Risen (Haunted Series Book 22)

He gathered her in his arms until the shock of what she had done had worn off.
“I didn’t want to believe it was true,” she said sadly.  “I am an assassin.”
“No, you were wonderful.  What I saw was a trained fighter.  A bit of Victor, a lot of Nicholai.  Ruax underestimated you.”
Altair landed, bringing Sticks with him.
Sticks picked up the sword and handed it back to the angel.
Lucifer released Mia.  He squatted down and moved his hand, lifting the ashes to the wind.  They dispersed in every direction.
The remaining generals jumped into the courtyard, Abigor leading the congratulatory group.  “Mia, there are 40 legions of demons without a general…”
“Not my problem.  I want my stuff back,” she said.  “And then I’d like to return to what’s left of the island.  I have to find Ted.  I have some ’splaining to do.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Altair said.  “I know you’re rubbish when it comes to directions.”
“Mia,” Lucifer said.  “I hope I never have to face you in battle.”
She smiled.  “No offense, but I hope I never see you again.”
“You wound me,” Lucifer said, grabbing his heart.
Sticks brought a large satchel.  Inside were her boots, her sword, knife, and the chainmail gown she wore.  She looked over to where Abigor stood. She nodded her head and said, “Sweet dreams.”

Chapter Seventeen
Murphy was convinced that the sea was leeching away his power.  In truth, he was just seasick.  The gifts of physicality, bestowed on the dead, backfired on those uncomfortable on the waves.
Mother Nature developed the GSD, Ghost Ship Dimension, when her human herd moved from the caves and fields to venture out on the water.  This hidden dimension was developed so the caretakers of the herd could move unseen on the oceans and seas.  Although it only exists where the oceans meet the sky, a few of the tall ships managed to be swallowed whole when there were weaknesses in the veil.   In the GSD, the ships sailed on for an eternity.  The men and women who sailed on them ate, drank, fought, and sometimes died in this realm.  They also had the ability to cross into the world in which they were born for brief moments before returning to their life in the GSD.
Were the original sailors living or dead?  This had been debated at the fires of the sages since the first sightings of the ghostly tall ships.  They lived and died in the GSD, but they were most certainly dead when they crossed over to take on new crew.  When the ship’s crew thinned, the captains of these ships crossed over the veil and collected those that died on the sea, pulling them from their watery graves where the light could not reach them.
It was still possible for new ships to be claimed by the GSD, although most of the crews went mad.  If they couldn’t adjust to their new reality, existing in the GSD became an unending nightmare.
For Stephen Murphy’s first few days, it was debilitating.  His body needed nourishment.  He was served a cornmeal gruel mixed with bacon fat.  The mixture didn’t stay down long.  The water, flavored by the old barrels, he could barely choke down.  The stale taste was too much for a farmer of the Midwest, who remembered the sweet, unpolluted waters from the wells and springs.
The ship’s sympathetic surgeon advised, “A little rum would give you sea legs.”
“I’m not used to the drink,” Murphy confessed.
“Not even in life?” the man asked.
“No, my kind did not drink spirits.”
“And now that you are a spirit, what’s the harm?”
After feeling as if he was going to die of thirst, Murphy opened an eye and crawled out of his straw-stuffed bunk and grabbed the bottle the surgeon left.  He withdrew the cork and took a tentative sip.  It burned.  “Think of it as medicine,” he told himself, taking another drink.  The second drink went down better.
The sound of approaching heavy bootsteps had him in search of his axe.  The door opened and the quartermaster stood there.
“How are you feeling?”
“Bad, but surviving,” Murphy said.
“The Capt’n wants to speak with you.  I brought you some fresh clothes.  It looks like those have seen better days.  You can wash up on deck.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sir.  I like that.  Normally, I have to beat respect into the new ones.  You’ve saved yourself some lashes. Stephen Murphy, you saved yourself a lot of pain.”
“I haven’t felt anything for quite a while.”
“I guess that’s the benefits of having died on land.  Here, we live forever, unless we’re stupid enough to get ourselves killed.”
Murphy couldn’t make sense of what the quartermaster said.  It could be it was nonsense or it was the rum affecting his head.  He took the clean clothes and his axe and headed up on deck to the wash barrel.
Captain Crocker looked up from his charts when the farmer entered.  “Sit.  I will be with you in a moment.  I’m adjusting this chart.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man corrected.
“Yes, Captain,” Murphy repeated and sat down on the cushioned chair by the door.
Crocker blotted the ink on the heavy parchment before rolling it up, tying it with string, and setting it with others in a hollowed-out elephant’s leg.
Murphy’s stomach lurched at the thought of the poor creature that was taken from.  He’d seen such things in Bernard’s museum, but he had put it down to a time when mankind didn’t know any better.
The captain observed his reaction with an interested eye.  “What time do you come from, Stephen Murphy?”
“Most people call me Murphy, Captain.”
“Fine.  Answer my question,” Crocker ordered.
“Post-Civil War, in the United States.”
The Captain took out a scroll, unrolled it, and penned his name in the timeline.  “A little hobby of mine,” Crocker explained.  “I put