punishers, the Machinery Hivemind, and the rest — a full quarter are caused by Beyonders who lost control."
Klein froze.
Dunn turned slightly, eyes like twin storms in gray. "And among those cases," he said quietly, "many of the culprits were our own."