It moved with a kind of shuffling grace, as if it had no real weight and needed only to touch the ground to propel itself forward with its toes. It made a sound as it came, a hollow, rattling, muted gasp. It was the sound of an agonized scream that had long since run out of breath to propel it-but tried to continue anyway.
It got closer to me, and I felt colder as it did.
"Get back," I snapped. "I mean it."
The creature came forward with another little touch of its toes to the earth, as mindless and graceful as a hungry jellyfish, and a hell of a lot creepier.
I took a pair of quick steps back and said, "Fine. Be that way." I lifted my right hand, drew in my will, and snarled, "Fuego." "Fuego."
And nothing-nothing at all all-happened.
There was no stirring of forces deep inside me. There was no current of equal parts giddy excitement, vibrating tension, and raw lightning flashing through my thoughts. There was no flash of white-hot flame that would have incinerated the apparition coming toward me.
There was no magic.
There was no magic.
"Oh, crap," I choked and reeled back as the thing's fingers raked at me with deathly grace, the sound of its strangled scream growing higher pitched. Its fingers didn't end in nails. They just sort of trailed off into drifting shreds that were surrounded by deadly cold.
Behind me, there was a mechanical sound, click-clack click-clack, of a large, halfcocked trigger being pulled fully back and ready to fire.
I whirled my head around in time to see Stu's enormous old gun snap up to aim directly at the end of my nose. I'm sure its barrel wasn't actually as big as a train tunnel, but at the moment it sure as hell looked like it.
I felt the wave of cold intensify against my back, and by the time Stu shouted, "Get down!" I was already halfway to the ground.
I hit hard-apparently being insubstantial didn't free me from the laws of gravity or the discomfort of its unwavering enforcement-at the same time that Stu's pistol went off.
Everything happened in dreamtime, slowly enough for me to see every detail, but so swiftly that I felt that no matter how fast I moved, I would not be able to keep up. I was expecting the crack of a pistol round, or even the hollow whump whump of a large-bore black-powder weapon. What I got was a roar that sounded like it had been distorted by a dozen different DJs and a mile of train tunnel. The standard plume of black-powder smoke didn't emerge from the barrel. Instead, expanding concentric rings of pastel mist puffed out, swirling at their center as if pulled into following the contrail of the bullet. of a large-bore black-powder weapon. What I got was a roar that sounded like it had been distorted by a dozen different DJs and a mile of train tunnel. The standard plume of black-powder smoke didn't emerge from the barrel. Instead, expanding concentric rings of pastel mist puffed out, swirling at their center as if pulled into following the contrail of the bullet.
The bullet itself was no lump of lead. It was a sphere of multicolored light that looked nearly big enough to be a golf ball. It went by a couple of feet over my head, and I swear it felt like I'd gotten a mild sunburn just from being close to it. A deep tone, like the thrumming of an amplified bass-guitar string, emanated from the sphere, vibrating through my flesh and against my bones.
I turned my head in time to see the sphere smash against the chest of the attacking apparition. The not-bullet plunged into its body, tearing a hole the size of my fist in its chest. A cloud of something that looked like steam poured out of the creature. Light kindled within it, almost like an old movie projector playing upon the vapor, and I suddenly saw a flicker of shadowy images, all of them dim, warped, twisted, as if someone had made a clips reel from the random strips of celluloid from the cuttingroom floor.
The images grew steadily dimmer, until there was nothing left but a thinning cloud of mist. It wasn't until then that I saw that the grey form was gradually sagging, like a waterskin being slowly emptied.
The mists vanished. All that was left of the grey creature was an ugly, colorless lump on the ground.
Firm bootsteps came down the walkway from the porch, and Stu placed himself between me and the thing, whatever it had been. Though his hands were reloading the pistol, complete with powder horn and a short ramrod, his eyes swept up and down the street around us.
"What the hell was that?" I asked.
"Wraith," he said quietly, with a certain professional detachment in his voice. "A ghost, like you or me, who gave in to despair and gave up his sense of self-reason."
"Dangerous?"
"Extremely so," Stu said. He turned to look down at me. "Especially to someone like you."
"Like me?"
"A fresh shade. You've a paucity of experience in learning to defend yourself here. And it is all but impossible for a fresh shade such as yourself to hide: There is a sense of life that clings to you." He frowned. "To you especially."
"Because I'm a wizard, maybe."
Stu nodded. "Likely, likely."
"What would have happened if ... ?" I gestured at the wraith's remains.
"It would have devoured your memories," Stu said calmly.
I considered that for a moment and studied the remains almost wistfully. "I don't know. I've got some I wouldn't mind losing."
Stu slid his readied pistol back into his belt. "For shades, memories are life, sustenance, and power. We are are memories now, wizard." memories now, wizard."
"The images in the mist," I said. "When it was ... was dying. They were its memories?"
