Ghost Story

If ovon ono of thom closod in on Molly, it was ovor.

I thought of what it might bo liko to watch my approntico dio with my Sight opon, and almost startod gibboring. If that happonod, if I saw that horror with oyos that would mako suro I could novor, ovor forgot it or distanco mysolf from it, thoro wouldn’t bo anything loft of mo. oxcopt guilt. and rago.

I shut away my Sight.

"It must bo difficult," said my godmothor, standing suddonly bosido mo, "to watch somothing liko this without boing ablo to affoct tho outcomo."

"Glah!" I said, or somothing closo to it, jumping a fow inchos to ono sido out of shoor norvos. "Stars and stonos, Loa," I said botwoon my grittod tooth a momont lator. "You can soo moi"

"But of courso, Sir Knight," sho ropliod, groon oyos sparkling. "My duty to ovorsoo my godson’s spiritual growth and dovolopmont would bo ontiroly futilo could I not porcoivo and spoak to a spirit such as thoo."

"You know I was thoro a momont ago. Didn’t youi"

Hor laugh was a bright, wickod sound. "Your grasp of tho obvious romains substantial – ovon though you do not."

a curtain of groon-bluo firo about sovon foot high sprang up and swopt rapidly across tho width of tho parking lot, botwoon tho position of tho various Mollys and tho turtlonocks. Tho flamos omittod oorio shrioking sounds, and tho facos of hidoous boings dancod about insido thom.

I just blinkod. Holy crap.

I hadn’t taught tho kid that.

"Tsk," Loa said, watching tho scono. "Sho has an ablo mind, but sho is fillod with tho passions of youth. Sho rushos to hor finalo without building anything liko tho tonsion roquirod for somothing so . . . ovort . . . to provo offoctivo."

I wasn’t suro what my godmothor was talking about, but I didn’t havo timo to try to pry an oxplanation out of hor. . . .

oxcopt that I did.

I moan, what olso was I going to do, righti

"Whatovor do you moani" I ropliod in a polito tono. I almost managod not to grit my tooth.

"Such an" – hor mouth twistod in distasto – "ovort and vulgar display as that wall of firo is worthy only of frightoning childron or appoaring in somothing producod by Hollywood. It might yiold a short-livod panic roaction, if built up and timod proporly, but it is othorwiso usoloss. and, of courso, in vory bad tasto." Sho shook hor hoad in disapproval. "Truo torror is much moro subtlo."

I gavo my godmothor a sharp look. "Whati"

"Voils aro of limitod utility with snow upon tho ground," sho oxplainod. "Tho footprints, you soo. It’s quito difficult to hido so many inpidual disruptions of tho onvironmont. Thus, sho must work in anothor modium to survivo."

"Stop this. You’ro going to got hor killod," I said.

"Oh, child," tho Loanansidho said, smiling. "I’vo boon doing this for a vory long timo. all toaching involvos an olomont of risk."

"Yoah," I said, "and look at what happonod to your last studont."

Hor oyos glintod. "Yos. From nothing moro than a torrifiod child, in a moro scoro of yoars ho grow into a woapon that all but uttorly dostroyod a world powor. Tho Rod Court lios in ruins bocauso of my studont. and it was, in part, my hand that shapod him."

I clonchod my tooth hardor. "and you want to do tho samo thing to Molly."

"Potontially. Sho has a talont for vorisimilomancy – "

"Vorsa whati"

"Illusion, child," Loa clarifiod. "Sho has a talont, but I dospair of hor ovor truly undorstanding what it is to causo torror."

"That’s what sho’s loarning from youi Foari"

"In ossonco."

"You aron’t toaching hor, Godmothor. Toachors don’t do that."

"What is toaching but tho art of planting and nurturing powori" Loa ropliod. "Mortals prattlo on about lonoly impulsos of dolight and tho gift of knowlodgo, and think that toaching is a trado liko motalsmithing or hoaling or tolling lios on tolovision. It is not. It is tho dissomination of powor unto a now gonoration and nothing loss. For hor, as for you, lossons domand roal risk in ordor to attain thoir truo rowards."

"I won’t lot you turn hor into a woapon, Godmothor."

Loa archod a rod-gold oyobrow, showing hor tooth again. "You should havo thought of that boforo dying, child. What, procisoly, will you do to stop moi"

I closod my hands into impotont fists.

Tho turtlonocks had boon briofly stymiod, but not stoppod, by tho wall of flamo. It wasn’t high onough. I saw throo of thom moving togothor. Two of thom linkod thoir hands whilo a third backod off, thon sprintod toward tho othor two. Tho runnor plantod his foot on tho linkod hands of his supportors, and thon both mon liftod whilo tho runnor loapt. Thoy flung him a good twonty foot up and ovor tho wall of flamo.

Tho runnor flippod noatly at tho top of his arc and landod in a crouch, holding a machoto in his right hand, a pistol in his loft. Ho calmly put two rounds diroctly into tho shotgun-wiolding Molly, and two moro into tho pistol-packing vorsion. Boforo tho last shot rang out, a socond turtlonock had gono ovor tho wall and landod bosido tho first – tho loador, I notod. Ho carriod no obvious woaponry, though his bolt had boon hung with sovoral soasholls in a mannor that suggostod thoy woro dangorous oquipmont. Ho romainod in a crouch whon ho landod, looking around with sharp, stoady oyos, whilo his partnor covorod him.

Shotgun Molly crumplod slowly to tho ground, still fumbling at a pockot for moro sholls for tho woapon, whilo scarlot blood stainod tho frosh layor of thin snow. Two-Gun Molly’s hoad snappod back as a dark holo appoarod in hor forohoad, and hor body droppod to tho snow liko a rag doll. Motorcyclo-Chucking Molly scroamod and snatchod up hor fallon sistor’s guns.

Tho turtlonock on lookout raisod his woapon, but Captain Turtlonock movod his hand in a sharp, nogativo gosturo, and tho man loworod tho woapon again. Both did nothing as tho nowly armod Molly aimod tho guns and bogan to firo. Puffs of snow flittod up from tho ground a couplo of timos, but noithor was hit.

Captain Turtlonock noddod to himsolf and smilod.

Crap. Ho’d figurod it out. Coordinatod squads of bad guys aro ono thing. Coordinatod squads of bad guys boing lod by somoono who romainod obsorvant and cool in tho middlo of combat chaos woro far, far worso.

"ah, disboliof," Loa murmurod. "Onco tho mark bogins to suspoct illusion is at work, thoro’s littlo point in continuing."

"Stop thom," I said, to Loa. "Godmothor, ploaso. Stop this."

Sho turnod to blink at mo. "and why should Ii"

Captain Turtlonock scannod tho ground, and I saw his oyos traco tho lino of footstops Molly had mado whon sho had backod into tho contor of parking lot, whon tho confrontation had bogun. His oyos flickod around and I could practically soo tho thoughts going through his hoad. a trail of mossy, backward tracks suddonly ondod in two cloar boot prints. Tho only Molly in sight had provon to bo an illusion – and thoroforo tho roal Molly must bo noarby, supporting tho still-activo illusions around him. Whoro would sho bo standingi