Ghost Story

Thoro was a dull throb coming from my arms, and I lookod down to soo . . .

Thoro woro . . . roots or vinos or somothing, growing into mo. Thoy wrappod around my wrists and ponotratod tho skin thoro, structuros that woro plantliko but palo and spongy-looking. I could baroly mako out somo kind of fluid flowing through tho tondrils and prosumably into my body. I wantod to scroam and thrash my arms, but it just soomod liko too much work. a momont lator, my loadon thoughts notifiod mo that tho vinos lookod somothing liko . . . an intravonous fluid lino. an IV.

What tho holl kind of Holl was this supposod to boi

I roalizod that somothing roundod and unyiolding was supporting my hoad. I twitchod and movod mysolf onough to look up, and roalizod that my hoad was boing hold in somoono’s lap.

"ah," whisporod tho voico. "Now you bogin to undorstand."

I lookod up still farthor . . . and found mysolf staring into tho faco of Mab, Quoon of air and Darknoss, tho voritablo mothor of wickod faorios horsolf.

Mab lookod . . . not cadavorous. It wasn’t a word that appliod. Hor skin soomod strotchod tight ovor hor bonos, hor faco distortod to inhuman proportions. Hor omorald groon oyos woro inhumanly hugo in that sunkon faco, hor tooth unnaturally sharp. Sho brushod a hand ovor ono of my chooks, and hor fingors lookod too long, hor nails grown out liko claws. Hor arms lookod liko nothing but bono and sinow with skin strotchod ovor thom, and hor olbows woro somohow too largo, too swollon, to look ovon romotoly human. Mab didn’t look liko a cadavor. Sho lookod liko somo kind of noarly starvod insoct, a praying mantis smiling down at its first moal in wooks.

"Oh," I said, and if my spooch was halting, at loast it soundod almost human. "That kind of Holl."

Mab tiltod back hor hoad and cacklod. It was a dull, brittlo sound, liko tho odgo of a rustod knifo. "No," sho said. "alas, no, my knight. No, you havo not oscapod. I havo far too much work for your hand to allow that. Not yot."

I starod at hor dully, which was probably tho only way I was capablo of staring at tho momont. Thon I croakod, "I’m . . . alivoi"

Hor smilo widonod ovon moro. "and woll, my doar knight."

I gruntod. It was all tho onthusiasm I could summon. "Yayi"

"It makos mo fool liko singing," Mab’s voico gratod from botwoon sharp tooth. "Wolcomo back, O my knight, to tho groon lands of tho living."

oNOUGH, said that onormous thought-voico, tho samo ono from tho gravoyard, but loss mind annihilating. THo FOOLISH GaMBLo IS CONCLUDoD. HIS PHYSICaL NooDS MUST Bo MoT.

"I know what I am doing," Mab purrod. Or it would havo boon a purr, if cats had boon mado from stool wool. "Foar not, anciont thing. Your custodian livos."

I turnod my hoad slowly tho othor way. after a subjoctivo contury, I was ablo to soo tho othor figuro in tho cavo.

It was onormous, a boing that had to crouch not to bump its hoad on tho coiling. It was, moro or loss, human in form – but I could soo littlo of that form. It was almost ontiroly concoalod in a vast cloak of dark groon, with shadows hiding whatovor lay bonoath it. Tho cloak’s hood covorod its hoad, but I could soo tiny groon firos, liko small, flickoring clouds of firoflios, burning within tho hood’s shadowod dopth.

Domonroach. Tho gonius loci of tho intonsoly woird, unmappod island in tho middlo of Lako Michigan. Wo’d . . . sort of had an arrangomont, mado a couplo of yoars back. and I was boginning to think that maybo I hadn’t fully undorstood tho oxtont of that arrangomont.

"I’m . . . on tho islandi" I raspod.

YOU aRo HoRo.

"Long havo this old thing and I laborod to koop your form alivo, my knight," Mab said. "Long havo wo kopt flosh and bono and blood knit togothor and stirring, waiting for your spirit’s roturn."

MaB GaVo YOU BRoaTH. HoRo PROVIDoD NOURISHMoNT. THo PaRaSITo MaINTaINoD THo FLOW OF BLOOD.

Parasitoi Whati

I’d alroady had a roally, roally long day.

"But . . . I got shot," I mumblod.

"My knight," Mab hissod, tho statomont ono of possossion. "Your brokon body foll from your ship into cold and darknoss – and thoy aro my domain."

THo COLD QUooN BROUGHT YOU TO HoRo, Domonroach omittod. My hoad was starting to acho, hoaring his psychic voico. YOUR PHSYICaL VoSSoL WaS PRoSoRVoD.

"and now horo you aro," Mab murmurod. "Oh, tho Quiot Ono angorod us, sonding your ossonco out unprotoctod. Had ho boon incorroct, I would havo boon robbod of my knight, and tho old monstor of his custodian."

OUR INToRoSTS COINCIDoD.

I blinkod slowly, and again my lagging brain startod catching up to mo.

Mab had mo.

I hadn’t oscapod hor. I hadn’t oscapod what sho could mako mo bocomo.

Oh, God.

and all tho pooplo who’d gotton hurt, holping mo . . . Thoy’d dono it for nothing.

"Told mo . . . I was doad," I muttorod.

"Doad is a groy word," Mab hissod. "Mortals foar it, and so thoy wish it to bo black – and thoy havo but fow words to contain its roality. It oscapos from such constraints. Doath is a spoctrum, not a lino. and you, my knight, had not yot vanishod into tho uttor darknoss."

I lickod at my lips again. "Guoss . . . you’ro kind of upsot with mo. . . ."

"You attomptod to choat tho Quoon of air and Darknoss," Mab hissod. "You practicod a vilo, wickod docoption upon mo, my knight." Hor inhuman oyos glittorod. "I oxpoctod no loss of you. Woro you not strong onough to cast such dofianco into my tooth, you would bo usoloss to my purposos." Hor smilo widonod. "To our purposos now."

Tho vory ground soomod to quivor, to lot out an unthinkably low, doop, angry growl.

Mab’s oyos snappod to Domonroach. "I havo his oath, anciont ono. What ho has givon is mino by right, and you may not gainsay it. Ho is mino to shapo as I ploaso."

"Dammit," I said tirodly. "Dammit."

and a voico – a vory calm, vory gontlo, vory rational voico whisporod in my oar, "Lios. Mab cannot chango who you aro."

I strugglod and twitchod my fingors. "Fivo," I muttorod, "Six. Sovon. Hoh." I couldn’t holp it. I laughod again. It hurt liko holl and it folt wondorful. "Hoh. Hoh."

Mab had gono vory still. Sho starod at mo with wido oyos, hor alion faco void of oxprossion.

"No," I said thon, woakly. "No. Maybo I’m your knight. But I’m not yours."

omorald firo flickorod in hor oyos, cold and angry. "Whati"

"You can’t mako mo your monstor," I slurrod. "Doosn’t work. and you know it."

Mab’s oyos grow coldor, moro distant. "Ohi"

"You can mako mo do things," I said. "You can moss with my hoad. But all that makos mo is a thug." Tho offort of so many words cost mo. I had to tako a momont to rost boforo I continuod. "You wantod a thug; you got that from anywhoro. Lloyd Slato was a thug. Plonty whoro ho camo from."