"Aye. What was left of them." Stu moved forward and crouched over the remains. He held out his hand, palm down over them, and took a deep breath. After a few heartbeats, glowing mist began to rise from the wraith's remains. It snaked through the air and into Stu's chest, flowing into him like water into a pool. When it was complete, he stood again and let out a sigh.
Whatever had struck the wraith, it had evidently been made of the same substance as Sir Stuart. If ghosts, then, were memories ... "The bullet," I said. "You made it out of a memory?"
"Naturally," he said. His expression filled with a gentle, distant sorrow. "A strong one. I'll make it into another bullet at some point."
"Thank you," I said. "For helping me."
"I must admit, I did not put the poor brute down exclusively for your sake, wizard. You represent a feast for any wraith. Fresh from the world of the living, still with a touch of vitality upon you, and full to bursting with fresh, unfaded memories. The wraith that ate you would become powerful-a dire, fell creature indeed. One that could threaten the world of the living as easily as it could the world of spirit. I won't have that."
"Oh," I said. "Thanks anyway."
Stu nodded and offered me his hand. I took it, rose, and said, "I need to talk to Mort."
Even as I spoke, I saw two more wraiths appear from the darkness. I checked behind me and saw more coming, drifting with effortless motions and deceptive speed.
"If you get me inside Mort's threshold, I'll be safe from them," I said, nodding to the wraiths. "I don't know how to defend myself against them. They'll kill me. And if that happens, you'll have that monster wraith on your hands."
"Not if I kill you first," Stu said calmly, tapping a finger on the handle of his pistol.
I turned my head slightly to one side, eyeing him, studying his face. "Nah," I said. "Won't happen."
"How would you know, spook?" he asked in a flat voice. But he couldn't keep the smile out of his eyes.
"I'm a wizard," I said, infusing my voice with portentous undertones. "We have our ways."
He remained silent, expression stern, but his eyes danced.
I sobered. "And those wraiths are getting closer, man."
Stu snorted and said, "The wraiths are always getting closer." Then he drew his pistol and pointed it at my chest. "I hereby take you prisoner, late wizard. Keep your hands in plain sight, follow all my verbal instructions, and we'll do splendidly."
I showed him my hands. "Oh. Uh. Okay."
Stu nodded sharply. "About face, then. Let's go talk to the little bald man."
Chapter Four
I followed Stu through the front door (dammit, tingle, ouch), and paused on the other side to consider that fact for a moment. Only a member of the household's family could issue an invitation that would let an immaterial entity past the home's threshold. followed Stu through the front door (dammit, tingle, ouch), and paused on the other side to consider that fact for a moment. Only a member of the household's family could issue an invitation that would let an immaterial entity past the home's threshold.
So. Sir Stuart was practically family around Mort's place. Unless he was literal family. Hauntings, after all, have historically been known to remain with a specific family lineage. Could Stu be one of Mort's ancestors, here to watch out for his familial posterity? Or had the little ectomancer always possessed an odd sort of family, one I had never known about?
Interesting. It would be wise to keep my eyes open.
The house looked much different. What had been a cheesily staged seance room had become a living room with a sofa, love seat, and comfortable chairs. I'd seen only part of the rest of the house, but as I walked with Sir Stuart, I could see that the dismal little den of a house had been renovated, redecorated, and otherwise made more beautiful. Stu guided me to a room that was part library, part office, with a fire crackling in the fireplace.
Mortimer Lindquist seemed to have finally given in to the inevitable. I'd seen him with a bad toupee, and with an even worse comb-over, but this was the first time I'd seen him sporting a full-on Charles Xavier. The unbroken shine of his pate looked a lot better than the partial coverage. He'd lost weight, too, since last I'd seen him. I mean, he wasn't going to be modeling for Abercrombie & Fitch or anything, but he'd definitely dropped from self-destructively obese down to merely stout. He was in his early fifties, under five and a half feet tall, and dressed in black slacks and a grey silk shirt, and he wore little square-rimmed spectacles.
He sat at his table, a deck of playing cards spread out in front of him in what could be either a fortune-telling through the cards or a game of solitaire-they tended to have about the same amount of significance, in my experience.
"Did I hear a shot, Sir Stuart?" Mort asked absently, staring intently at the cards. Then his hands froze in the act of dealing another, and he shot to his feet, whirling to face me. "Oh, perfect perfect."
"Hiya, Morty," I said.
"This is not happening," Mort said, promptly getting up from the table and walking quickly toward another room. "This just can't be happening. No one is this this unlucky." unlucky."
I hurried forward, trying to keep up, and followed him into a hallway. "I need to talk to-"
"I don't care care," Mort said, his arms crossing each other in a slashing, pushing-away gesture, never stopping. "I do not not see you. I am see you. I am not not listening to you, Dresden. It's not enough that you have to keep dragging me into things in life. So now your stupid ghost shows up to do it, too? No. Whatever it is, no." listening to you, Dresden. It's not enough that you have to keep dragging me into things in life. So now your stupid ghost shows up to do it, too? No. Whatever it is, no."
