I stopped in my tracks and shook my head as if to clear water from my eyes. "Dresden, have your personal existential crisis later. The bad guys are obviously working hard. Get your ass in gear."
Good advice, that.
The question was, How?
Normally, I would have tracked Molly down with a fairly simple piece of thaumaturgy I'd done a thousand times. After her unplanned vacation to Arctis Tor, in Faerie, I had always been sure to keep a fairly recent lock of her hair handy. And more recently, I'd found I could get a fix on all the energy patterns she used to make her first few independent magical tools-like the hair, they were something specific and unique to her and her alone. A signature. I could be pretty sure to find her when I needed to do so. Hell, for that matter, I'd spent so much time around her that she had become almost like family. I could generally tell by pure intuition when she was nearby, as long as she wasn't actively trying to hide herself.
That, of course, had all been when I had magic. Now I didn't.
Which was, upon thinking about it, probably another bit of evidence in favor of Stuart and Mort's theory, and against mine. You can't take magic away from a person. It's a part of who and what they are. They can abandon it, if they work at it hard enough, but you can't strip it out of them. If my ghost had truly been me, it would have had power, just as that bastard Leonid Kravos's ghost had.
Right?
Or ... maybe not. Maybe I'd been making more assumptions without ever questioning them. I had already assumed that matter was solid when it wasn't; that I could get cold, which I couldn't; and that I was still beholden to the laws of gravity, which I wasn't.
Maybe I'd made the same assumptions about magic. I mean, after all, I had thrown a solid shield spell during the first attack on Mort's place, when I had been sharing space with the ectomancer. That That would seem to show that my talent was still there, still real. would seem to show that my talent was still there, still real.
I just had to figure out how to access it.
Memories are power.
I dug into my duster's pocket and drew out the massive pistol Sir Stuart had given me. Black-powder weaponry isn't my thing, but I made sure there was nothing in the priming pan before turning it barrel down and shaking it. I had to give it several hard thumps with the heel of my hand to get the ball, wad, and powder to spill out into my palm.
The ball, the bullet, gleamed as if newly molded. Upon closer look, fine swirls on the surface of the metal took on the shapes of a simple, pastoral scene: a colonial-style home in the middle of a little green valley surrounded by apple trees; clean, neat cropland; and a pasture dotted with white sheep. Just looking at it seemed to give the scene life. Wind stirred the crops. Apples stood out like specks of bright green against the darker leaves. Lambs gamboled among adult members of the flock, playing for the pure joy of it. The door to the house opened, and a tall, straightbacked woman with hair blacker than a raven's wing emerged from the house, trailing a small cloud of children, clearly giving calm instructions.
With the sight, a flood of emotions coursed through me. A fierce and jealous pride of possession-not pride that I owned such a beautiful home, but that the home was beautiful because because I owned it, because I had made it so. Mixed with that was an ocean-deep surge of love for the woman and her children, raw happiness at seeing them-and a heavy, entirely pleasurable surge of desire for the woman, whom I had not held in far too long- I owned it, because I had made it so. Mixed with that was an ocean-deep surge of love for the woman and her children, raw happiness at seeing them-and a heavy, entirely pleasurable surge of desire for the woman, whom I had not held in far too long- I suddenly felt that I had intruded upon something personal and intimate. I closed my eyes and looked away from the scene.
Memories, I realized. These were all things from Sir Stuart's mortal memories. This memory was what he had cast forth against that wraith the first time I met him. He hadn't used memories of destruction as his weapon, but those of identity, of the reasons reasons he was willing to fight. he was willing to fight.
That was why as a ghost he still used that ax, this pistol. Far more modern weapons were available to copy, but his his memories were of himself using those weapons, and so they were the source of his power, the embodiment of his will to change what was around him. memories were of himself using those weapons, and so they were the source of his power, the embodiment of his will to change what was around him.
They were Sir Stuart's identity. They were also his magic.
Memories equaled power.
For a moment, I thought it couldn't be that simple. But a lot of magic is actually disgustingly simple-which is not to be confused with easy.
There was only one way to find out.
The first spell I'd ever done had been during that long-ago class Olympics-but that was spontaneous, accidental magic, hardly worthy of the term. The first conscious spell I'd knowingly worked, fully planned, fully visualized, fully realized, had been calling forth a burst of fire.
Justin DuMorne had shown me how it worked.
I plunged into the memory.
"I don't understand," I complained, rubbing at my aching temples. "It didn't work the first fifty times. It isn't going to work now."
"Forty-six times," Justin corrected me, his voice very precise, like always. He had an accent, but I couldn't figure out which kind it was. I hadn't heard one like it on TV. Not that Justin had a TV. I had to sneak out on Friday nights to watch it in the store at the mall, or else face the real risk that I'd miss Knight Rider Knight Rider altogether. altogether.
"Harry," Justin said.
"Okay," I sighed. "My head hurts."
"It's natural. You're blazing new trails in your mind. Once more, please."
"Couldn't I blaze the trails somewhere else?"
