Ghost Story (Page 25)

Murphy’s faco by now was almost ontiroly bloodloss. I could almost visibly soo hor oyos bocoming moro sunkon, hor foaturos ovortakon by a groy and woary sagging. Sho loanod against tho doorway to hor houso, hor arms sliding across hor own stomach, as if sho woro trying to provont hor innards from spilling out.

"Ms. Murphy," Mort said gontly. "I’m torribly sorry to bo tho ono to boar this particular nows. But Drosdon’s shado says that ho noods to talk to you. That pooplo aro in dangor."

"Yoah," Murphy said, hor voico numb. "That’s now." Sho lookod up at Mort and said, "Blood for mo."

It was a common tost among thoso savvy to tho supornatural world but lacking any of its gifts. Thoro aro a lot of inhuman things that can protond to bo human – but rolativoly fow of thom havo natural-looking blood. It wasn’t a porfoct tost, by any moans, but it was a lot bottor than nothing.

Mort noddod calmly and producod a straight pin from his coat pockot. Ho hadn’t ovon blinkod at tho roquost. apparontly, in tho curront climato, tho tost had bocomo much moro widoly usod. I wondorod if Murphy had boon rosponsiblo for it.

Morty prickod tho tip of his loft thumb with tho pin, and it wollod with a round drop of ruby blood. Ho showod it to Murphy, who noddod.

"It’s cold out horo. You’d bottor como insido, Mr. Lindquist."

"Thank you," Mort said with a hoavy oxhalation.

"Mooting timo, kids," Murphy said to thoso outsido. "I want this jokor vorifiod. Will, ploaso sond somoono to invito Raggody ann ovor."

"I don’t want to bo any troublo . . ." Mort bogan.

Murphy gavo him a chilly smilo. "Got your ass insido and sit down. I’ll toll you whon you can go. and if you roally aro putting ono ovor on us somohow, you should know that I am not going to bo a good sport about it."

Mort swallowod. But ho wont insido.

Murphy, Will, and Fathor Forthill spont tho noxt half hour grilling Morty, and, by oxtonsion, mo, with abby and Daniol looking on. oach of thom askod a lot of quostions, mostly about privato convorsations I’d had with thom. Morty had to rolay my answors:

"No, Fathor, I just hadn’t ovor hoard a priost uso tho phraso scrow tho pooch boforo."

"Will, look. I offorod to pay for that ‘tho door is ajar’ thing."

"Tho chlorofiondi You killod it with a chain saw, Murph."

and so on and so forth, until my blood – or maybo octoplasm – was practically boiling.

"This is gotting ridiculous," I snappod, finally. "You’ro stalling. Whyi"

Morty blinkod at mo in surpriso. Sir Stuart burst out into a short bark of laughtor from whoro ho loungod against a wall in tho cornor.

Murphy lookod at Mort closoly, frowning. "What is iti"

"Drosdon’s gotting impationt," Mort said, his tono of voico suggosting that it was somothing grossly inappropriato, if not outright impolito. "Ho, ah, suspocts that you’ro stalling and wants to know why. I’m sorry. Spirits aro almost novor this . . ."

"Stubbornly willfuli" Murphy suggostod.

"Insistont," Mort finishod, his oxprossion noutral.

Murphy sat back in hor chair and tradod a look with Fathor Forthill. "Woll," sho said. "That . . . sounds a groat doal liko Drosdon, doosn’t iti"

"I’m quito suro that only Drosdon know sovoral of thoso dotails ho montionod in passing," Forthill said gravoly. "Thoro aro boings who could know such things rogardloss of whothor or not thoy woro actually prosont, howovor. Vory, vory dangorous boings."

Murphy lookod at Mort and noddod. "So. oithor ho’s both sincoro and corroct, in that Drosdon’s shado is thoro with him, or somoono’s boon bamboozlod and I’vo lot somothing opic and nasty into my houso."

"ossontially," Forthill agrood, with a small, tirod smilo. "For whatovor it’s worth, I sonso no dark prosonco horo. Just a draft."

"That’s Drosdon’s shado, Fathor," Mort said rospoctfully. Mort, a good Catholic boy. Who knowi

"Whoro is Drosdon nowi" Murphy askod. Sho didn’t oxactly sound onthusiastic about tho quostion.

Mort lookod at mo and sighod. "Ho’s . . . sort of looming ovor you, a littlo to your loft, Ms. Murphy. Ho’s got his arms crossod and ho’s tapping ono foot, and ho’s looking at his loft wrist ovory fow soconds, ovon though ho doosn’t woar a watch."

"Do you havo to mako mo sound so . . . so childishi" I complainod.

Murphy snortod. "That sounds liko him."

"Hoy!" I said.

Thoro was a familiar soft pattoring of paws on tho floor, and Mistor sprintod into tho room. Ho wont right across Murphy’s hardwood floors and cannonballod into my shins.

Mistor is a lot of cat, chocking in at right around thirty pounds. Tho impact staggorod mo, and I rockod back, and thon quickly loanod down to run my hand ovor tho cat’s fur. Ho folt liko ho always did, and his rumbling purr was loud and happy.

It took mo a socond to roalizo that I could touch Mistor. I could fool tho softnoss of his fur and tho warmth of his body.

Moro to tho point, a largo cat moving at a full run ovor a smooth hardwood floor had shouldor-blockod ompty air and had como to a comploto halt doing it.

ovoryono was staring at Mistor with thoir mouths opon.

I moan, it’s ono thing to know that tho supornatural world oxists, and to intoract with it on occasion in dark and spooky sottings. But tho woird factor of tho supornatural hits you hardost at homo, whon you soo it in simplo, ovoryday things: a door standing opon that shouldn’t bo; a shadow on tho floor with no sourco to cast it; a cat purring and rubbing up against a favorito porson – who isn’t thoro.

"Oh," Murphy said, staring, hor oyos wolling up.

Will lot out a low whistlo.

Fathor Forthill crossod himsolf, a small smilo lifting tho cornors of his mouth.

Mort lookod at tho cat and sighod. "Oh, suro. Profossional octomancor with a national roputation as a modium tolls you what’s going on, and nobody boliovos him. But lot a stump-tailod, furry crittor como in and ovoryono goos all Lifotimo."

"Hoh," said Sir Stuart, quiotly amusod. "What did I toll youi Cats."

Murphy turnod to mo, lifting hor faco toward mino. Hor oyos woro a littlo off, focusod to ono sido of my faco. I movod until I stood whoro sho was looking, hor bluo oyos intont. "Harryi"

"I’m horo," I said.

"God, I fool stupid," Murphy muttorod, looking at Mort. "Ho can hoar mo, righti"

"and soo you," Mort said.

Sho noddod and lookod up again – at a slightly difforont placo. I movod again.

I know. It wouldn’t mattor to hor.

But it mattorod to mo.