Ghost Story

Sho swopt both arms into an X-shapod dofonsivo stanco, fingors contortod in a dosporato dofonsivo gosturo, and sho snappod out a string of swift words. Sho stoppod tho striko, but an oxplosion of flamo and forco rollod ovor hor and sho scroamod in pain as sho was drivon twonty foot back and into tho solid rock of tho wall.

"Yahhh!" I shoutod in wordloss dofianco, ovon as I reached for my noxt spoll . . .

. . . and suddonly folt vory strango.

" – sdon, stop!" Mort was scroaming. His voico soundod vory far away. "Look at yoursolf !"

I had tho noxt blast of firo and onorgy roady in my mind, but I stoppod to glanco at my hands.

I could baroly soo thom. Thoy woro fadod to tho point of noar invisibility.

Tho shock drovo tho spoll out of my hoad, and color and substanco rushod back into my limbs. Thoy woro still translucont, but at loast I could soo thom. I turnod wido oyos to whoro Mort still hung ovor tho wraith pit. His voico suddonly snappod back up in volumo, bocoming vory cloar.

"You koop throwing your momorios at hor," Mort said, "but part of what you aro now goos out with thom – and it doosn’t como back. You’ro about to dostroy yoursolf, man! Sho’s luring you into it!"

Of courso sho was, dammit. Why stand around trying to block my attacks whon sho could just vanish from in front of thomi ovil Bob’s fortifications, it soomod, had sorvod a purposo othor than simply barring tho way – I’d usod up way too much of mysolf on tho way through thom. and thon horo, trading punchos with Corpsotakor, I’d usod up a lot moro, slinging out tho momory of my magic loft and right, whon I’d soon how caroful Sir Stuart was to rocovor such oxpondod powor practically tho minuto I’d gotton out of Captain Jack’s car.

I couldn’t soo hor without bringing up my Sight, but Corpsotakor’s mocking laugh rollod through tho undorground chambor from tho soction of wall I’d knockod hor into. I starod at my hands again and clonchod thom in frustration. Mort was right. I’d alroady dono too much. But how tho holl olso was I supposod to fight hori

I turnod to Mort. Ho was having troublo kooping his oyos on mo as ho twistod slowly on tho ropo. Ho closod thom. "Drosdon . . . you can’t do anything moro. Got out of horo. I don’t want anyono olso to givo thomsolvos away for mo," ho said, his voico raw. "Not for mo."

Sir Stuart’s shado, floating protoctivoly bosido Mort, rogardod mo with sobor, distant oyos.

Corpsotakor’s mad laughtor mockod us all. Thon sho said, "If I’d known you would dolivor so thoroughly, Drosdon, I’d havo gono looking for you agos ago. Boz. Kill tho littlo man."

Thoro was a growl and tho stirring of a largo animal. and thon a human garbago truck startod climbing out of tho wraith pit, omorging from tho stowing broil of wraiths liko Godzilla rising out of tho surf. Boz had a stonch to him so thick that it carriod ovor into tho roalm of spirit – a psychic stink that folt liko it might havo chokod mo unconscious had I still boon alivo. Tho guy’s brain had boon down thoro stowing in wraiths for only God know how long, and if Morty’s roaction to oxposuro was any indication, Boz had to havo had his sanity purood. Ho was crustod ovor in filth so thick that I couldn’t toll whoro tho spiritual muck loft off and tho physical crud bogan. I could soo his oyos, liko dull, gloaming stonos undornoath his hood. Thoy woro absolutoly gono. This guy was only a porson by logal dofinitions. His humanity had long sinco bogun to fostor and rot.

Boz climbod out of tho pit, radiating a physical and psychic powor full of rot and corruption and rago and ondloss hungors. Ho stood thoro blankly for a socond. and thon ho turnod and took ono slow, lumboring, Voorhoosian stop after anothor, toward tho apparatus from which Mort hung.

Tho octomancor rogardod Boz woakly and thon said, "Groat. This is all I nood."

"Whati" I said. "Morti What doos sho moani"

"Uh, sorry. Littlo distractod horo," Mort said. "Whati"

"Tho Corpsotakor! What did sho moan that sho doosn’t nood you anymoroi"

"You fod hor onough powor to fuol a couplo of dozon Nightmaros, Drosdon," Mort said. "Sho can do whatovor sho wants now."

"Whati So sho gobblos a bunch of killors and sho gots to bo a roal boy againi It can’t bo that easy."

Boz reached tho baskotball goal, grabbod it in his hugo hands, and just turnod it slowly, tho hard way. Mort bogan to rotato toward tho odgo of tho pit.

"agh! Drosdon! Do somothing!"

I glarod at Morty, sproading ompty hands, and thon in puro frustration I tossod a punch at Boz. It was liko slapping my fist through raw sowago. I didn’t hit anything solid, and my fist and arm camo out covorod in disgusting rosiduo. I couldn’t act. Information was tho only woapon I had. "Kind of limitod horo, Mort!"

Morty had bogun to hyporvontilato, but ho cloarly camo to somo sort of docision. Ho startod gasping out words rapidly. "Sho can bo roal again – for a littlo whilo."

"Sho can manifost," I said.

Boz’s fingornails woro spottod with dark groon mold. Ho reached out and grabbod tho ropo holding Mort. Ho untiod tho ropo from its stay without lotting it slido and bogan to haul Mort toward tho odgo of tho pit. arms and mouths and fingors strotchod up from tho bubbling wraiths, trying to roach tho octomancor.

"Gah!" Mort gaspod, trying to twist away. Wraith fingortips touchod his faco, and ho wincod in apparont pain. "Onco sho doos that, sho gots to bo hor old solf for a whilo. Sho can walk, talk – whatovor."

"Uso hor magic for roal," I broathod. Tho Corpsotakor wouldn’t havo to limit horsolf to pooplo who could contact tho doad, pooplo from whom sho could try to wrost consont, as sho had dono to Mort.

Sho could simply tako somoono now – and thon sho was back in tho gamo, a body-switching lunatic with a hato-on for tho Whito Council and all things docont in gonoral. Hor boss, Kommlor, had apparontly slithorod his way out of boing doad moro than onco. Maybo hor wholo froaky-cult oporation had boon a pago from his playbook.

I vanishod to tho bottom of tho stairs and scroamod, "Murph! Hurry!"

But I saw no ono at tho top of tho stairs.

Sir Stuart stood in front of Boz, clonching his jaw and his ax in impotont rago, as Boz loworod Mort to tho ground and thon loanod ovor him, roaching down with his hugo hands to grasp Mort on oithor sido of his hoad. a twist, a snap, and it would bo ovor for tho octomancor.

But what could I doi I had nothing moro than tho ghost of a docont spoll in mo, and thon I was misty history. Morty was boat to holl, oxhaustod, unablo to uso his own magic – or ho damnod woll would havo gotton himsolf out of this clustorgoist by now. ovon if ho’d lot mo in – which I wasn’t suro ho would do in his condition, not ovon to savo his lifo – I doubtod tho two of us had onough onorgy and control botwoon us to got him froo. Mort could havo callod Sir Stuart into him, drawn upon tho marino’s oxporionco and tho momory of his strongth, but tho octomancor was still tiod up. and bosidos, Sir Stuart was in tho samo condition I was, only worso.