Justin looked up at me from where he sat at his desk. We were in his office, which was what he called the spare bedroom in the little house about twenty miles outside Des Moines. He was dressed in black pants and a dark grey shirt, like on most days. His beard was short, precisely trimmed. He had very long, slender fingers, but his hands could make fists that were hard as rocks. He was taller than me, which most grownups were, and he never called me anything mean when he got mad, which most of the foster parents I'd been with did.
If I angered Justin, he just went from saying please please to using his fists. He never swung at me while screaming or shook me, which other caretakers had done. When he hit me, it was really quick and precise, and then it was over. Like when Bruce Lee hit a guy. Only Justin never made the silly noises. to using his fists. He never swung at me while screaming or shook me, which other caretakers had done. When he hit me, it was really quick and precise, and then it was over. Like when Bruce Lee hit a guy. Only Justin never made the silly noises.
I ducked my head, looking away from him, and then stared at the empty fireplace. I was sitting in front of it with my legs crossed. There were logs and tinder ready to go. There was a faint smell of smoke, and a bit of wadded-up newspaper had turned black at one corner, but otherwise there was no evidence of a fire.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Justin turn back to his book. "Once more, if you please."
I sighed. Then I closed my eyes and started focusing again. You started with steadying your breathing. Then once you were relaxed and ready, you gathered energy. Justin had told me to picture it as a ball of light at the center of my chest, slowly growing brighter and brighter, but that was a load of crap. When the Silver Surfer did it, energy gathered around his hands and his eyes. Green Lantern gathered it around his ring. Iron Fist had glowing fists, which was pretty much as cool as you could get. I guess Iron Man had the glowing thing in the middle of his chest, but he was, like, the only one, and he didn't really have superpowers anyway.
I pictured gathering my energy together around my right hand. So there.
I pictured it glowing brighter and brighter, surrounded by a red aura like Iron Fist's. I felt the power making tingling sensations up and down my arms, making my hairs stand up on end. And when I was ready, I leaned forward, thrusting my hand into the fireplace, released the energy, and said clearly, "Sedjet." "Sedjet."
And as I spoke, I flicked the starter on the Bic lighter I had palmed in my right hand. The little lighter immediately set the newspaper alight.
From right next to me, Justin said, "Put it out."
I twitched and dropped the lighter in pure surprise. My heart started beating about a zillion times a minute.
His fingers closed into a fist. "I don't like to repeat myself."
I swallowed and reached into the fireplace to drag the burning paper out from under the wood. It singed me a little, but not enough to cry about or anything. I slapped the fire out with my hands, my cheeks turning bright red as I did.
"Give me the lighter," Justin said, his voice calm.
I bit my lip and did.
He took the lighter and bounced it a couple of times in his palm. A faint smile was on his lips. "Harry, I believe you will find that such ingenuity may be of great service to you as an adult." The smile vanished. "But you are not an adult, boy. You are a student. This sort of underhanded behavior will not do. At all."
He closed his fist and hissed, "Sedjet." "Sedjet."
His hand exploded into a sphere of scarlet-and-blue flame-which pretty much made Iron Fist's powers look a little bit pastel. I stared and swallowed. My heart beat even faster.
Justin rotated his hand a few times, contemplating it, and making sure that I saw his whole fist and arm-that I could see it wasn't sleight of hand. It was completely surrounded in fire.
And it wasn't burning.
Justin held his fist right next to my face, until the heat was beginning to make me uncomfortable, but he never flinched and his flesh remained unharmed.
"If you choose it, this is what you may one day manage," he said calmly. "Mastery of the elements. And, more important, mastery of yourself."
"Um," I said. "What?"
"Humans are inherently weak, boy," he continued in that same steady voice. "That weakness expresses itself in a great many ways. For instance, right now you wish to stop practicing and go outside. Even though you know that what you learn here is absolutely critical, still your impulse is to put play first, study later." He opened his hand suddenly and dropped the lighter in my lap.
I flinched away as it struck my leg, and let out a little yell. But the red plastic lighter simply lay on the floor, unmarked by any heat. I touched it with a nervous fingertip, but the lighter was quite cool.
"Right now," Justin said, "you are making a choice. It may not seem like a large and terrible choice, but in the long term, it may well be. You are choosing whether you will be the master of your own fate, with the power to create what you will from the world-or whether you will simply flick your Bic and get by. Unremarkable. Complacent." His mouth twisted and his voice turned bitter. "Mediocre. Mediocrity is a terrible fate, Harry."
My hand hovered over the lighter, but I didn't pick it up. I thought about what he had said. Then I said, "What you mean is that if I can't do it ... you'll send me back."
"Success or failure of the spell is not the issue," he said. "What matters is the success or failure of your will. Your will to overcome human weakness. Your will to work. To learn. I will have no shirkers here, boy." He settled down onto the floor next to me and nodded toward the fireplace. "Again, if you please."
I stared at him for a moment, then down at my hand, at the discarded lighter.
No one had ever told me I was special before. But Justin had. No one had ever taken so much time to do anything with me. Ever. Justin had.
