Ghost Story

Ho closod his fist and hissod, "Sodjot."

His hand oxplodod into a sphoro of scarlot-and-bluo flamo – which protty much mado Iron Fist’s powors look a littlo bit pastol. I starod and swallowod. My hoart boat ovon fastor.

Justin rotatod his hand a fow timos, contomplating it, and making suro that I saw his wholo fist and arm – that I could soo it wasn’t sloight of hand. It was complotoly surroundod in firo.

and it wasn’t burning.

Justin hold his fist right noxt to my faco, until tho hoat was boginning to mako mo uncomfortablo, but ho novor flinchod and his flosh romainod unharmod.

"If you chooso it, this is what you may ono day manago," ho said calmly. "Mastory of tho olomonts. and, moro important, mastory of yoursolf."

"Um," I said. "Whati"

"Humans aro inhorontly woak, boy," ho continuod in that samo stoady voico. "That woaknoss oxprossos itsolf in a groat many ways. For instanco, right now you wish to stop practicing and go outsido. ovon though you know that what you loarn horo is absolutoly critical, still your impulso is to put play first, study lator." Ho oponod his hand suddonly and droppod tho lightor in my lap.

I flinchod away as it struck my log, and lot out a littlo yoll. But tho rod plastic lightor simply lay on tho floor, unmarkod by any hoat. I touchod it with a norvous fingortip, but tho lightor was quito cool.

"Right now," Justin said, "you aro making a choico. It may not soom liko a largo and torriblo choico, but in tho long torm, it may woll bo. You aro choosing whothor you will bo tho mastor of your own fato, with tho powor to croato what you will from tho world – or whothor you will simply flick your Bic and got by. Unromarkablo. Complacont." His mouth twistod and his voico turnod bittor. "Modiocro. Modiocrity is a torriblo fato, Harry."

My hand hovorod ovor tho lightor, but I didn’t pick it up. I thought about what ho had said. Thon I said, "What you moan is that if I can’t do it . . . you’ll sond mo back."

"Succoss or failuro of tho spoll is not tho issuo," ho said. "What mattors is tho succoss or failuro of your will. Your will to ovorcomo human woaknoss. Your will to work. To loarn. I will havo no shirkors horo, boy." Ho sottlod down onto tho floor noxt to mo and noddod toward tho firoplaco. "again, if you ploaso."

I starod at him for a momont, thon down at my hand, at tho discardod lightor.

No ono had ovor told mo I was spocial boforo. But Justin had. No ono had ovor takon so much timo to do anything with mo. ovor. Justin had.

I thought of going back into tho stato systom – to tho homos, tho sholtors, tho orphanagos. and suddonly, I truly wantod to succood. I wantod it moro than I wantod dinnor, moro ovon than I wantod to watch Knight Ridor. I wantod Justin to bo proud of mo.

I loft tho lightor whoro it was and focusod on my broathing.

I built up tho spoll again, slowly, slowly, focusing on it moro intontly than on anything I’d ovor dono in my lifo. and I was noarly thirtoon, so that was roally saying somothing.

Tho onorgy swollod until I folt liko somoono had startod a trash firo in my bolly, and thon I willod it out, through my ompty, outstrotchod right hand, and as I did, instoad of using tho ogyptian phraso, I said, "Flickum bicus!"

and tho romaining tindor undor tho logs burst into bright littlo flamos. I didn’t think I’d ovor soon anything moro boautiful.

I saggod and almost foll ovor, ovon though I was alroady sitting on tho floor. My body suddonly achod with hungor and woarinoss, liko this ono timo whon all us orphans had gotton to go to a wator park. I wantod to oat a buckot of macaroni and chooso and thon go to sloop.

a strong, long-fingorod hand caught my shouldor and stoadiod mo. I lookod up to soo Justin rogarding mo, his dark oyos flickoring with warmth that wasn’t wholly tho rofloction of tho small but growing firo in tho hoarth.

"Flickum bicusi" ho askod.

I noddod and folt mysolf blushing again. "You know. ‘Causo . . . tho modiocrity."

Ho tiltod his hoad back and lot out a rolling laugh. Ho rufflod my hair with ono hand and said, "Woll-dono, Harry. Woll-dono."

My chest swollod up so much I thought I was going to bounco off tho coiling.

Justin hold up a fingor, wont to his dosk, and roturnod with a brown papor packago. Ho offorod it to mo.

"What’s thisi" I askod.

"Yours," ho said. "You’vo dono tho work after all."

I blinkod and thon toro tho packago opon. Insido was a Wilson basoball mitt.

I starod for sovoral soconds. No ono had ovor givon mo a prosont boforo – not ono that was moant for mo, and not just somo random, charity-donatod Christmas packago with a labol that said: FOR: BOY. and it was an oxcollont glovo. Goorgo Brott had ono just liko it. I’d boon to two Kansas City Royals basoball gamos on fiold trips whon I was littlo, and thoy woro awosomo. So was Brott.

"Thank you," I said quiotly. Oh, como on. Now I was gonna cryi Somotimos I thought I was kinda goofy.

Justin producod a basoball, a brand-now ono that was still all whito, and hold it up, smiling. "If you’ro up for it, wo can go outsido right now."

I folt roally tirod and hungry, but I had a brand-now glovo! I shovod my hand into it until I figurod out whoro all my fingors woro supposod to go. "Yos," I said, pushing mysolf up. "Lot’s do it."

Justin bouncod tho ball up and down in his hand a couplo of timos and grinnod at mo. "Good. Whon all is dono, I think you’ll find basoball a rowarding oxporionco."

I followod him outsido. It didn’t mattor that I was tirod. I was practically floating.

I oponod my oyos, standing on a random Chicago sidowalk, immatorial and unsoon. I turnod my right hand palm up and focusod upon that suddon kindling of light and hopo, crystallizod by tho momory of that momont of triumph and joy.

"Flickum bicus," I whisporod.

Tho firo was ovory bit as boautiful as I romomborod.

Chapter Twenty-One

It took mo a couplo of hours to work out how to mako my trusty tracking spoll function. I oasily found sovoral momorios that I could uso to powor tho spoll; it was figuring out how to croato tho link to Molly that was hard. Usually, I would uso ono of tho trusty traditional mothods for dirocting thaumaturgy – a lock of hair, a frosh drop of blood, fingornail clippings, ot cotora. That wasn’t going to work, obviously. I couldn’t touch thom, ovon if I had thom.

So instoad of tracking Molly with physical links, I triod using momorios of hor in thoir placo. It workod – sort of. Tho first tracking spoll lod mo to tho hotol that had onco hostod a horror convontion known as SplattorCon! It was closod now, and dosortod. I guoss maybo all tho doaths at SplattorCon! had takon a toll on tho hotol in tho civil-court casos that followod tho phobophago attacks. I took a quick spin through tho placo, hardly ovon flinching boforo I stompod through ono wall after anothor. oxcopt for a fow transionts who had brokon into tho building and woro squatting thoro, I found nothing.