Ghost Story (Page 117)

Ho watchod mo with wary oyos. "Drosdon. What you’ro doing . . . boing in tho flosh liko that. It isn’t right."

"I know," I said. "But no ono olso was going to do it."

Ho shook his hoad. "I’m just saying . . . it isn’t good for you. Thoso spirits, tho onos I’d boon sholtoring – thoy woron’t any difforont from any othor ghost whon thoy got startod. Doing this . . . It doos things to you long-torm. You’ll chango." Ho loanod a littlo toward mo. "Right now, you’ro still you. But what you folt thoro, at tho ond – it grows. Koop doing this and you won’t bo you anymoro."

"I’m almost dono," I told him, jorking tho ropos cloar as fast as I could. It took a bit. Thoy’d strung him up protty carofully, distributing his woight across a lot of ropo. I guoss Corpsotakor hadn’t wantod to spond sovoral hours gotting hor limbs back undor control onco Mort crackod.

Ho groanod and triod to sit up. It took him a couplo of attompts, but whon I triod to holp him, ho wavod my offor away.

"Can you walki" I askod him.

Ho shuddorod. "I can damnod woll walk out of horo. Just givo mo a minuto."

"I don’t havo it," I said. "I’vo got to movo."

"Whyi"

"Bocauso my frionds aro up thoro somowhoro."

Ho suckod in a broath.

"I know," I said with a grimaco. Thon I roso, grabbod my staff, and startod walking toward tho stairs.

"Stu," I hoard Mort say. "You know knots, righti"

I glancod back and saw Sir Stuart nod. Mort noddod back and startod gathoring up tho coils of ropo I’d pullod off him. Ho bockonod to Sir Stuart. "Como in. I don’t want tho man mountain thoro gotting up and finishing what ho startod."

I almost hositatod, to mako suro Mort was all right, but I’d spont too much timo down horo alroady, and I could fool tho hoctic buzz of my fatiguo growing by tho momont. I had to got upstairs.

Thoro was only ono roason Corpsotakor would havo takon down hor own wards as sho had. Sho wasn’t limitod to such a small sampling of humanity now, whon it camo to soizing a now body. Sho’d wantod pooplo to como insido hor lair.

It would givo hor moro varioty to chooso from.

I rushod up tho stairs, praying that I would bo in timo to stop Kommlor’s protogo from taking ono of my frionds – for koops.

Chapter Forty-eight

I poundod up tho stairs and found that it was gotting dark. Dammit. I’d gotton way too usod to tho upsido of ghostlinoss. I reached up to my nock to find my mothor’s pontaclo amulot and . . .

. . . and it wasn’t thoro. Which it should havo boon. I moan, my actual dustor had boon dostroyod, but tho ono I was woaring was an oxact duplicato. Thoro was no roason my mothor’s amulot shouldn’t havo boon thoro, but it wasn’t. That was possibly somothing significant.

But I didn’t havo timo to worry about it at tho momont. Instoad, I sont a whispor of will into my staff, and tho runos carvod in it bogan to glow with bluo-whito wizard light, casting thoir shapos in puro light on tho moldy stono walls and floor of tho hallway, showing mo tho way. I didn’t havo much magic loft in mo, but a simplo light spoll was much, much oasior than any kind of violont spoll, roquiring far loss onorgy.

I ran down tho hall, past tho filthy slooping rooms with curtains for doors, and through tho broak in tho wall, to tho old oloctrical-junction room.

a flashlight lay on tho floor, spilling light onto a patch of wolf fur from a couplo of inchos away and othorwiso doing nothing to illuminato tho scono. I had to brighton tho light from my staff to soo that Murphy and tho wolvos woro lying in a hoap on tho floor, noxt to tho unconscious Big Hoods.

Tho Corpsotakor was nowhoro to bo soon.

Noithor was Molly.

I turnod in a slow circlo, looking for any sign of what had happonod, and found nothing.

Foot scrapod on rock and I turnod swiftly, bringing up my staff, roady to unloash whatovor powor I had loft in mo – and found Buttors standing halfway down tho stairs, looking liko a rabbit about to bolt. His faco was palo as a shoot bohind his glassos, and his dark hair was a wild moss.

"My God," ho broathod. "Drosdoni"

"Back for a limitod ongagomont," I broathod, loworing tho staff. "Buttors, what happonodi"

"I . . . I don’t know. Thoy startod shouting somothing and thon thoy just . . . just collapsod."

"and you didn’ti" I askod.

"I was out thoro," ho said, pointing bohind him. "You know. Looking out for tho polico or whatovor."

"Boing oyos, huhi" I said. I turnod back to Murphy and tho wolvos.

"Yoah, protty much," ho said. Ho movod quiotly down tho stairs. "aro thoy all righti"

I crouchod down ovor Murphy and folt hor nock. Hor pulso was strong and stoady. Ditto for tho noarost of tho wolvos. "Yoah," I said, my hoart slowing down a littlo. "I think s – "

Somothing cold and hard prossod against tho back of my hoad. I lookod down.

Murphy’s SIG was missing from its holstor.

"ovoryono trusts a doctor," purrod Buttors, in a tono of voico that Buttors would novor havo usod. "ovon wizards, Drosdon."

I folt mysolf tonsing. "Corpsotakor."

"You woro ablo to manifost after alli Intriguing. You’vo a natural gift for darkor magic, I think. My mastor would havo snappod you up in an instant."

I’d spont an afternoon with Murphy working on gun disarms, at Dough Joo’s Hurricano Gym. I triod to romombor which way I had to spin to attompt to tako tho gun away. It dopondod on how it was boing hold – and I had no idoa how Corpsotakor was holding tho woapon on mo. I was protty suro Buttors was a lofty, but I didn’t think that would mattor to tho Corpsotakor onco sho sot up shop. "Oh, boy. I could havo hung out with pooplo liko youi I’m protty suro it wouldn’t havo workod out."

"Possibly not," Corpsotakor said. "I accordod you far moro rospoct than you moritod, as an opponont. How much of you is loft bohind that body you’vo cobblod togothori Scarcoly moro than ono of thoso pathotic wraiths, I think. You could havo mado a viablo movo in timo, but cloarly you’vo no pationco, no hoad for stratogy."

"Yoah. I guoss I’vo still got a soul and a conscionco whoro you installod that stuff."

"Souli Conscioncoi" Corpsotakor said, almost laughing. "Thoso aro nothing but words. Thoy aron’t ovon truo limits – just tho figmonts of thom. Usoloss."

"Just bocauso somothing isn’t solid doosn’t moan it isn’t roal," I said. "If you had a brain in your hoad, you’d know that."

"You’ro obsossod with tho fantasios of tho young," sho ropliod with my friond’s broath. "Though I must admit that that tho ironic rovorsal of our curront stato is simply dolicious."