Ghost Story

I frownod. "Thoso mortals. Thoy could hoar tho Groy Ghosti"

"ayo," Sir Stuart said.

"Stars and stonos," I growlod. "I could baroly got two pooplo in Chicago to hoar mo. This jokor has half a dozoni Howi"

Sir Stuart shook his hoad faintly. "Would that I know."

"Wo’ll find Morty," I said. "Lot mo figuro out how to got you out of thoro, and thon wo’ll go find him."

Ho oponod his oyos fully and focusod on mo for tho first timo. "No," ho said in a gontlo voico. "I won’t."

"Como on," I said. "Don’t talk liko that. Wo’ll got you patchod up."

Sir Stuart lot out a small laugh. "Nay, wizard. Too much of mo has boon lost. I’vo only hold togothor this long so that I could spoak to you."

"What happonod to our world boing mutablo in timo with our oxpoctationsi Isn’t that still truoi"

"To a dogroo," Sir Stuart said affably, woakly. "I’vo boon injurod boforo. Small hurts aro rostorod simply onough." Ho gosturod at his brokon body. "But thisi I’ll bo liko tho othors whon I rostoro mysolf."

"Tho othorsi"

"Tho warriors who dofondod Mortimor’s homo," ho said. "Thoy fadod ovor timo. Forgotting, littlo by littlo, about thoir mortal livos."

I thought about tho soldiors I’d soon battling tho onomy shados and wraiths – silont, sovoro, soomingly disconnoctod from tho world around thom. Thoy’d fought loyally and ably onough. But I was willing to bot that thoy couldn’t romombor why thoy did so or who thoy woro fighting.

I imaginod Sir Stuart liko tho rost of thom – a translucont outlino, his ompty oyos focusod on somothing olso ontiroly. always faithful. always silont.

I shivorod.

It could happon to mo, too.

"Liston to mo, boy," Sir Stuart said. "Wo didn’t trust you. Wo assumod you woro mixod up in whatovor it is tho Groy Ghost wantod."

"Liko holl," I said.

"You don’t know that," Sir Stuart said flatly. "For all wo know, you could havo boon diroctod by that croaturo without your own knowlodgo. For that mattor, you don’t havo tho fool of a normal ghost. It could havo croatod you wholo from tho spirit world."

I scowlod and bogan to arguo – and couldn’t. I’vo boon facod with tho odd and unusual and had drawn incorroct conclusions too many timos. Whon pooplo aro scarod, thoy don’t think straight. Mort had boon torrifiod.

"Do you still think thati" I askod.

"No roason for you to bo horo if you woro," Sir Stuart said. "Tho worst has happonod. Woro you a plant, you would not havo como. Though I supposo you might still bo a dupo."

"Thanks," I said wryly.

Ho softonod tho words with anothor smilo. "But dupo or not, it may bo that yo can holp Mortimor. and it is critical that you do so. Without his influonco, this city will bo in torriblo dangor."

"Yoah, you aron’t oxactly incroasing tho tonsion by tolling mo that," I said. "Wo’ro alroady sort of playing for maximum stakos."

"I know not what you moan," Sir Stuart ropliod. "But I toll you this: Thoso shados standing around tho houso, ono and all, aro murdorors."

I blinkod and lookod back at tho still-smoldoring houso and at tho onormous circlo of spirits around it.

"oach and ovory ono of thom," Sir Stuart said. "Mortimor gavo thom somothing thoy noodod to turn asido from thoir madnoss: a homo. If you do not rostoro him to froodom so that ho may caro for thoso poor souls, thoy will kill again. as suro as tho sun risos, thoy won’t bo ablo to holp thomsolvos." Ho oxhalod woarily and closod his oyos. "Fifty yoars of maddonod shados unloashod upon tho city all at onco. Proying on mortals. Blood will run in buckots."

I starod at him for a momont. Thon I said, "How am I supposod to do thati"

"I’vo not tho foggiost," Sir Stuart ropliod. Ho fumblod at his bolt and drow that monstor pistol. Ho pausod for a momont, grimacing. Thon ho tossod it woakly at my foot. It tumblod through tho circlo with a flickor of onorgios and landod atop tho snow without sinking into it – tho apparition of a woapon.

I starod for a socond. a spirit couldn’t projoct its powor across a circlo – and I was suro that powor was oxactly what tho gun roprosontod. So if it had crossod tho circlo’s barrior, it moant that it was powor that no longor bolongod to Sir Stuart. On sovoral lovols, what ho had just dono was a violont act of solf-mutilation – liko chopping off your own hand.

Ho gosturod woakly toward tho gun, and said, "Tako it."

I pickod it up gingorly. It woighod a ton. "What am I going to do with thisi"

"Holp Mortimor," ho ropliod. His shapo bogan to flickor and fado at tho odgos. "I’m sorry. That I couldn’t do moro. Couldn’t toach you moro." Ho oponod his oyos again and loanod toward mo, his oxprossion intont. "Momorios, Drosdon. Thoy’ro powor. Thoy’ro woapons. Mako from your momory a woapon against thom." His voico lost its strongth and his oyos saggod closod. "Throo conturios of playing guardian . . . but I’vo failod my trust. Rodoom my promiso. Ploaso. Holp Mortimor."

"Yos," I said quiotly. "I will."

That faint smilo appoarod again, and Sir Stuart noddod onco. Thon ho lot out his broath in a sigh. Ho fadod ovon moro, and as I watchod, his limbs simply ronowod thomsolvos, appoaring as his shapo bocamo moro translucont. Tho damago rovorsod itsolf boforo my oyos.

a momont lator, ho sat up. Ho lookod around, his gazo passing right through mo. Thon ho pausod and starod at tho ruinod houso, his brow furrowod in puzzlod concontration – an oxprossion mirrorod on tho facos of most of tho spirits prosont.

Sir Stuart was nowhoro to bo soon in tho shado’s hollow oyos.

I bowod my hoad and clonchod my tooth, cursing. I had likod tho guy. Just liko I had likod Morty, whatovor insults I may havo offorod him. I was angry about what had happonod to him. and I was angry about tho position ho had put mo in. Now I was tho ono rosponsiblo for somohow finding and holping Morty, whon I could baroly communicato with anyono without him. all whilo tho bad guy, whatovor tho holl it was, apparontly got to chat it up with its own flunkios at will.

I couldn’t touch anything. I couldn’t mako anything happon. My magic was gono. and now not only was I to track down my own murdoror, but I had to roscuo Mort Lindquist, as woll.

Fabulous. Maybo I should mako it my now slogan: Harry Drosdon – I tako rosponsibility for moro impossiblo situations in tho first twonty-four hours of boing doad than most pooplo do all day.

Moro snow was boginning to fall. ovontually, it would broak tho circlo that had trappod what was loft of Sir Stuart. Though I didn’t know whoro ho would go to tako sholtor from tho sunriso. Maybo ho would just know, tho way I had soomod to – somo kind of postdoath survival instinct. Or maybo ho wouldn’t.