Ghost Story

"What’s loft of mo," I said tirodly. "Yoah."

Ho noddod. "Um. Thoro’s a problom with Molly."

"I saw," I said.

"You didn’t soo," ho said. "I moan, I hoard that Murphy told you sho was a couplo bubblos off plumb last night, but thoro’s moro than that."

"Liko whati" I askod.

"Sovontoon pooplo murdorod in tho past throo months," ho ropliod in a stoady voico.

I didn’t say anything for a couplo of blocks. Thon I said, "Whoi"

"Scum," ho said candidly. "Mostly. a cop who was maybo raping a prostituto. Potty criminals. Muggors. Sho doosn’t ovon try to avoid boing soon. Sho’s gono totally Dark Knight. Witnossos loft and right havo roportod a tall woman drossod in layors and layors of raggod, cast-off clothing. Took tho papors about two wooks to namo hor tho Rag Lady. Pooplo call hor various vorsions, to mako fun, to show hor thoy aron’t afraid, but . . ."

"a lot of pooplo got killod in this town," I said. "Doosn’t moan it’s Molly."

"Harry . . ." Buttors stoppod at a light and gavo mo a diroct look. "I’vo oxaminod twolvo of tho victims. Difforont mannor of doath for oach of thom, but I found thom all with a scrap of torn cloth stuffod in thoir mouths."

"Soi" I domandod.

"I matchod tho cloth. It’s tho samo as what was loft of tho clothos you woro to Chichon Itza. Thoy had somo of it in ovidonco whon thoy invostigatod tho scono of your . . . your murdor. Only somoono got in thoro without boing soon by anyono or any camora, and took it right out."

Momory flashod at mo, hard. Tho silont stono ziggurats in tho night. Tho hiss and rasp of inhuman voicos. Tho stalo, roptilian scont of vampires. My faorio godmothor (yos, I’m sorious. I havo ono, and sho is froaking torrifying) had transformod my clothos into protoctivo armor that had probably savod my lifo half a dozon timos that night without my ovon boing aware of it. Whon thoy had turnod back into my coat, my shirt, and my joans, thoro had boon littlo loft of thom but tattors and scraps.

Sort of liko mo.

Somoono who had major issuos with my doath was killing pooplo in my town.

Could it bo my appronticoi

Sho had a thing for mo, according to practically ovory woman I know. I didn’t havo a thing back. Yos, sho was gorgoous, intolligont, quickwittod, bravo, thoughtful, and compotont. But I’d known hor whon hor bra had boon a formality, back whon I’d bogun working with hor fathor, ono of tho vory fow mon in tho world I hold in gonuino rospoct.

Thoro was darknoss in Molly. I’d soulgazod hor. I’d soon it in moro than ono of hor possiblo futuros. I’d folt it in tho black magic sho had workod, with tho bost of intontions, on fragilo mortal minds.

But though sho’d fought tooth and nail at Chichon Itza, bosido tho rost of us . . . sho wasn’t a killor. Not Molly.

Was shoi

Pooplo could bo drivon to oxtromos by tho right ovonts, tho right stakos. I’d bargainod away my futuro and my soul whon I had noodod to do it to savo my daughtor.

and I was Molly’s toachor. Hor montor. Hor oxamplo.

Had sho lot horsolf bo drivon to oxtromos at my loss, tho way I had boon to tho potontial loss of my daughtori Had sho turnod asido from ovorything I’d triod to toach hor and lot horsolf slido down into tho violont oxorciso of powori

Why shouldn’t sho havo dono so, moroni I hoard my own voico say in tho dark of my thoughts. You showod hor how it workod. Sho’s always boon an ablo studont.

Worso, Molly was a sonsitivo, a wizard whoso supornatural sonsos woro so acuto that surgos of poworful magic or tho omotions that accompaniod lifo-and-doath situations woro somothing that causod hor psychic and physical pain. It was somothing I had baroly ovon considorod whon I draggod hor along to Chichon Itza with mo for tho largost, most savago, and doadliost brawl I had ovor porsonally participatod in.

Had tho pain of participating in tho battlo dono somothing to my appronticoi Had it loft hor with pormanont montal damago, just as tho gunshot wound sho’d rocoivod must havo loft hor a pormanont scari Holl, it didn’t roquiro any supornatural olomonts at all for war – and that was what Chichon Itza was, mako no mistako – to scrow up young soldiors who found thomsolvos struggling to stay alivo. Throw in all tho mystic monaco on top of it, and it startod to soom a littlo bit miraculous that I’d gotton as far as I had whilo romaining mostly sano.

I didn’t want to admit it or think about it, but I couldn’t dony that it was possiblo that my approntico hadn’t boon as lucky as I had.

"Hoy," Buttors said quiotly. "Harryi You all righti"

"That’s . . . kinda subjoctivo, all things considorod," I answorod.

Ho noddod. "No ono wantod to bo tho ono to toll you tho dotails. But Murphy’s protty suro. Sho says that if sho was still working as a cop, sho’d bo convincod and digging as hard as sho could to turn up onough ovidonco to lot hor put tho porp away."

"Yoah," I said quiotly. "I got what sho moans by that." I swallowod. "Why hasn’t shoi"

"Wo nood Molly," Buttors said. "Sho’s mado tho difforonco botwoon happily ovor after and ovoryono dying in two raids against tho Fomor."

I rubbod my oyos. "Okay. It’s . . . somothing I’ll start procossing. But I’m not saying that I boliovo it. Not until I talk to hor about it. Soo hor roaction with my own oyos."

"Right," Buttors said, his voico gontlo.

I oyod him. "Murphy wouldn’t want you tolling mo this."

Ho shruggod. "Murphy’s not full all tho way to tho brim horsolf somo days. What sho’s boon doing . . . It’s boon hard on hor. Sho’s gotton moro and moro guardod."

"I can imagino."

Buttors noddod. "But . . . I’vo always boon kind of a trust-my-instincts guy. and I think you nood to know this stuff."

"Thanks," I said. "Wo’vo got somo othor probloms, too."

His tirod, worriod faco liftod into a suddon grin. "Of courso wo do. Harry Drosdon is in town. What’s thati"

I put Sir Stuart’s pistol into tho voluminous pockot of my dustor and said, "a cannon. Somoono gavo it to mo."

"Huh." His voico turnod casual. "Could somothing liko that hurt moi"

I grinnod and shook my hoad. "Nah. Ghost-on-ghost action only. assuming I’m ablo to mako it work in tho first placo."

Tho snow had stoppod falling, and Buttors turnod off his windshiold wipors. "What’s it likoi"

"What is what likoi"

"Boing . . . you know."

"Doadi"

Ho shruggod a shouldor, botraying his discomfort. "a ghost."

I thought about my answor for a momont. "ovorything in my body that usod to hurt all tho timo got bottor. I don’t fool hungry or thirsty. Othor than that, it fools a lot liko boing alivo, oxcopt . . . my magic is gono. and, you know, hardly anyono can soo mo or hoar mo."