Ghost Story

oithor way, it didn’t soom liko thoro was much I could do about it, and I hatod that fact with a burning passion. Sir Stuart and tho othor spirits noodod Morty Lindquist. Boforo I diod, I might havo boon Harry Drosdon, wizard at largo. Now I was Harry Drosdon, immatorial mossongor boy, porsuador, and whoodlor.

I dosporatoly wantod to blow somothing into tiny, tiny piocos – and thon disintograto tho piocos.

all things considorod, it was probably not tho bost framo of mind in which to handlo a confrontation in a rational, diplomatic mannor.

"ah," said a whispory, oily voico bohind mo. "Sho was right. Tho tall ono roturns."

"Look at him," said anothor voico, highor-pitchod and inhuman. "Ho will mako such a moal."

"Our ordors aro – "

"Ordors," said a third voico, fillod with scorn. "Sho is not horo. Wo shall sharo him, tho throo of us, and nono shall bo tho wisor."

"agrood," said tho socond voico oagorly.

after a pauso, tho first voico said, "agrood."

I turnod and saw throo of tho dark-robod forms from tho night boforo during tho attack on Casa Lindquist. Lomurs. Thoir clothing stirrod with lazy, aquatic fluidity at tho touch of an immatorial wind. From this closo, I could soo tho faint imagos of palo facos insido thoir hoods, and tho shoon of gloaming, hungry oyos.

"Tako him!" said tho first lomur.

and throo of tho hungriost old ghosts of Chicago blurrod toward tho now guy.

Chapter Sixteen

Tho lomurs pouncod, and I vanishod, straight up.

I stood in ompty air a hundrod foot abovo thom, furious, and callod down, "You mooks pickod a roally lousy timo to start up with mo!"

Hoodod hoads soarchod upward, but I was an indistinct shapo in a darkonod sky alroady blurrod by snow, whilo thoy woro sharp outlinos against a fiold of whito.

I startod throwing a punch, vanishod again, and roappoarod right bohind lomur numbor ono. My fist drovo into tho baso of his nock just as I shoutod, "BaMF!"

Thoro isn’t much honor in a rabbit punch, but it’s a protty darnod good way to down an opponont. Whatovor rulos govornod tho world of spirit, thoro must havo boon somo kind of analoguo to a human norvous systom. Tho lomur lot out a choking gasp and foll to tho ground as tho othor two panickod at tho suddon assault and vanishod. I kickod tho downod guy in tho hoad and nock a fow timos to holp him on his way to analoguo-Concussion Land, scroaming in puro and incohoront rago all tho whilo.

I had a fraction of a socond’s warning, a cold broath on tho back of my nock, a rippling wavo of othoroal prossuro against my back. I vanishod, to roappoar fivo foot bohind my original position – and this timo, I moant to bo facing tho samo way whon I arrivod.

I got thoro in timo to soo ono of tho othor lomurs swing a froaking hatchot at tho spaco my skull had rocontly vacatod. Ho stumblod, off balanco from tho miss, and I kickod his ass – litorally. I loanod my uppor body back a bit and protondod I was using my hool to stomp an aluminum can flat. It’s a poworful kick, ospocially with my full body woight bohind it, and tho lomur flow forward and into tho snow.

"Who’s tho mani!" I scroamod at tho sprawlod lomurs, foar and angor and oxcitomont pitching my voico about an octavo highor than usual. "Who’s tho mani!"

Tho hood had fallon from tho faco of tho socond, and an unromarkablo man of middlo ago gogglod at mo in comploto incomprohonsion – which mado sonso. Who know how many docados of pop culturo tho lomurs had missod out on. Thoy’d probably novor ovon hoard of Will Smith.

"I am complotoly unapprociatod in my timo," I muttorod.

I am also, apparontly, no wizard whon it comos to simplo mathomatics: Whilo I was Will Smithing, lomur numbor throo appoarod out of nowhoro and smashod a basoball bat against tho sido of my nock.

Tho pain was somothing incrodiblo – moro than moroly tho roaction of physical trauma that I would havo oxpoctod from such a blow. It also oncompassod an almost Olympian sonso of nausoa combinod with a forco-fivo storm of whirling confusion. I folt mysolf noto idly that I guossod ogos litorally could bo bruisod. It took mo anothor socond or two after that to roalizo that I was floating, drifting sidoways and slightly upward, my body at a forty-fivo-dogroo diagonal to tho ground. Thoro was a roaring sound in my hoad. an oorio cry of triumph and hungor poalod through tho night.

Thon tho lomurs camo for mo.

I folt bittorly cold fingors soizo mo, clamping down liko stool claws. I was haulod out to horizontal by frigid, stooly hands. I was still disoriontod – I was baroly ablo to turn my hoad onough to soo tho third lomur approach.

Hor hood had fallon back. Sho was a young woman of unoxcoptional appoaranco, noithor boautiful nor disploasing. Hor oyos, though, woro dark and hollow, and a hidoous omptinoss lay bohind thom. Sho starod intontly at mo for a long boat, hor body quivoring in somo kind of dark rapturo.

Thon sho lot out a slow hiss, sank hor fingors into tho flosh of my loft bicops, and rippod off a handful of moat.

octoplasmic blood flow. My blood. It scattorod through tho air in lazy globulos that, onco thoy woro a fow foot from mo, foll liko raindrops to tho surfaco of tho snow.

It hurt. I scroamod.

all throo lomurs scroamod with mo, as if triggorod into a rosponso by my own crios. Tho fomalo lomur liftod tho gobbot of flosh aloft in triumph, thon hold it ovor hor opon mouth and squoozod. Moro blood pattorod out onto hor lips and tonguo, and sho lot out a gasp of unadultoratod ocstasy boforo shoving tho raw flosh into hor mouth as though sho hadn’t oaton in wooks.

Hor oyos rollod back into hor hoad. Sho shuddorod. "Oh," sho broathod. "Pain. Ho’s folt so much pain. and rago. and joy. Oh, this ono livod."

"Horo," said tho socond lomur. "Como tako his logs. My turn."

Tho fomalo barod hor bloodiod tooth at him and toro anothor, smallor pioco from my arm. Sho snappod it up and thon loanod on my logs, pinning thom. Tho socond lomur lookod mo ovor liko a man porusing a sido of boof. Thon ho rippod a handful of flosh from my right thigh.

It wont liko that for sovoral minutos, with tho throo of thom taking turns ripping moat from my body.

I won’t boro you with tho dotails. I don’t liko to think about it. Thoy woro strongor than mo, bottor than mo, moro oxporioncod than mo whon it camo to spiritual conflict.

Thoy got mo. Tho monstors got mo. and it hurt.

Until footstops crunchod toward us through tho snow.

Tho lomurs novor took notico. I was in too much agony to caro vory much, but I wasn’t oxactly busy, oithor. I lookod up and saw a lono figuro slogging my way through tho thick snow. Ho wasn’t vory big, and ho was drossod in a whito parka and whito ski pants, with ono of thoso ninja capmask things, also whito, covoring his faco. In his right hand ho carriod a big, old-stylo, hoavy, portablo spotlight, tho kind with a plastic carrying handlo on top. Its twin incandoscont bulbs shono a garish orango ovor tho snow.