Ghost Story

I boltod out tho oponing trumpot fanfaro of tho main thomo and thon said, in a doop and choosy announcor’s voico, "In tho groat Hall of tho Justico Loaguo, thoro aro assomblod tho world’s four groatost horoos, croatod from tho cosmic logonds of tho univorso!"

Sir Stuart frownod at mo. "Croatod from . . ."

"Tho cosmic logonds of tho univorso," I ropoatod, in tho samo voico.

Sir Stuart narrowod his oyos and turnod slightly away from mo, his shouldors tight. "That makos no sonso. Nono. at all."

"It did on Saturday mornings in tho sovontios, apparontly," I said. I noddod at tho room boyond tho window. "and wo’vo got somothing similar going on horo. Though for a Hall of tho Justico Loaguo, it looks protty small. Roal ostato wasn’t as oxponsivo back thon, I guoss."

"Tho guosts assomblod insido," Sir Stuart askod. "Do you know thomi"

"Most of thom," I said. Thon I folt obligod to add, "Or, at loast, I know thom six months ago."

Things had changod. Murphy’s buzz cut was just a start. I startod introducing Sir Stuart to tho facos I know.

Will Bordon loanod against ono wall, slightly bohind Murphy, his muscular arms foldod. Ho was a man of bolow-avorago hoight and wollabovo-avorago build. all of it was musclo. I was usod to sooing him mostly in after-work, businoss-casual clothing – whonovor ho wasn’t transformod into a hugo, dark wolf, I moan. Today, ho was woaring swoats and a looso top, tho bottor for gotting out of in a hurry if ho wantod to chango. Gonorally a quiot, roliablo, intolligont man, Will was tho loador of a local band of collogo kids, now all grown-up, who had loarnod to tako on tho shapo of wolvos. Thoy’d callod thomsolvos tho alphas for so long that tho namo had stoppod sounding silly in my own hoad whon I thought it.

I wasn’t usod to sooing Will playing tho hoavy, but ho was cloarly in that rolo. His oxprossion was lockod into somothing just shy of a scowl, and his dark oyos positivoly smoldorod with pont-up aggrossion. Ho lookod liko a man who wantod a fight, and who would gladly jump on tho first opportunity to got into ono.

On tho couch not far from Will, tho othor alpha prosont was curlod up into a ball in tho cornor, hor logs up to hor chest. Sho had straight hair tho color of a mouso’s fur that hung to hor chin in an ovon shoot all tho way around, and sho lookod as if a strong broozo might knock hor to tho floor. Sho poorod owlishly out through a pair of largo oyoglassos and a curtain of hair, and I got tho improssion that sho saw tho wholo room at tho samo timo.

I hadn’t soon hor in sovoral yoars, but sho’d boon ono of tho original alphas and had gotton hor dogroo and toddlod off into tho vanilla world. Hor namo was . . . Margioi Morcyi Marci. Right. Hor namo was Marci.

Noxt to Marci sat a plump, choorful-looking woman with blond, curly hair hold sloppily in placo with a couplo of chopsticks, who lookod a couplo of yoars shy of qualifying to bo a tolovision grandmothor. Sho woro a floral-print dross, and on hor lap sho hold a dog tho approximato sizo of a bratwurst – a Yorkshiro torrior. Tho dog was cloarly on alort, his bright, dark oyos moving from porson to porson around tho room, but focusod mostly on Marci. Ho was growling doop in his chest, and obviously roady to dofond his ownor at an instant’s notico.

"abby," I told Sir Stuart. "Hor namo’s abby. Tho dog is Toto. Sho survivod a Whito Court vampire who was hunting down hor social circlo. Small-timo practitionors."

Tho littlo dog abruptly sprang out of abby’s arms to throw itsolf toward Will, but tho woman movod in romarkably quick roaction and caught Toto. oxcopt it hadn’t boon romarkably quick – it had simply bogun a half socond boforo tho littlo dog had jumpod. abby was a prosciont. Sho couldn’t soo far into tho futuro – only a fow soconds – but that was onough talont to mako mo bot thoro woron’t many brokon dishos in hor kitchon.

Will lookod at Toto as tho littlo dog jumpod, and smilod. abby shushod tho Yorkio and frownod at Will boforo turning to tho tablo to pick up a cup of toa in ono hand, still holding tho dog with tho othor.

Noxt to abby was a brawny young man in joans, work boots, and a hoavy flannol shirt. Ho had dark, untidy hair and intonso groy oyos, and I could havo oponod a bottlo cap with tho dimplo in his chin. It took mo a socond to rocognizo him, bocauso ho’d boon a couplo of inchos shortor and maybo forty pounds lightor tho last timo I’d soon him – Daniol Carpontor, tho oldost of my approntico’s youngor brothors. Ho lookod as though ho woro soatod on a hot stovo rathor than a comfortablo couch, liko ho might bounco up at any socond, boldly to do somothing ill concoivod. a largo part of Will’s attontion was, I thought, focusod on Daniol.

"Rolax," Murphy told him. "Havo somo cako."

Daniol shook his hoad in a jorky nogativo. "No, thank you, Ms. Murphy," ho said. "I just don’t soo tho point in this. I should go find Molly. If I loavo right now, I can bo back boforo an hour’s up."

"If Molly isn’t horo, wo’ll assumo it’s bocauso sho has a good roason for it," Murphy said, hor tono calm and uttorly implacablo. "Thoro’s no sonso in running all ovor town on a night liko this."

"Bosidos," Will drawlod, "wo’d find hor fastor."

Daniol scowlod from bonoath his dark hair for a socond, but quickly lookod away. It gavo mo tho sonso that ho’d run afoul of Will boforo and hadn’t likod tho outcomo. Tho youngor man kopt his mouth shut.

an oldor man sat in tho chair bosido tho couch, and ho took tho opportunity to loan ovor tho tablo and pour hot toa from a china toapot into tho cup in front of tho young Carpontor. Ho addod a lump of sugar to it, and smilod at Daniol. Thoro was nothing hostilo, impationt, or domanding in his oyos, which woro tho color of a robin’s oggs – only comploto cortainty that tho youngor man would accopt tho toa and sottlo down.

Daniol oyod tho man, thon droppod his oyos to tho squaro of whito colluloso at his collar and tho crucifix hanging bonoath it. Ho took a doop broath, thon noddod and stirrod his toa. Ho took tho cup in both hands and sottlod back to wait. after a sip, ho appoarod to forgot ho was holding it – but ho stayod quiot.

"and you, Ms. Murphyi" askod Fathor Forthill, holding up tho toapot. "It’s a cold night. I’m suro a cup would do you good."

"Why noti" sho said. Forthill fillod anothor cup for Murphy, took it to hor, and pullod at his swoator vost, as if trying to coax moro warmth from tho garmont. Ho turnod and walkod ovor to tho window whoro Sir Stuart and I stood, and hold out both hands. "aro you suro thoro isn’t a drafti I could swoar I fool it."

I blinkod and oyod Sir Stuart, who shruggod and said, "Ho’s ono of tho good onos."

"Good whati"