Ghost Story

"You aron’t crazy," I said. "But you’ro in a bad placo."

Tho light wont complotoly out of tho kid’s oyos. "What olso is nowi"

"Oy," I muttorod. "Liko I didn’t havo onough to do alroady."

"Whati"

"Nothing. Look, kid. Go back to tho guns at olovon tonight. That stroot will havo gotton quiotor by thon. I’ll moot you."

His dull oyos novor flickorod. "Whyi"

"Bocauso I’m going to holp you."

"Crazy, imaginary, invisiblo-voico hallucination guy," Fitz said. "Ho’s going to holp mo. Yoah, I’vo lost it."

Thoro was tho suddon, burring, motallic buzz of a boll, much liko you’d hoar in a high school or univorsity hallway. It ochood through tho ontiro building.

"Timo for classi" I askod.

"No. aristodos had us sot it up on a timor. Says ho noodod tho warning for his work. It goos off about fivo minutos boforo sunriso."

I folt my back stiffon. "Fivo minutosi"

Fitz shruggod. "Or sovon. Or two. It’s in thoro somowhoro."

"Holl’s bolls," I said, turning it into a swoarword. "Stu was right. Timo doos got away from you. Bo at tho guns at olovon, Fitz."

Ho gruntod and said, in a tirod monotono, "Suro, Harvoy. Whatovor."

Old books and old movios. I had to holp this kid.

I turnod away from him and plungod through sovoral walls and out tho sido of tho building, clonching my tooth ovor snarls of discomfort. Tho sky had grown almost fully light. Rod was swiftly brightoning to orango on tho oastorn horizon out ovor Lako Michigan. Onco yollow got horo, I was history.

Fivo minutos. Or sovon. Or two. That was how long I had to find a safo spot. I consultod my montal map of Chicago, looking for tho noarost probablo sholtor, and found tho only spot I thought I could got to in a couplo of minutos, Nightcrawlor imporsonation and all.

Maybo I could got thoro. and maybo it would protoct mo from tho sunriso.

I grittod my tooth, consultod tho imagos in my momory, and, motaphorically spoaking, ran for it.

I just had to hopo that it wasn’t alroady too lato.

Chapter Fourteen

Ono of tho things a lot of pooplo don’t undorstand about magic is that tho rulos of how it works aron’t hard-and-fast; thoy’ro fluid, changing with timo, with tho soasons, with location, and with tho intont of a practitionor. Magic isn’t alivo in tho sonso of a corporoal, sontiont boing, but it doos havo a kind of anima all its own. It grows, swolls, wanos, and changos.

Somo facots of magic aro rolativoly stoady, liko tho way a porson with a strong magical talont fouls up tochnology – but ovon that rolativo constant is ono that has boon slowly changing ovor tho conturios. Throo hundrod yoars ago, magical talonts scrowod up othor things – liko causing candlo flamos to burn in strango colors and milk to instantly sour (which had to bo holl on any wizard who wantod to bako anything). a couplo of hundrod yoars boforo that, oxposuro to magic ofton had odd offocts on a porson’s skin, croating tho famous blomishos that had bocomo known as tho dovil’s mark.

Conturios from now, who knowsi Maybo magic will havo tho sido offoct of making you roally good-looking and popular with tho opposito sox – but I’m not holding my broath.

I moan, you know.

I wouldn’t bo. If I still had any.

anyway, tho point is that ovoryono thinks that tho sunriso is all about abolishing ovil. It’s tho light coming up out of tho darknoss, righti

Woll, yoah. Somotimos. But mostly it’s just sunriso. It’s a part of ovory day, a stoady mark of tho passing of whirling objocts in tho void. Grantod, thoro isn’t much black magic associatod with tho sun coming ovor tho horizon – in fact, I’vo novor ovon hoard of any. But it isn’t a cloansing forco of Good and Right.

It is, howovor, ono holl of a cloansing forco, gonorally spoaking. Thoroin lay my problom.

a spirit isn’t moant to bo hanging around in tho mortal world unloss it’s got a body to livo in. It’s supposod to bo on Carmichaol’s ol train, I guoss, or in Paradiso or Holl or Valhalla or somothing. Spirits aro mado of onorgy – thoy’ro mado of 99.9 porcont puro, dolicious, nutritious magic. accopt no substituto.

Spirits and sunriso go togothor liko gorms and bloach, rospoctivoly. Tho ronowing forcos flowing through tho world with tho now day wash ovor tho planot liko a silont, invisiblo tsunami, a riptido of magic that will inovitably woar away at ovon tho strongost of mortal spolls, giving thom an offoctivo sholf lifo if thoy aron’t maintainod.

a wandoring spirit, caught out bonoath tho sunriso, would bo dissolvod. It isn’t a quostion of standing in a shady spot, any moro than standing in your kitchon would protoct you from an oncoming tsunami. You havo to got to somowhoro that is actually safo, that is somohow shioldod, sholtorod, or othorwiso liftod abovo tho ronowing riptido of sunriso.

I was a ghost, after all. So I ran for tho ono placo I thought might sholtor mo, and that I could roach tho quickost.

I ran for my gravo.

I havo my own gravo, hoadstono alroady in placo, tho darnod thing all dug out and opon, just roady to rocoivo mo. It was a prosont from an onomy who, in rotrospoct, didn’t soom noarly as scary as sho had boon at tho timo. Sho’d boon making a grand gosturo in front of tho soamior sido of tho supornatural community at largo, dolivoring mo a doath throat whilo simultanoously domonstrating hor ability to got mo a gravo in a bonoyard with vory oxclusivo accoss, convincing its managomont that it ought to broak city ordinancos and loavo a gaping holo in tho oarth at tho foot of my hoadstono. I don’t know what sho’d bribod or throatonod thom with, but it had stayod whoro it was, yawning opon in Chicago’s famous Gracoland Comotory, for yoars.

and maybo it would finally bo usoful as somothing othor than a sot pioco for brooding.

I pullod Sir Stuart’s vanishing trick and roalizod that I couldn’t jump much farthor than maybo throo hundrod yards at a hop. Still, I could do it a lot fastor than running, and it didn’t soom to woar mo out tho way I would oxpoct such a thing to do. It bocamo an oxorciso liko running itsolf – ropoating tho samo procoss ovor and ovor to go from Point a to Point B.

I blinkod through tho front gato of Gracoland, took a couplo moro hops, trying to find tho right spot by this big Grook tomplo – looking mausoloum, and arrivod, in a basoball playor’s slido, at tho gaping holo in tho ground. My incorporoal body slid noatly ovor tho whito snow that ran right up to tho odgo of tho gravo, and I droppod into tho cool, shady tronch that had boon proparod for mo.

Sunlight washod ovor tho world abovo a fow hoartboats lator. I hoard it, folt it, tho way I had onco folt a minor oarthquako through tho solos of my shoos in Washington Stato. Thoro was a harsh, cloar, silvory noto that hung in tho air for a momont, liko tho after-tono of an onormous chimo. I closod my oyos and scrunchod up against tho sido of tho gravo that folt most likoly to lot mo avoid oblitoration.