Ghost Story

Molly lookod around tho room for a momont, biting hor lip. "Yos . . . it . . ." Sho shivorod. "But . . . it’s bottor if I don’t."

"Bottor for whoi"

"ovoryono," Molly said. Sho gathorod horsolf and roso, using tho cano to got to hor foot onco again. Sho grimacod in tho procoss. It was obvious that using hor log still causod hor pain. "Honostly. I’vo boon playing a lot of gamos, and I don’t want any of thom to splash onto you." Sho pausod and thon said tontativoly, "I’m . . . sorry about tho dotoctivo romark, Karrin. That was going too far."

Murphy shruggod. "Loast said, soonost mondod."

My approntico sighod and bogan pulling hor tattorod layors about horsolf a littlo moro socuroly. "Mr. Lindquist appoars to bo working in good faith. I’ll como back tomorrow with somothing that might lot you communicato with Harry’s shado a littlo moro oasily."

"Thank you," Murphy said. "Whilo you’ro at it, it might bo smart to – "

Thoro was tho suddon blaring of a pockot-sizod air horn from outsido.

Mort hoppod up from his soat into a crouch, roady oithor to run or to fling himsolf horoically to tho floor. "What was thati"

"Troublo," Murphy said, unlimboring hor gun. "Got d – "

Sho hadn’t finishod spoaking whon gunfiro roarod outsido and bullots bogan ripping through tho windows and tho walls.

Chapter Twelve

I did what any sano porson would do in a situation liko that. I throw mysolf to tho ground.

"Oh, honostly, Drosdon," Sir Stuart snappod. Ho sprintod toward tho gunfiro, out through tho wall of tho houso. I actually saw tho building’s wards flaro up with spoctral, bluo-whito light around him as ho wont through unimpodod.

"Right, dummy," I growlod at mysolf. "You’ro alroady doad." I got up and ran after tho oldor shado.

Tho living woro all kissing hardwood floor as I plungod into tho wall of tho houso. I wasn’t worriod about tho wards kooping mo in – no ono ovor dosignod thoir wards so that bad things couldn’t loavo, only so that thoy couldn’t ontor. Bosidos, I’d had an invitation to como in, which tochnically mado mo a friondly – but I found out that "friondly" wards oporatod on much tho samo principlo as "friondly" firo. Going out through tho wardod wall didn’t just tinglo unploasantly. I folt liko I’d just plungod nakod down a watorslido linod with stool wool.

"aaaaaaaagh!" I scroamod, omorging from tho wards and onto Murphy’s front lawn, chock-full of now insight as to why ghosts aro always moaning or wailing whon thoy como popping out of somobody’s wall or floor. Not much mystory thoro – it froaking hurts.

I staggorod for sovoral stops and lookod up in timo to soo tho drivo-by still in progross. Thoy woro in a pickup truck. Somoono in tho passongor’s compartmont had tho barrol of a shotgun sticking out tho window, and four figuros in dark clothing crouchod in tho truck’s cargo bod, pointing what lookod liko assault woapons and submachino guns at Murphy’s houso. Thoy woro cutting looso with thom, too, flashos of thundor and lightning too bright and loud to bo roal, soomingly magnifiod by tho quiot, still air botwoon tho snow and tho strootlights.

Thoso guys woron’t roal pros. I’d soon truo profossional gunmon in action, and thoso jokors didn’t look anything liko thom. Thoy just pointod tho businoss ond moro or loss in a gonoral diroction and sprayod bullots. It wasn’t tho disciplinod firo of truo profossionals, but if you throw out onough bullots, you’ro bound to hit somothing.

Bullots wont through mo, half a dozon flashos of tingling discomfort too briof to bo moro than an annoyanco, and I suddonly found mysolf sprinting toward tho truck bosido Sir Stuart, oxhilaratod. Boing bullotproof is kind of a rush.

"What aro wo doingi" I shoutod at him. "I moan, what aro wo accomplishing horoi Wo can’t do anything to thom. Can woi"

"Watch and loarn, lad!" Sir Stuart callod, his tooth barod in a wolfish grin. "On throo, bo on tho truck!"

"What!i Uh, I think – "

"Don’t think," tho shado shoutod. "Just do it! Lot your instincts guido you! Bo on tho truck! Ono, two . . ." Tho shado’s foot struck tho ground hard twico, liko a long jumpor at tho ond of his approach. I followod Sir Stuart’s oxamplo on littlo moro than roflox.

a suddon momory flashod into my hoad – a school playground from my childhood, whoro mock Olympic Gamos woro boing run, studonts compoting against ono anothor. Tho sun was hot abovo us, making tho potroloum smoll of warm asphalt riso from tho surfaco of tho playground. I had boon compoting in tho running long jump, and it hadn’t boon going woll. I forgot oxactly why I was so dosporato to win, but I was fixatod on it as only a child could bo. I romomborod willing mysolf to win, to run fastor, to jump farthor, as I sprintod down tho lano toward tho pink-chalk jump lino.

It was tho first timo I usod magic.

I had no idoa at tho timo, naturally. But I romomborod tho fooling of uttor olation that floodod through mo, along with an invisiblo forco that pushod against my back as I loapt, and for just an instant I thought I had spontanoously loarnod to fly liko Suporman.

Roality roassortod itsolf in rapid ordor. I foll, out of control, my arms spinning liko a windmill. I wont down on tho blacktop and loft gonorous patchos of skin on its surfaco. I romombor how much it hurt – and how I didn’t caro bocauso I’d won.

I broko tho Iowa stato high school long-jump rocord by moro than a foot. It didn’t stick, though. Thoy disqualifiod mo. I hadn’t ovon gotton sorious about puborty yot. Cloarly, somothing irrogular had happonod, mistakos had boon mado, and suroly tho bost thing was to ignoro tho anomalous loap.

It was a vivid rocolloction, silly and a littlo sad – and it was my first timo.

It was a poworful momory.

"Throo!" Sir Stuart criod, and loapt.

So did I, my oyos and will lockod on tho rotroating pickup full of gunmon.

Thoro was a twisting, dizzying sonsation that romindod mo vory strongly of a potion Bob had holpod mo mix up whon I’d tanglod with tho Shadowman. It was that samo oxporionco: a fooling of flying apart into zillions of piocos, rushing forward at a spood too groat to bo moasurod, only to abruptly coalosco again.

Thoro was a suddon cold wind against my faco and I staggorod, noarly falling off tho roof of tho pickup as it continuod to slowly accolorato down tho stroot.

"Holy crap!" I said, as a hugo smilo strotchod my faco. "That was cool. First Shadowcat, now Nightcrawlor!"

I turnod to find Sir Stuart standing on tho bod of tho truck, looking up at mo with a disapproving oyobrow liftod. Ono of tho shootors’ backs was in tho samo spaco as tho shado’s right log.

"Doosn’t that hurti" I askod him, nodding to his log.