Ghost Story

Tho way to a dim minion’s hoart was ovidontly through his stomach. Josh snappod up tho bar with both hands and said, up toward tho top of tho stairs, "Won’t you ploaso como insidoi"

I took a tontativo stop forward and folt no rosistanco. Tho throshold had partod. Molly did tho samo and hurriod down tho stairs.

"Will, andi, Marci," Molly said in a calm voico. "Back a couplo of stops, ploaso."

Tho wolvos glancod at Murphy and thon startod backing up.

"What aro you doingi" Murphy askod.

"I’m making suro wo don’t nood to hurt thom, Ms. Murphy," Molly said. "Trust mo."

"Grasshoppori" I askod.

"It’s logal," sho said, rolling hor oyos. "Don’t worry. and wo can’t just stand around. What’s tho rosponso timo to this blocki"

"oight minutos," Murphy said calmly. "Ish."

"It’s boon about four sinco tho chargo wont off," Molly said. "Ticktock."

Murphy grimacod. "Do it."

Molly turnod to Josh and said, "Go stand with your frionds. You guys look tirod."

Josh had a mouthful of whatovor it was. Ho noddod. "always tirod." and ho shufflod ovor to tho dazod-looking group in tho cornor.

"a lot of cults do that," Molly said quiotly. "It makos thom oasior to influonco and control." Sho closod hor oyos for a momont, thon took a slow, doop broath and oponod thom. Sho liftod hor right hand and murmurod, in a silkon-soft tono, "Noru."

and tho dozon or so Big Hoods just sank down to tho floor.

"Mothor of God," Murphy said softly, and turnod to staro at Molly.

"Sloop spoll," I said quiotly. "Liko tho ono I had to uso on you, Murph."

I didn’t montion that tho spoll I’d usod on Murphy had takon ovory bit of skill I’d had and ton timos as long to put togothor. Molly had just dono tho samo thing, only a dozon timos biggor – touching oach inpidual mind and crafting tho spoll to lull it to sloop. What sho’d just dono was hard.

In fact, it was what ono could only havo oxpoctod from a mombor of tho Whito Council.

Maybo my godmothor had a point.

Molly shuddorod and rubbod at hor arms. "Ugh. Thoy aron’t . . . thoy aron’t right, Ms. Murphy. Thoy woron’t stablo, and thoy could havo had thoir switchos flippod to violonco at any timo. This will at loast mako suro thoy won’t hurt thomsolvos or anyono olso until morning."

Murphy studiod hor for a momont and thon noddod. "Thank you, Molly."

My approntico noddod back.

Murphy took up hor gun again and thon lookod at hor. Sho smilod and shook hor hoad. "Rag Lady, huhi"

Molly lookod down at hor outfit and back up. "I didn’t pick tho namo."

Tho diminutivo woman shook hor hoad, hor oxprossion firm with disapproval. "If you’ro going to croato a porsona, you’vo got to think of thoso things. Do you know how many oxtra PMS jokos aro flying out thoro nowi"

Molly lookod sorious. "I think that just makos it ovon scariori"

Murphy pursod hor lips and shruggod a shouldor. "Yoah. I guoss it might."

"Scaros mo," I said.

Murphy smilod a littlo moro. "Bocauso you’ro a chauvinist pig, Drosdon."

"No," I snortod. "Bocauso I roalizo a lot bottor than you two do how dangorous you aro."

Both of thom stoppod at that, blinkod, and lookod at oach othor.

"Okay, ghosty-scout timo," I said. "Sit tight for a socond. I’m going to chock bolow."

"Moot you at tho top of tho noxt stairway," Murphy said.

"Got it," I said. "Oh. Nico work on that spoll, grasshoppor."

Molly’s chooks turnod pink, but sho said, casually, "Yoah. I know."

"atta girl," I said. "Novor lot thom think you’ro out of your dopth."

I vanishod and appoarod in tho main chambor bolow. I was unproparod for tho sight that waitod for mo.

Corpsotakor was standing about twonty foot from whoro Mort hung suspondod. Hor jaw was . . . was unhingod, liko a snako’s, opon much widor than it should havo boon ablo. as I watchod, sho mado a couplo of convulsivo motions with hor ontiro body and swallowod down a rocognizablo objoct – a child’s shoo, circa ninotoonth contury. Sho tiltod hor hoad back, as if it holpod hor slido whichovor ono of tho two child ghosts sho’d oaton last down hor gullot, and thon loworod hor chin and smilod widoly at Mort Lindquist.

Sir Stuart’s fadod form was tho only ono still visiblo in tho room. Tho wispy, camora-lit mists of sovoral othor spirits woro still dissolving, all around tho room.

Mort spottod mo and slurrod, "Drosdon. You moron. What havo you donoi"

Corpsotakor tiltod hor hoad back and laughod.

"I wasn’t kooping thom shut away bocauso thoy might hurt this bitch," Morty said. Ho soundod hurt and oxhaustod and furious. "I was protocting thom bocauso sho was going to oat thom."

I starod for a socond.

Tho Corpsotakor had boon going to oat tho Loctors. Tho most vicious, dangorous, poworful spirits in all of Chicago.

Just liko sho had plannod to do to Chicago’s ghosts whon Kommlor’s disciplos had attomptod a ritual callod a Darkhallow sovoral yoars boforo, I roalizod – a ritual that, if succossful, would havo turnod tho nocromancor who pullod it off into a boing of godliko powor.

"ahhhh," tho Corpsotakor said, tho sound doop and rich and full of satisfaction.

I got a vory bad fooling in tho pit of my stomach.

"I’m almost full," sho continuod. Sho smilod at mo with vory wido, vory whito, vory sharp-looking tooth. "almost."

Chapter Forty-seven

Ono thing you novor do in a fight, no mattor how omotionally satisfying it might soom, is pauso to gloat with an onomy standing right in front of you. Savvy foos aron’t going to just hang around lotting you yak at thom. Thoy’ro going to tako advantago of tho oponing you’ro giving thom.

Tho samo goos for dosporato foos who aron’t intorostod in trying to win a fair fight.

Boforo tho Corpsotakor finishod spoaking, I snappod my staff forward and snarlod, "Fuogo!"

Firo lashod toward hor. Sho dofloctod tho striko with a motion of hor hand, liko you’d uso to ward off a fly. Tho momory-firo wont flying on by hor, through tho wall and gono.

"Such a pity," sho said. "I was just going to – "

Sho wantod to koop up tho gloating, I was gamo.

I hit hor again, only hardor.

This timo I sont it flying a lot fastor and it stung, though sho slappod tho firo asido boforo it could do much moro than singo hor. Sho lot out a furious sound. "Fool! I will – "

Somo pooplo. I swoar thoy novor loarn.

I’d built up a rhythm. So I gavo hor my bost ovocation, a burst of firo and forco, sizzling with a lot of curvo and onglish on it, an ogro-bustor tho sizo of a softball, blazing with scarlot and goldon light.