A Den of Tricks (A Shade of Vampire #54)(21)

Candles burned inside, the scent of melted wax and jasmine filling my lungs. The terrace was covered, but we all wore black, as we were about to go into the sunlight for the burial ceremony. My team and I were in our usual black leather suits, with head covers, masks, and goggles ready to be put on once we left the safety of the awnings.

The Imen and Maras had opted for the same type of clothing—black cloaks, which made the crowd look downright eerie. They all held flowers in their arms, waiting patiently for the dozens of Imen and Maras killed in the attack to be carried out in their coffins.

The silence weighed heavy on our shoulders, but there was nothing we could say or do to make this easier. The people were in pain and mourning. Loss could not be reversed.

Caspian and the remaining three Lords came down, accompanied by Vincent, Rewa, Amalia, and the other family members who had survived the explosions. They, too, wore black cloaks and brought flowers with them. Caspian crossed the funeral path and came to stand next to me, his eyes searching my face. Emilian, Farrah, Rowan, Rewa, and the others waited on the other side.

“Did you sleep?” Caspian asked, his voice low. I gave him a brief nod. “You don’t look like you slept.”

Wow. Right before the funeral. Smooth…

“I’m fine,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. I looked away. He stared at me for a while, somewhat confused.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he whispered. “I just think you need more rest.”

“Well, thank you for your concern, Lord Kifo, but I’m fine.”

Music started playing inside, two flutes and two drums, complementing each other in a slow but steady rhythm. It was a song of heartbreak and sadness, trickling out of the funeral home and spreading around. It brought tears to people’s eyes. Rewa was a mess, poor thing, her eyes red and puffy and her skin paler than usual. Vincent had his arm around her, holding her close and comforting her.

The crowd hummed as they all took out metal masks from the folds of their black cloaks—they were simple, made from meranium, with eye holes and molded noses and lips, similar to Venetian masks back on Earth. They all put them on and pulled the hoods over their heads. The music got louder.

The funeral home doors opened wide, and out came two drummers and flute players, followed by four elder Maras, four old Imen, and a string of coffins that seemed never-ending. They all wore black cloaks and meranium masks, spreading flower petals as they walked down the processional path.

I heard murmurs and sobs emerging from the crowd as more caskets were carried out on the shoulders of Imen. My stomach tightened when I allowed my inner sentry to “listen” to the emotions pouring out of the Imen surrounding us—there was so much grief… and angst, and fear.

The last coffin left the funeral home, an elegant black wooden box with gold lace motifs that held Darius. The cleric came out behind it, wearing a white hood and meranium mask and holding a scepter made of gold, with a cavity at the top, in which fragrant incense burned. Ten more Imen in black cloaks followed.

“Do they represent a cult or religion of sorts?” I asked Caspian, watching as the crowd slowly moved onto the path, following the cleric.

He placed his hand on the small of my back and gently nudged me forward. We all joined in and walked behind the string of coffins. We pulled our hoods and masks on, and the direct sunlight washed over us. My body felt warm, but my heart was heavy as I gazed forward at the dozens of lives lost, carried on the grieving shoulders of their brothers, their sisters, their mothers and fathers, while the rest of the city wept.

“There is no religion here,” Caspian replied, “but there are traditions, which have been assigned to the cleric to help us remember and perform. We do not worship anyone or anything, but we honor life and grieve in death. Rituals help us fare better in loss.”

The main road leading toward the base of the mountain was covered in black hooded beings, with wooden coffins stretching in a long line through the middle of the procession. Sunlight glistened on their lacquered surfaces. Birds trilled from trees nearby, almost matching the flutes playing at the front.

We reached the infirmary floor, where Scarlett and Patrik awaited in their GASP uniforms, carrying Minah’s coffin into the procession. They seamlessly blended in as we descended farther down the mountain. I glanced to the left and saw the daemon’s body, wrapped up and burning on a funeral pyre built on the edge of the terrace outside the infirmary.

Rabid orange flames licked at the sky, consuming his flesh and spewing plumes of black smoke.

Several Correction Officers stood on the edge of the road, their heads and faces covered, their hands behind their backs. I could see their eyes through their smoky goggles—there was sadness in them, and anger, as they watched the procession.

Once we made our way down to the base of the mountain, we followed the flowery path all the way to the north side, where the cemetery awaited, several acres’ worth of tombstones for the thousands of years of Azure Heights’ existence. It looked strange but beautiful, with crypts nestled between trees with reddish foliage and white flowers sprinkled across the short, neatly trimmed grass. The caretaker in charge did a wonderful job of keeping the place up.

Rectangular holes had been dug and lined with white flowers. We all gathered around that portion of the cemetery. The Imen’s caskets were lowered into the ground, and the cleric spoke of peace, of love, of the fragility and beauty of life, and of the hope that there is something there, beyond death. The people cried as they bid their farewells, stopping in front of each hole and dropping a flower inside.