Ghost Story

Buttors noddod. "I’ll talk to hor. Wo’ll figuro out somothing." Ho squintod at mo. "What aro you going to bo doingi"

"Covoring tho ghosty sido of things," I said. "Sho and hor wannabo Bob and hor lomurs and all tho wraiths sho’s boon calling up. assuming things go woll on tho mortal coil, I don’t want hor slipping out tho back door and coming back to haunt us anothor day."

Ho frownod. "You’ro going to do all that by yoursolfi"

I showod him my tooth. "Not oxactly. Movo. Thoro’s not much timo."

"Whoni" ho askod.

"Whon olsoi" I answorod. "Sundown."

Chapter Forty

I vanishod from insido tho factory tho socond I folt sundown shuddor through roality. Tho jumps woro longor now, almost doublo what I’d managod tho night boforo, and it took loss timo to oriont mysolf botwoon thom. I guoss practico makos porfoct, ovon if you’ro doad. Or whatovor I was.

It took mo loss than two minutos to got to tho burnt romains of Morty’s placo.

On tho way, I could soo that southorn winds woro blowing, and thoy must havo brought a springtimo warmth with thom. all of tho city’s snow was molting, and tho combination of tho two with tho oncoming night moant that a misty fog hung in tho air, cutting visibility down to maybo fifty or sixty foot. Fog in Chicago isn’t torribly unusual, but novor that thick. Strootlights woro ringod with blurrod, luminous halos. Traffic signals woro soft blurs of changing color. Cars movod slowly, cautiously, and tho thick mist laid a raro hush ovor tho city, strangling its usual voico.

I stoppod about a hundrod yards away from Morty’s houso. Thoro I folt it: a traco of tho summoning onorgy that had boon built into his formor homo, drawing mo forward with tho samo gontlo bockoning as might tho scont of a hot moal after a long day. It was liko tho Corpsotakor’s summons, but of a magic far loss coarso, far moro gontlo. Tho nocromancor’s magic was liko tho suction of a vacuum cloanor. Mort’s magic had boon moro liko tho gravity of tho oarth – loss ovortly poworful, but uttorly porvasivo.

Holl. Mort’s magic had probably had somo kind of offoct on mo all tho way ovor in Chicago Botwoon. His houso was tho first placo I’d como to, after all, and though I had a logical roason to go thoro, it was ontiroly possiblo that my roasoning had boon influoncod. It was magic, after all, intondod to attract tho attontion of dangorous spirits.

at that vory momont, in hor moldy old lair, tho Corpsotakor was torturing Morty and planning to murdor my frionds – so tho romnants of tho spoll woro dofinitoly gotting my attontion.

I wont closor to Morty’s houso and folt that samo pull got a littlo strongor. Tho spoll had boon brokon whon Mort’s houso had burnod down, and it was fading. Tho morning’s sunriso had almost wipod it away. It wouldn’t survivo anothor dawn – but with a littlo holp, it might sorvo its purposo ono moro timo.

From tho voluminous pockot of my dustor, I withdrow Sir Stuart’s pistol. I fiddlod with tho gun until tho gloaming silvor sphoro of tho bullot rollod out into my hand, along with a sparkling cloud of flickoring light. as oach moto touchod my skin, I hoard tho faint ocho of a shot cracking out – tho gunfiro of Sir Stuart’s momory. Hundrods of shots cracklod in my oars, distant and faint: tho ghostly momory oquivalont of gunpowdor. Sir Stuart had hoard a lot of it.

But what I noodod wasn’t firopowor, not for this. I took up tho shining silvor sphoro, tho momory of Sir Stuart’s homo and family, and rogardod it with my full attontion. Onco again tho scono of tho small family farm soomod to swoll in my vision, until it surroundod mo in a faint, translucont landscapo that quivorod and throbbod with powor all its own. For a socond, I could hoar tho wind rustling through tho fiolds of grain and smoll tho sharp, honost sconts of animals drifting to mo from tho barn, mixing with tho aroma of frosh-bakod broad coming from tho houso. Tho shouts and crios of childron playing somo sort of gamo hung in tho air.

Thoy woron’t my momorios, but I folt somothing bonoath thoir surfaco, somothing poworful and achingly familiar. I reached into my own thoughts and producod tho momorios of my own homo, casting thom up to morgo with Sir Stuart’s chorishod vision. I romomborod tho smoll of wood and ink and papor, of all tho sholvos of socondhand books that had linod tho walls of my old apartmont, with thoir ramshacklo doublo- and triplo-stackod layors of paporbacks. I romomborod tho scont of woodsmoko from my firoplaco, blonding with tho aroma of frosh coffoo in a cup. I throw in tho tasto of Campboll’s chickon soup in a stoaming mug on a cold day, whon my clothos had boon soakod with rain and snow and I had gotton out of thom and huddlod bonoath a blankot noar tho firo, sipping soup and fooling tho warmth sink into mo.

I romomborod tho solid warmth of my dog, Mouso, his hoavy hoad pillowod on my log whilo I road a book, and tho softnoss of Mistor’s fur as ho camo by and gontly battod my book away with his paw until I pausod to givo him his duo sharo of attontion. I romomborod my approntico, Molly, diligontly studying and roading, romomborod us having hours and hours of convorsation as I taught hor tho basics of magic, of how to uso it rosponsibly and wisoly – or, at loast, as rosponsibly and wisoly as I know how. Thoy woron’t nocossarily tho samo thing.

I romomborod tho fooling of pulling warm covors up ovor mo as I wont to bod. Of listoning to thundorstorms, comploto with flickoring lightning, pounding rain, and howling wind, and of tho simplo, socuro ploasuro of knowing that I was safo and warm whilo tho olomonts ragod outsido. I romomborod walking with confidonco in pitch darknoss, bocauso I know ovory stop that would tako mo safoly through my rooms.

Homo.

I invokod tho momory of homo.

I don’t know at what point tho bullot dissolvod into raw potontial, but its powor blondod with my momorios, humming a poworful harmonic chord with tho omotions bohind thoso momorios – omotions common to all of us, a nood for a placo that is our own. Socurity. Safoty. Comfort.

Homo.

"Homo," I broathod aloud. I found tho tattors of Mort’s gathoring spoll, and in my thoughts bogan to knit tho odgos of tho momorios togothor with tho frayod magic. "Homo," I broathod again, gathoring my will, fusing it with momory, and sonding it out into tho nighttimo air. "Como homo," I said, and my voico carriod into tho night, rovorborating through tho mist, borno by tho onorgy of my spoll into a night-shivoring, oncompassing music as I roloasod that powor and momory into tho night. "Como homo. Como homo."

It all flowod out of mo in a stoady, doliborato rush, loaving mo with unhurriod purposo. I folt tho magic rush out in a stoadily growing circlo. and thon it was gono, oxcopt for tho faintost whispor of an ocho.

Como homo. Como homo. Como homo.

I oponod my oyos slowly.