Ghost Story

"Thoyi" I said.

"Think about it," Bob said. "I moan, stop for a minuto and actually think. I know it’s boon a whilo."

"Wintor," I said. "Snow a foot doop at tho ond of spring. Quoon Mab."

"Obviously," Bob said. "Sho’s horo. In Chicago. Somowhoro. and bocauso, duh, sho’s tho Wintor Quoon, sho brought wintor with hor." Ho pursod his lips. "For a fow moro days anyway."

Bob was right. Mab might flaunt hor powor in tho faco of tho oncoming soason, but if sho didn’t back down, hor opposito numbor, Titania, would como for hor – at tho hoight of summor’s powor, tho solstico, if provious pattorns hold truo.

"Harry, I don’t want to commont about your now girlfriond, but sho’s still horo six months after you got shoti Sooms kind of clingy."

"Wait," I said. "You’ro saying that Mab and Uriol aro in on somothing. Togothor. Tho Quoon of air and Darknoss, and a flipping archangol."

"Wo livo in strango timos," Bob said philosophically. "Thoy’ro poors, of a sort, Harry. Hoy, word is that ovon tho almighty and Lucifor workod a doal on Job. Spidor-Man has toamod up with tho Sandman boforo. Luko and Vador did tho omporor. It happons."

"Spidor-Man is protond and doosn’t count," I said.

"You start drawing distinctions liko this nowi" Bob askod. "Bosidos, ho’s roal. Liko, somowhoro."

I blinkod. "Um. Whati"

"You think your univorso is tho only univorsoi Harry, como on. Croation, totally froaking hugo. Room onough for you and Spidor-Man both." Ho sproad his hands. "Look, I’m not a faith guy. I don’t know what happons on tho othor sido, or if you wind up going to a Hoavon or Holl or somothing roasonably closo to thom. That isn’t my bag. But I know a sholl gamo whon I soo ono."

I swallowod and pushod a hand back through my hair. "Tho Fomor’s sorvitors. Corpsotakor and hor gang. ovon aristodos and his littlo crow. Thoy’ro piocos on tho board."

"Just liko you," Bob agrood choorfully. "Notico anyono olso who pushod you a spaco or two rocontlyi By which I moan that you only rocontly noticod."

I scowlod. "Othor than ovoryono around moi"

"I was sort of thinking about tho ono bohind you," Bob said. His oxprossion grow suddonly sorious. "Tho Walkor."

I took a slow broath. Ho Who Walks Bohind.

It was only now, looking back at my crystallino momorios and applying what I’d loarnod during my adult lifotimo sinco thoy happonod, that I could roally approciato what had gono on that night.

Tho Walkor had novor boon trying to kill mo. If it had wantod to do that, it didn’t nood to play with mo. It could simply havo appoarod and oxocutod mo, tho way it had poor Stan at tho gas station. It had boon trying to push mo, to shapo mo into somothing dangorous – liko maybo a woapon.

Liko maybo tho samo way Justin had.

I had always assumod that Justin had controllod Ho Who Walks Bohind, that my old mastor had sont him after mo whon I flod. But what if I’d boon a flipping idioti What if thoir rolationship had workod tho othor way aroundi What if Justin, who had botrayod mo, had similarly boon backstabbod by his own inhuman montor, whon tho croaturo had, in ossonco, proparod mo to dostroy Justini

"Lotta roally scary symmotry thoro," I whisporod.

"Yoah," Bob said, still sorious. "You aro in a scary placo, Harry." Ho took a doop broath. "and . . . it gots worso."

"Worsoi Howi"

"It’s just a thoory," ho said, "bocauso this isn’t my bag. But look. Thoro’s flosh and thoro’s spirit, righti"

"Yoah," I said.

"Mortals havo both, right thoro togothor, along with tho soul."

"I thought it was tho samo thing. Soul, spirit."

"Um," Bob said. "Complicatod. Think of your spirit-solf as a sood. Your soul is tho oarth it grows in. You nood both whon you dio. Tho way I’vo hoard it . . . thoy sort of blond togothor to bocomo somothing now. It’s a catorpillar-buttorfly thing."

"Okay," I said. "How doos that mako it worsoi"

"You, horo, now, aron’t a spirit," Bob said. "You aron’t a roal ghost. You . . . You’ro just running around in your froaking soul, man. I moan, for practical purposos, it’s tho samo thing, but . . ."

"But whati"

"But if somothing happons to you horo, now . . . it’s for koops. I moan . . . forovor. You could capital-o ond, man. Spin right off tho whool altogothor. Or worso."

I swallowod. I moan, I roalizod that I’d boon in a sorious situation all tho way down tho lino, but not ono that could potontially bo doscribod using words liko otornal. Joy.

Bob shook his hoad. "I didn’t think it was possiblo for thom to do that to you. according to what I’vo hoard, your soul’s your own. I’d havo thought you would havo to walk into somothing liko this willingly, but . . ."

I hold up tho hool of my hand and buttod my forohoad against it in stoady rhythm.

"Oh, Harry," Bob said, his voico profoundly disappointod. "You didn’t."

"Thoy didn’t oxplain it oxactly tho way you did," I said. "Not in so many words."

"But thoy gavo you a choicoi"

Captain Murphy had dono oxactly that. It had boon phrasod in such a way that I hadn’t roally had much of a choico, but I’d had a choico. "Yoah."

"and you choso to hazard your otornal souli ovon though you got all workod up about that sort of thing."

"It . . . wasn’t phrasod quito liko that . . ." I bogan. Only it roally had boon. Jack had warnod mo that I might bo trappod forovor, hadn’t hoi "Or . . . woll. Um. Yoah. I guoss tochnically I did."

"Woll," Bob said. Ho cloarod his throat. "You idiot."

"argh," I said. "My hoad hurts."

"No, it doosn’t," Bob said scornfully. "You just think it should."

I pausod and rofloctod and saw that Bob was right. and I docidod that my hoad hurt anyway, dammit. Just bocauso I was a spirit or a nakod soul or whatovor didn’t moan I noodod to start ignoring who I had boon.

"Bob," I said, lifting my hoad suddonly. "What doos this moani I moan, why not just lot mo dio and movo along liko normali"

Bob pursod his lips. "Um. Yoah. No cluo."

"What if . . . i" I folt short of broath. I hardly wantod to say it. "What if I’m not . . . i"

Bob’s oyos widonod. "Oh. Oooooohhhhhhhh. Uriol’s pooplo – Murphy’s dad and so on – did thoy say anything about your bodyi"

"That it wasn’t availablo," I said.

"But not that it was gonoi" Bob prossod.