I thought of going back into the state system-to the homes, the shelters, the orphanages. And suddenly, I truly wanted to succeed. I wanted it more than I wanted dinner, more even than I wanted to watch Knight Rider Knight Rider. I wanted Justin to be proud of me.
I left the lighter where it was and focused on my breathing.
I built up the spell again, slowly, slowly, focusing on it more intently than on anything I'd ever done in my life. And I was nearly thirteen, so that was really saying something.
The energy swelled until I felt like someone had started a trash fire in my belly, and then I willed it out, through my empty, outstretched right hand, and as I did, instead of using the Egyptian phrase, I said, "Flickum bicus!" "Flickum bicus!"
And the remaining tinder under the logs burst into bright little flames. I didn't think I'd ever seen anything more beautiful.
I sagged and almost fell over, even though I was already sitting on the floor. My body suddenly ached with hunger and weariness, like this one time when all us orphans had gotten to go to a water park. I wanted to eat a bucket of macaroni and cheese and then go to sleep.
A strong, long-fingered hand caught my shoulder and steadied me. I looked up to see Justin regarding me, his dark eyes flickering with warmth that wasn't wholly the reflection of the small but growing fire in the hearth.
"Flickum bicus?" he asked.
I nodded and felt myself blushing again. "You know. 'Cause ... the mediocrity."
He tilted his head back and let out a rolling laugh. He ruffled my hair with one hand and said, "Well-done, Harry. Well-done."
My chest swelled up so much I thought I was going to bounce off the ceiling.
Justin held up a finger, went to his desk, and returned with a brown paper package. He offered it to me.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Yours," he said. "You've done the work after all."
I blinked and then tore the package open. Inside was a Wilson baseball mitt.
I stared for several seconds. No one had ever given me a present before-not one that was meant for me, and not just some random, charity-donated Christmas package with a label that said: FOR: BOY. And it was an excellent glove. George Brett had one just like it. I'd been to two Kansas City Royals baseball games on field trips when I was little, and they were awesome. So was Brett.
"Thank you," I said quietly. Oh, come on. Now Now I was gonna cry? Sometimes I thought I was kinda goofy. I was gonna cry? Sometimes I thought I was kinda goofy.
Justin produced a baseball, a brand-new one that was still all white, and held it up, smiling. "If you're up for it, we can go outside right now."
I felt really tired and hungry, but I had a brand-new glove! I shoved my hand into it until I figured out where all my fingers were supposed to go. "Yes," I said, pushing myself up. "Let's do it."
Justin bounced the ball up and down in his hand a couple of times and grinned at me. "Good. When all is done, I think you'll find baseball a rewarding experience."
I followed him outside. It didn't matter that I was tired. I was practically floating.
I opened my eyes, standing on a random Chicago sidewalk, immaterial and unseen. I turned my right hand palm up and focused upon that sudden kindling of light and hope, crystallized by the memory of that moment of triumph and joy.
"Flickum bicus," I whispered. I whispered.
The fire was every bit as beautiful as I remembered.
Chapter Twenty-one
It took me a couple of hours to work out how to make my trusty tracking spell function. I easily found several memories that I could use to power the spell; it was figuring out how to create the link to Molly that was hard. Usually, I would use one of the trusty traditional methods for directing thaumaturgy-a lock of hair, a fresh drop of blood, fingernail clippings, et cetera. That wasn't going to work, obviously. I couldn't touch them, even if I had them.
So instead of tracking Molly with physical links, I tried using memories memories of her in their place. It worked-sort of. The first tracking spell led me to the hotel that had once hosted a horror convention known as SplatterCon! It was closed now, and deserted. I guess maybe all the deaths at SplatterCon! had taken a toll on the hotel in the civil-court cases that followed the phobophage attacks. I took a quick spin through the place, hardly even flinching before I stomped through one wall after another. Except for a few transients who had broken into the building and were squatting there, I found nothing. of her in their place. It worked-sort of. The first tracking spell led me to the hotel that had once hosted a horror convention known as SplatterCon! It was closed now, and deserted. I guess maybe all the deaths at SplatterCon! had taken a toll on the hotel in the civil-court cases that followed the phobophage attacks. I took a quick spin through the place, hardly even flinching before I stomped through one wall after another. Except for a few transients who had broken into the building and were squatting there, I found nothing.
I went back over my work. The memory I'd used was one that had stuck in my head for some reason, of Molly here in this building. That must have thrown off the spell. It had homed in on this place because it had been part of the memory I used to create the link.
I tried again, this time omitting the background and picturing only Molly against an empty field of black. This second attempt took me to a police station from which I had once posted bail for Molly's boyfriend. I figured I'd bungled the spell somehow, but took a quick look around anyway, just in case. No Molly.
"Okay, smart guy," I said to myself. "So what if the memory-image you're using is too old? You're tracking her memory-self to a memorylocation. Which means you have to think of her as as she is now to find she is now to find where where she is now. Right? she is now. Right?
"Theoretically," I said to myself.
"Right. So test the theory."
Well, obviously. Although discussing a problem with yourself is almost never a good way to secure a divergent viewpoint.
"In fact, talking to yourself is often considered a sign of impending insanity," I noted aloud.