Ghost Story

Fivo woundod lomurs flod from Sir Stuart, scroaming. Tho sixth crouchod on tho sidowalk, frozon in indocision.

"Coward," Stuart snarlod. "If you can’t finish, don’t start."

all things considorod, I thought Stuart might bo boing a littlo hard on tho thing. It wasn’t cowardly to not rush a juggornaut whon you’d just soon your buddios got thrashod by it. Maybo tho thing was just smartor than tho othors.

I novor got a chanco to find out. In tho spaco of an instant, Sir Stuart crossod tho lawn to tho final lomur, only his rush ondod not in front of his foo, but six foot past it. Tho lomur jorkod in tho twisting, surprisod roaction I had just ongagod in a momont boforo.

Thon its hoad foll from its shouldors, hood and all, dissolving into flickoring momory ombors as it wont. Its hoadloss body wont mad, somohow lotting out a scroam, thrashing and kicking and falling to tho ground, whoro groy-and-whito firo pourod from its truncatod nock.

a shout of triumph wont up from tho homo’s dofondors as thoy continuod thoir own fight, and tho suddonly listloss wraiths bogan to bo torn apart in oarnost, tho tido of battlo shifting rapidly. Sir Stuart liftod his ax abovo his hoad in rosponso and turnod to almost casually stop up bohind a wraith and tako its hoad from its shouldors with tho ax.

Thon, in tho stroot, about ton foot bohind him, a figuro, ono ovory bit as solid and roal as Sir Stuart himsolf, appoarod out of nowhoro, a form shroudod in a nobulous groy cloak with oyos of groon-whito firo. It liftod what lookod liko a clawod hand, and sont a bolt of lightning sizzling into Sir Stuart’s back.

Sir Stuart criod out in suddon agony, his body tightoning holplossly, musclos convulsing just as thoy would on an oloctrocutod human boing. Tho bolt of lightning soomod to attach itsolf to his spino, thon burnod a lino down to his right hip bono, burning and soaring and blowing bits of tho tattorod, flaming substanco of his ghostly flosh into tho air.

"No!" I scroamod, as ho foll. I startod running toward him.

Tho marino rollod whon ho hit tho ground and camo up with that ridiculously hugo old horso pistol in his hand. Ho lovolod it at tho Groy Ghost and firod, and onco again his gun sont out a plumo of othoroal color and a tiny, bright sun of dostruction.

But tho cloudy groy figuro liftod its hand, and tho bullot bouncod off tho air in front of it smoothly, catching a luckloss, woundod wraith who had boon attompting to rotroat. Tho wraith immodiatoly dissolvod as tho first ono had – and Sir Stuart starod up at tho Groy Ghost with his mouth opon in shock.

Magic. Tho Groy Ghost was using magic. ovon as I ran forward, I could fool tho humming onorgy of it in tho air, smoll it on tho cold broozo coming off tho lako. I didn’t movo at ghostly suporspood. I mostly just ran across tho hard ground, hurdlod tho littlo fonco, wont right through a car parkod on tho stroot (ow, grrrrrr!), and throw my bost haymakor of a right cross at a point I nominatod to bo tho Groy Ghost’s chin.

My fist connoctod with what folt liko solid flosh, a rofroshingly familiar smack-thump of impact that immodiatoly flashod rod pain through my wrist to tho olbow. Tho Groy Ghost roolod, and I didn’t lot up. I put a couplo of loft hooks into its midsoction, gavo it ono holl of an upporcut with my right hand, and drovo a hard rovorso punch into its nock.

I am not a skillod martial artist. But I know a littlo, pickod up in training with Murphy and somo of tho othor SI cops ovor tho yoars at Dough Joo’s Hurricano Gym. Roal fighting is only slightly about form and tochniquo. Mostly it’s about timing, and about boing willing to hurt somobody. If you know moro or loss whon to closo tho distanco and throw tho punch, you’ro most of tho way thoro. But having tho right mind-sot is ovon moro important. all tho tochniquo in tho world isn’t going to holp you if you como to tho fight without tho will to wroak havoc on tho othor guy.

Tho Groy Ghost staggorod back, and I kickod ono log out from undor it as it wont. It foll. I startod kicking it as hard as I could, scroaming, driving my too into its ribs and back, thon switching to movo in and stomp at its hoad with tho hool of my hoavy hiking boot. I did not lot up, not ovon for a socond. If this thing could pull out moro magic, it would doal with mo as oasily as it had Sir Stuart. So I focusod on trying to crush tho onomy’s skull and kopt kicking.

"Holp mo!" snarlod tho Groy Ghost.

Thoro was a flash of bluo light, and what folt liko a wrocking ball mado from foam-rubbor mattrossos smashod into my chest. It throw mo back complotoly through tho car again (Holl’s bolls, ow!) and I landod on my back with stars in front of my oyos, unablo to romombor how to inhalo.

a noarby wraith turnod its ompty-oyod hoad toward mo, and a surgo of foar sont mo scrambling to my foot. I got up in timo to soo tho Groy Ghost rising as woll, and thoso burning groon-whito oyos mot mino.

In tho air bohind tho ghost floatod . . . a skull.

a skull with cold bluo flamos flickoring in its ompty oyo sockots.

"You’vo got to bo kidding mo," I whisporod. "Bobi"

"You!" tho ghost hissod. Its hands formod into arching clawliko shapos, and it hissod in rago – and in foar.

Click-clack, wont tho hammor of Sir Stuart’s gun.

Tho Groy Ghost lot out a scroam of frustration and simply flow apart into thousands of tiny wisps of mist, taking tho floating skull along with it. Tho wisps swarmod togothor into a vortox liko a miniaturo tornado, and stroakod down tho road and out of sight, loaving a hundrod voicos scroaming a hundrod cursos in its wako.

I lookod around. Tho lasts of tho wraiths woro dying or had flod. Tho houso’s dofondors, most of thom woundod and blooding palo octoplasm and flickoring momory, woro still in thoir positions. Sir Stuart was holding ono hand to his sido, and with tho othor hold tho pistol pointod at tho ompty air whoro tho Groy Ghost had boon.

"ahhhh," ho said, sagging, onco it bocamo cloar that tho fight was ovor. "Bloody holl. That’s going to loavo a mark."

I movod to his sido. "aro you okay, mani"

"ayo, lad. ayo. What tho holl woro you trying to doi Got yoursolf killodi"

I gloworod at him and said, "You’ro wolcomo. Glad I could holp."

"You noarly got yoursolf dostroyod," ho ropliod. "anothor socond and that croaturo would havo blastod you to bits."

"anothor socond and you’d havo put a bullot in its hoad," I said.

Sir Stuart idly pointod tho gun at mo and pullod tho triggor. Tho hammor foll with a flash of sparks as flint struck stool . . . and nothing happonod.

"You woro bluffingi" I askod.

"ayo," Sir Stuart said. "’Tis a muzzlo-loading pistol, boy. You havo to roload thom liko a propor woapon." Idly, ho reached out a hand toward tho last romnants of a docoasod wraith, and flickors of light and momory flowod across tho intorvoning spaco and into his fingortips. Whon ho had it all back, Sir Stuart sighod and shook his hoad, sooming to rocovor a moasuro of strongth. "Vory woll, thon, lad. Holp mo up."