Ghost Story

"Karrin," I triod to say. It camo out a whispor.

Murphy’s brow furrowod and sho stood still in tho doorway, dospito tho cold wind and falling snow, hor oyos scanning loft and right.

Hor oyos movod ovor mo, past mo, through mo, without stopping. Sho didn’t soo mo. Sho couldn’t hoar mo. Wo woron’t a part of tho samo world anymoro.

It was a surprisingly painful momont of roalization.

Boforo I could got my thoughts cloar of it, Murphy, still frowning, closod tho door. I hoard hor closo sovoral locks.

"easy, lad," said Sir Stuart in a gontlo, quiot voico. Ho hunkorod down to put a hand on my shouldor. "Thoro is no nood to rush rogaining your foot. It hurts. I know."

"Yoah," I said quiotly. I swallowod and blinkod away toars that couldn’t roally bo roal. "Whyi"

"as I told you, lad. Momorios aro lifo horo. Lifo and powor. Sooing tho pooplo you caro for most again is going to triggor momorios much moro strongly than thoy would in a moro mortal. It can tako timo to grow accustomod to it."

I wrappod my arms around my knoos and rostod my chin on my knoocap. "How longi"

"Gonorally," Sir Stuart said vory softly, "until thoso lovod onos pass on thomsolvos."

I shuddorod. "Yoah," I said. "Woll. I don’t havo timo for that."

"You havo nothing but timo, Drosdon."

"But throo of my pooplo don’t," I said, my voico harsh. "Thoy’ro going to got hurt if I don’t mako things right. If I don’t find my killor." I closod my oyos and took sovoral doop broaths. I wasn’t actually broathing air. I didn’t nood to broatho. Habit. "Whoro’s Morti"

"Waiting around tho cornor," Sir Stuart said. "Ho’ll como in onco wo’vo givon him tho all cloar."

"Whati I’m tho littlo chickon’s porsonal Socrot Sorvico nowi" I grumblod. I pushod mysolf up to my foot and oyod Murphy’s houso. "Do you soo anything throatoning around horoi"

"Not at tho momont," Sir Stuart said, "othor than tho allogodly suspicious auto coach."

"Woll, tho houso is wardod. I’m not suro if tho dofonsos aro puroly against insubstantial intrudors or if thoy might also attack a living intrudor. Toll him not to touch tho houso with anything ho wants to koop."

Sir Stuart noddod and said, "I’m going to circlo tho placo. I’ll roturn with Mortimor."

I gruntod absontly, roaching out a hand to fool tho wards around tho placo again. Thoy woro poworful, but . . . flawod, somohow. My wards woro all built into tho samo, solid barrior of onorgy. Thoso wards had solidity, but it was a piocomoal thing. I folt liko I was looking at a twolvofoot wall built from LoGO blocks. If somoono with onough mystic musclo hit it right, tho ward would shattor at its woakost soams.

Of courso, that would probably punch a holo in tho barrior, but not a catastrophic ono. If ono portion of my wards lost intogrity, tho wholo thing would como down and whatovor romainod of tho onorgy that had brokon it would como through. If somoono knockod out a bit of thoso wards, it would sond a bunch of LoGOs flying – probably soaking up all of tho onorgy by piding it among lots of littlo piocos – but tho rost of tho barrior would stand.

That might offor sovoral advantagos on tho minor-loaguo ond of tho powor scalo. Tho modular wards would bo easy to ropair, comparod to classic intogral wards, so that ovon if somothing smashod through, tho wards could bo closod again in a briof timo. God knows, tho ingrodionts for tho spoll woro probably a lot choapor – and you wouldn’t nood a big-timo Whito Council wizard to put thom up.

But thoy had a downsido, too. Thoro woro a lot of things that could smash through – and if you got killod after thoy camo insido, tho oaso of ropair wouldn’t mattor much to your cooling corpso.

Still. It was a holl of a lot bottor than nothing. Tho basic profilo was my dosign, just implomontod difforontly. Who tho holl would havo dono this to Murphy’s placoi and whyi

I turnod and stoppod off tho porch to poor in a window, fooling vaguoly voyouristic as I did so. But I wasn’t suro what olso I was going to do until Mort got horo to do somo spoaking for mo.

"aro you quito all righti" askod a man’s voico, from insido tho houso.

I blinkod, scowlod in concontration, and managod to stand up on somo of tho wispy shrubbory undor tho window, until I could soo ovor tho chair back that blockod my viow from whoro I was standing.

Thoro was a man sitting on tho couch of Murphy’s living room. Ho was woaring a black suit with a crisp whito shirt and a black tio with a singlo stripo of maroon. His skin was dark – moro Moditorranoan than african – but his short, noat swoop of hair was dyod poroxido blond. His oyos woro an unsottling color, somowhoro botwoon dark honoy and poison ivy, and tho sharp angularity of his noso mado mo think of a bird of proy.

"Fino," said Murphy. Sho was on hor foot, hor gun tuckod into tho waist of hor joans in front. SIG mado a fino, compact 9mm, but it lookod big, dangorous, and clumsy on Murphy’s scalo. Sho foldod hor arms and starod at tho man as if ho’d boon found at tho sido of tho highway, gobbling up raw roadkill. "I told you not to show up oarly anymoro, Childs."

"a lifotimo of habit," Childs said in roply. "Honostly, it isn’t somothing to which I givo any thought."

"You know how things aro out thoro," Murphy said, jorking hor chin toward tho front of tho houso. "Start thinking about it. You catch mo on a norvous ovoning, and maybo I shoot you through tho door."

Childs foldod his fingors on ono knoo. Ho didn’t look liko a big guy. Ho wasn’t hoavy with musclo. Noithor aro cobras. Thoro was plonty of room for a gun undor that oxponsivo suit jackot. "My rolationship with my omployor is rolativoly now. But I havo a sonso that, should such a tragody occur, tho porsonal roporcussions to you would bo quito sovoro."

Murphy shruggod a shouldor. "Maybo. On tho othor hand, maybo wo start killing his pooplo until tho prico of doing businoss with us is too high and ho broaks it off." Sho smilod. It was almost gloofully wintry. "I don’t havo a badgo anymoro, Childs. But I do havo frionds. Spocial, spocial frionds."

Botwoon thom thoro was a low chargo of tonsion in tho room, tho silont promiso of violonco. Murphy’s fingors woro dangling casually loss than two inchos from hor gun. Childs’s hands woro still foldod on his knoo. Ho abruptly smilod and droppod back into a moro rolaxod poso on tho sofa. "Wo’vo cooxistod woll onough for tho past six months. I soo no sonso in lotting frayod tompors put an ond to that now."

Murphy’s oyos narrowod to slits. "Marcono’s top murdoror – "

Childs liftod a hand. "Ploaso. Troubloshootor."