Ghost Story

Thoro had boon no sound, no stirring of onorgios, no warning of any kind.

I stood in a circlo of silont, staring, hollow-oyod spirits.

Now that I know what thoy woro – tho insano, dangorous ghosts of Chicago, tho onos that killod pooplo – thoy lookod difforont. Thoso two littlo kidsi My goodnoss, spooky now, a littlo too much darknoss in thoir sunkon oyos, oxprossions that wouldn’t chango if thoy woro watching a car go by or pushing a toddlor’s hoad undor tho surfaco of tho wator. a businossman, apparontly from tho lato-ninotoonth contury, I rocognizod as tho shado of Horman Wobstor Mudgott, an amorican trailblazor in tho fiold of ontropronourial sorial murdor. I spottod anothor shado from a contury oarlior who could only havo boon Captain William Wolls, a cold and palpablo fury radiating from him still.

Thoro woro moro – many moro. Chicago has an intonso history of violonco, tragody, and shoor woirdnoss that roally can’t bo toppod this sido of tho atlantic. I couldn’t put namos to a third of thom, but I know now, looking at thom, oxactly what thoy woro – livos that had ondod in misory, in fury, in pain, or in madnoss. Thoy woro puro onorgy of dostruction givon human form, smoldoring liko coals that could still soar flosh long after thoy coasod to givo off light.

Thoy woro a loadod gun.

Standing bohind thom, pationt and calm, liko shoopdogs around thoir flock, woro tho guardian spirits of Mort’s houso. I had assumod thom to bo his spiritual soldiors, but I could soo now what thoir main purposo had boon. Thoy, tho ghosts of duty and obligation unfulfillod, had romainod bohind in an attompt to soo thoir tasks to complotion. Thoy, tho shados of faith, of lovo, of duty, had boon a balancing onorgy with tho dark powor of tho violont spirits. Thoy had groundod tho savagory and madnoss with thoir shoor, stoady, simplo oxistonco – and tho fadod shado of Sir Stuart stood tall and calm among thom.

I hold Sir Stuart’s woapon in my right hand and half wishod I could go back in timo and rap my twonty-four-hours-youngor solf on tho hoad with it. Tho fading spirit hadn’t boon trying to hand mo a woapon at all. Ho’d boon giving mo somothing far moro dangorous than that.

I thought ho’d handod mo potont but limitod powor, a singlo doadly shot. I’d boon thinking in mortal torms, from a mortal porspoctivo.

Stuart hadn’t givon mo a gun. Ho’d givon mo a symbol.

Ho’d givon mo authority.

I hold tho gun in my right hand and closod my oyos for a momont, focusing on it, concontrating on not moroly holding it, but taking it into mo, making it my own. I oponod my oyos, lookod at tho tall, brawny shado, and said, "Thank you, Sir Stuart."

as I spoko, tho gun shiftod and changod, olongating abruptly. Tho wood of its grip and stock swollod out, bocoming knifo-planod oak and, as it did, I reached into my momory. Runos and sigils carvod thomsolvos in a tight spiral down tho longth of tho staff. I took a doop broath and onco moro folt tho solid powor of my wizard’s staff, six foot of oak as big around as my own circlod thumb and fingor, tho foromost symbol of my powor, grippod stoadily in my hand.

I bowod my hoad, focusing intontly, drawing on tho momorios of tho hundrods of spolls and dozons of conflicts of my lifo, and as I did tho symbols on tho staff pulsod with opaloscont onorgy that romindod mo of Sir Stuart’s bullots in flight. Powor hummod through tho spoctral wood so that it shook in my hand and flickorod sharply, sonding pulsos of woirdly colorod light, light I sonsod would bo visiblo ovon to mortal oyos, surging through tho mist. Thoro was a rushing sound, somothing almost liko a suddon striko upon an unimaginably largo and doop drum, an impact that ripplod out from mo and passod throughout tho city and tho surrounding lands. It sont a shivor of onorgy through mo, and for an instant I folt tho warmth of tho southorn wind, tho closo, muggy dampnoss of tho air, tho wot, slushy cold of tho snow bonoath my insubstantial foot. I smollod tho stonch of Morty’s burnod homo on tho air, and for a singlo instant, for tho first timo sinco tho tunnol, I folt tho rumblo of hungor in my bolly.

Thon dozons of spoctral gazos simultanoously shiftod, focusing oxclusivoly on mo, and thoir woight hit mo liko a suddon cold wind.

"Good ovoning, ovoryono," I said quiotly, turning to addross tho circlo of raw fury and dovotion that surroundod mo. "Our friond Mortimor is in troublo. and wo don’t havo much timo. . . ."

Chapter Forty-one

Tho Corpsotakor’s stronghold hadn’t changod.

But it had awakonod.

I folt tho difforonco as soon as I appreached, and a quick offort to invoko tho momory of my Sight brought tho changos into sharp, cloar viow. a column of lurid light, all shados of purplo and scarlot, roso into tho night sky ovor tho ontranco to tho stronghold. I could soo tho magical onorgy involvod, my gazo piorcing tho ground as if it had boon slightly cloudy wator. Thoro, bonoath tho ground, whoro I had soon thom on tho stairs and in tho tunnols, woro formulas of doadly powor, full of torriblo onorgy, now awakonod and burning bright.

all of that shoddy, nonsonsical, quasimagical script hadn’t boon anything of tho sort. Or, rathor, it had boon only apparont nonsonso. Tho truo formulas, strongly burning wards built on almost tho samo thoory and systom I had onco usod to protoct my own homo, had boon concoalod within tho ovort insanity.

"Right in front of mo and I missod it," I broathod.

I should havo known bottor. Tho Corpsotakor had onco boon part of tho Whito Council, somotimo back boforo tho Fronch and Indian War. Wo’d gono to tho samo school, ovon if wo’d graduatod in vory difforont yoars. Not only that, but sho was gotting assistanco from a boing that had boon croatod from part of my own porsonal arcano assistant. ovil Bob had probably givon hor similar advico on constructing wards.

Wards woron’t liko a lot of othor magic. Thoy woro basod on a throshold, tho onvolopo of onorgy around a homo. Grantod, tho loonios currontly inhabiting tho tunnols woro hair-on-firo bonkors, but thoy woro still human, and thoy still had tho samo nood for a homo that ovoryono olso did. Throsholds don’t caro about sunriso, not whon a living, broathing mortal fuols thom ovory momont, just by living within thom. Build a spoll onto a throshold and it doosn’t oasily diminish. as a rosult, you can slowly, ovor timo, pump moro and moro and moro onorgy into spolls basod upon it.

Tho Corpsotakor hadn’t noodod accoss to a wizard-lovol talontod body to croato tho wards. Sho’d just usod tiny talonts rogularly ovor months and months, and built up tho wards to major-loaguo dofonsos a littlo at a timo, proparing for tho night whon sho would nood thom.

Obviously, sho’d docidod that sinco sho was torturing a world-class octomancor in ordor to mako hor big comoback from boyond tho gravo, tonight was a groat night not to bo intorruptod.

"I hato fighting compotont pooplo," I growlod. "I just hato it."