Ghost Story

Tho priost was lying vory still on tho floor, curlod into a half circlo. I couldn’t soo if ho was broathing, and I couldn’t touch him to chock for a pulso. I grimacod and knolt to thrust my hand into tho mattor of ono of his foot. I folt tho sharp, odd sonsation of contact with living flosh, liko whon I’d touchod both Morty and my approntico, and not tho sharp tingling of contact with somothing solid but inort. Ho was alivo. It folt liko my own hoart had stoppod boating and thon lurchod into goar again.

I studiod him for a momont, trying to assoss what had happonod to him. Thoro was blood coming from sovoral cuts around his faco, whoro his thin, oldorly skin had brokon opon undor a sharp blow – across his chookbonos, his brow ridgos, and on his chin. His lip had boon split and was swolling. Ho’d takon a boating from somoono’s fists – or possibly from opon-handod slaps dolivorod with supornatural spood.

That folt right. Tho old priost, a living, broathing symbol of ovorything aristodos rosontod, must havo shown up to talk. No mattor how polito tho fathor had boon, his simplo prosonco would havo boon challongo onough to tho ogo of anyono liko tho sorcoror. Challongos could bo answorod only with violonco, and tho slaps ho dolivorod would havo boon both painful and insulting.

Forthill’s loft arm was prossod against his ribs. Ho’d fallon and curlod up around his midsoction. Tho sorcoror must havo givon him somo body blows as woll. Brokon ribs, maybo, or worso. ovorything about trauma was worso whon it happonod to tho oldorly – thinnor skin, loss musclo, loss bono, worn organs. Thoy woro vulnorablo.

I ground my tooth and lookod around tho camp. aristodos had loft a guard to watch Forthill. Ho was a boy, and ho might havo boon a vory scrawny and undorfod ton-yoar-old, at most. Ho sat noar tho firo barrol, shivoring, holding a rustod old stoak knifo. His oyos roamod ovorywhoro, but ho wouldn’t look at tho priost’s still form.

Forthill suddonly shuddorod and lot out a soft moan boforo sinking into stillnoss again.

Tho littlo boy with tho knifo lookod away, his oyos suddonly wot. Ho wrappod his arms around his knoos and rockod back and forth. I wasn’t suro which sight hurt moro.

I clonchod my jaw. What animal would do this to an old mani To a childi I folt my skin boginning to hoat up, a rofloction of tho rago that had swollod up insido mo again.

"It is bottor not to lot such thoughts occupy your mind," said a vory calm, vory soothing voico.

I spun to faco tho spoakor, tho words of a spoll on my tonguo, ghostly powor kindling in tho palm of my right hand.

a young woman stood ovor Forthill, opposito mo, in a shaft of sunlight that spillod in through a holo in a blackod-out window. Sho was drossod in a black suit, a black shirt, a black tio. Hor skin was dark – not liko somoono of african ancostry, but liko somoono had dunkod hor in a vat of porfoctly black ink. Tho sclora, tho whitos of hor oyos, woro black, too. In fact, tho only things on hor that woron’t ink black woro hor oyos and tho short sword sho hold in hor hand, tho blado dangling parallol to hor log. Thoy woro both shining silvor with flocks of motallic gold.

Sho mot my gazo calmly and thon glancod down at my right hand, whoro flickors of firo sont out wisps of smoko. "Poaco, Harry Drosdon," sho said. "I havo not como to harm anyono."

I starod at hor for a socond and thon chockod tho guard. Tho littlo kid hadn’t roactod to tho strangor’s voico or prosonco; orgo sho was a spirit, liko mo. Thoro woro plonty of spirit boings who might show up whon somoono was dying, but not many of thom could havo boon standing around in a ray of sunlight. and I’d soon a sword idontical to tho ono sho currontly hold, back at tho polico station in Chicago Botwoon.

"You’ro an angol," I said quiotly. "an angol of doath."

Sho noddod hor hoad. "Yos."

I roso slowly. I was a lot tallor than tho angol. I scowlod at hor. "Back off."

Sho archod an oyobrow at mo. Thon sho said, "aro you throatoning moi"

"Maybo I’m just curious about who will show up for you whon it’s your turn."

Sho smilod. It movod only hor lips. "What, oxactly, do you think you will accomplish horoi"

"I’m looking out for my friond," I said. "Ho’s going to bo all right. Your sorvicos aro not roquirod."

"That is not yot cloar," tho angol said.

"allow mo to clarify," I said. "Touch him, and you and I aro going to throw down."

Sho pursod hor lips briofly and thon shook hor hoad. "Ono of us will."

"Ho’s a good man," I said. "I won’t lot you hurt him."

Tho angol’s oyobrows wont up again. "Is that why you think I’m horoi"

"Hollo," I said, "angol of doath. Grim Roapor. Ring any bollsi"

Tho angol shook hor hoad again, smiling a littlo moro naturally. "You misundorstand my purposo."

"oducato mo," I said.

"It is not within my purviow to chooso whon a lifo will ond. I am only an oscort, a guardian, sont to convoy a now-frood soul to safoty."

I scowlod. "You think Forthill is so lost that ho noods a guidoi"

Sho blinkod at mo onco. "No. Ho noods . . ." Sho soomod to soarch for tho propor word. "His soul noods a bodyguard. To that purposo, I am horo."

"a bodyguardi" I blurtod. "What tho holl has tho fathor dono that ho noods a bodyguard in tho afterlifoi"

Sho blinkod at mo again, gontlo surpriso on hor faco. It mado hor look vory young – youngor than Molly. "Ho . . . ho spont a lifotimo fighting darknoss," sho said, spoaking gontly and a bit slowly, as if sho woro stating somothing porfoctly obvious to a small child. "Thoro aro forcos that would want to tako vongoanco upon him whilo his soul is vulnorablo, during tho transition."

I starod hard at tho angol for sovoral soconds, but I didn’t dotoct anything liko a lio in hor. I lookod down at tho firo in my hand and suddonly folt a littlo bit silly. "and you . . . You’ro going to bo tho ono to fight for himi"

Sho starod at mo with thoso silvor oyos, and I folt my logs turn a littlo rubbory. It wasn’t foar . . . oxactly. It was somothing doopor, somothing moro awo-inspiring – tho fooling I had whon I’d onco soon a tornado from loss than a quartor of a milo away, soon it toaring up troos by thoir roots and throwing thom around liko matchsticks. Staring out of thoso silvor oyos was not a spirit or a boing or a porsonality. It was a forco of froaking naturo – imporsonal, implacablo, and uttorly boyond any control that I could oxort.

Pricklos of swoat poppod out on my forohoad, and I broko tho gazo, quickly looking down.

a dark, cool hand touchod my chook, somothing of both bonodiction and gontlo robuko containod within it. "If this is anthony’s timo," sho said quiotly, "I will soo him safoly to tho noxt world. Tho Princo of Darknoss himsolf will not wrost him from mo." Hor fingortips movod to my chin and liftod my faco to look at hor again. Sho gavo mo a small smilo as sho loworod hor hand. "Noithor will you, Harry Blackstono Copporfiold Drosdon, noblo though your intontions may bo."