We entered a kitchen, where I found Sir Stuart already present, his arms folded, leaning back against a wall with a quiet smile as he watched. Mort went to a large cookie jar, opened it, and took out a single Oreo before replacing the lid.
"Morty, come on, it's never been like that," I said. "I've come to ask your help a couple of times because you're a capable professional and-"
"Bullshit," Mort snapped, spinning to face me, his eyes flashing. "Dresden came to me when he was so desperate he might as well try any old loser."
I winced. His summation of our relationship was partially true. But not entirely. "Morty, please."
"Morty, what what?" he snapped back. "You've got to be kidding me. I am not not getting involved in whatever international crisis you mean to perpetrate next." getting involved in whatever international crisis you mean to perpetrate next."
"It's not like I've got a lot of choice in the matter, man. It's you or no one. Please. Just hear me out."
He barked out an incredulous little laugh. "No, you hear me me out, shade. out, shade. No No means 'no.' It isn't happening. It isn't ever going to happen. I said means 'no.' It isn't happening. It isn't ever going to happen. I said no no!" And then he slammed the door to the next room in my face.
"Dammit, Morty," I snarled, and braced myself for the plunge through his door after him.
"Dresden, st-!" Sir Stuart said.
Too late. I slammed my nose and face into the door and fell backward onto my ass like a perfect idiot. My face began to throb immediately, swelling with pain that felt precisely normal, identical to that of any dummy who walked into a solid oak door.
"-op," Sir Stuart finished. He sighed, and offered me a hand up. I took it and he hauled me to my feet. "Ghost dust mixed into the paint inside the room," he explained. "No spirit can pass through it."
"I'm familiar with it," I muttered, and felt annoyed that I hadn't thought of the idea before, as an additional protection against hostile spirits at my own apartment. To the beings of the immaterial, ghost dust was incontrovertible solidity. Thrown directly at a ghost, it would cause tremendous pain and paralyze it for a little while, as if the spook had been suddenly loaded down with an incredible and unexpected weight. If I'd put it all over my walls, it would have turned them into a solid obstacle to ghosts and their ilk, shutting them out with obdurate immobility.
Of course, my recipe had used depleted uranium dust, which would have made it just a tad silly to spread around the interior of my apartment.
Not that it mattered. My apartment was gone, taken when a Molotov cocktail, hurled by a vampire assassin, had burned the boardinghouse to the ground along with most of my worldly possessions. Only a few had been left, hidden away. God knew where they were now.
I suppose I couldn't really count that as a loss, all things considered. Material possessions aren't much use to a dead man.
I lifted a hand to my nose, wincing and expecting to find it rebroken. No such thing had happened, though a glob of some kind of runny, transparent, gelatinous liquid smeared the back of my hand. "Hell's bells. I'm bleeding ectoplasm?"
That drew a smile from the late marine. "Ghosts generally do. You'll have to forgive him, Dresden. He can be very slow to understand things at times."
"I don't have time to wait for him to catch on," I said. "I need his help."
Sir Stuart grinned some more. "You aren't going to get it by standing there repeating yourself like a broken record. Repeating yourself like a broken record. Repeating yourself like a broken-"
"Ha-ha," I said without enthusiasm. "People who cared about me are going to get hurt if I can't act."
Sir Stuart pursed his lips. "It seems to me that if your demise was to leave someone vulnerable, something would have happened to them already. It's been six months, after all."
I felt my jaw drop open. "W-what? Six months months?"
The ghost nodded. "Today is the ninth of May, to be precise."
I stared at him, flabbergasted. Then I turned, put my back against Morty's impenetrable door, and used it to stay upright as I sank to the ground. "Six months months?"
"Yes."
"That's not ..." I knew I was just gabbling my stream of thought, but I couldn't seem to stop myself from talking. "That's not right. It can't be right. I was dead dead for less than a freaking for less than a freaking hour hour. What kind of Rip van Winkle bullshit is this this?"
Sir Stuart watched me, his expression serious and untroubled. "Time has little meaning to us now, Dresden, and it's very easy to become unattached to it. I once lost five years listening to a Pink Floyd album."
"There is snow snow a foot and a half a foot and a half deep deep on the on the ground ground," I said, pointing in a random direction. "In May May?"
His voice turned dry. "The television station Mortimer watches theorizes that it is due to person-made, global climate change."
I was going to say something insulting, maybe even offensive, but just then the rippling sound of metallic wind chimes tinkled through the air. They were joined seconds later by more and more of the same, until the noise was considerable.
"What's that?" I asked.
Sir Stuart turned and walked back the way we'd come, and I hurried to follow. In the next room over, a dozen sets of wind chimes hung from the ceiling. All of them were astir, whispering and singing even though there was no air moving through the room.
Sir Stuart's hand went to his ax, and I suddenly understood what I was looking at.