Tag: never return

I’m going to try to finish this tomorrow. Fortunately, I already did my short story for the month on Patreon, so there’s that.

 The ghost screamed again, this time a howl of protest that made the air visibly shiver and smashed glass. But even as it screamed, it also receded, pulling itself into itself until it was a globe of black that imploded as I watched.

At least, I assumed it imploded. I did not see directly, as I was diving behind the sofa at the time. Judging from the sudden psychic wind that pulsed above my head, that was wise of me. The stink of curdled magic is wretchedly difficult to get out of one’s hair or clothes.

Curwin popped his head up at the same time I did (he had flipped the shoddy table in the even shoddier kitchen). “So,” he managed after a moment. “What was that, then?”

It’s getting close to being done.

The first warning I had — a faint crinkling as windows and mirrors cracked — had my fingers up in a defensive ward before I quite realized what had happened. That kept the sudden biting cold from gnawing on my brain, which would do until I could lock and reinforce the ward.

Curwin blinked, then shivered as he instinctively moved to my side. I found myself quite glad of his proximity; defensive charm or not, the windowpanes were growing hoarfrost at an alarming rate.

“How long before it happens?” Curwin’s voice was surprisingly loud in the room, and I noticed that his tonfa was glowing, again. I oddly wondered how often the Boston police replaced them.

“If it had been a spell, it’d have happened and been done by now.” I shook my head, grunting in the most ladylike manner possible as I locked the ward in place. “But this is a manifestation, so it depends on how powerful the spirit is.”

“Right, not a ghost.” Curwin sounded in good humor, thankfully, and I presumed through an enviable ignorance. “They can’t generate this kind of cold for long.”

“Well, technically it is just sucking heat out of the area — ah, perhaps later.” An entity was unfolding itself in the air above the pile of books I had turned into an impromptu focus. I frowned at the energies, which felt different somehow, and yet familiar…

I kind of like these characters.

“I would have thought the wages of sin would have stretched farther,” I observed as Curwin and I assessed the late David Shane’s apartment. No, that is not true. I sniffed, and regretted it instantly. I have an inclination to dismiss, and I dislike that about me. It is a bad state of mind for a necromancer to fall into.

Fortunately, Curwin did not notice. Or else he agreed with me, because indeed this was not a very imposing domicile. This part of Boston was hardly fashionable; a hundred years ago it was just past the edge of the suburbian wildness that we are still clearing, seven hundred years after the end of the First Republic. Now it was a collection of badly-aging cheap apartments and stolid factories, providing shelter, wages, and nothing more. Not the sort of place I would associate with an antiquarian, however self-taught.

Curwin chuckled when I pointed that out. “Think of it this way, Mistress Dexter. For every dollar he saved on rent, he could buy another book.” He opened the door to what I thought was a bedroom, and whistled. “Many, many books.”

Surprise tuckerization!

I took another stool, and poured myself a cup of tea. “It’s not a ghost, for one thing. No focus.” That got his attention, I noted. “Yes. Quite. I’m assuming a murder spirit, if only to save myself some time.”

“Ah. Is this related to the David Shane case?” He shrugged at my raised eyebrow. “I dig through different passages than you do, Sun. Some of them are all abuzz with news of a ghostlegger being slain by his prey. If it’s any consolation, the general sentiment about that news was ‘good riddance.’”

“Not well liked then, was he?”

“Ghostleggers rarely are, even by their colleagues. Shane in particular was a bit vexatious. He had money and knowledge, but few ethics and even fewer scruples. And he was not especially personable. That can all be a highly unpleasant combination.”

“Ah.” I sipped my tea. “This sounds like a personal observation.”

“Oh, it is. I don’t partake of ghostweed — filthy stuff, that — but the man was a regular customer of mine. Shane fancied himself an antiquarian. I suppose I should be fair to the dead, and admit that he was quite sound on the history of Boston.” Gallagher sipped his own tea. “Certainly the man bought enough books from me, both preserved and reconstituted. He didn’t care much about how they looked, as long as they could be read.”

Actually making good progress! This will not be a novelette.

But with the ward now anchored (and no longer drawing power from my own magic, which was both good and bad), I could more freely use my potent spells. The great weakness of ghosts is that they require a focus. Wreck the focus, weaken the ghost. To do that you must first find the focus, which is the simplest thing in the world if you know the right spell. I do. Every schoolchild in the country studies it in school. It was the work of a moment to cast it…

… “Damnation,” I muttered (I do not apologize for the profanity, for it was quite apropos). “This is not a ghost.”

“What?” My two companions could not have echoed each other more fully if they had practiced.

“It’s not a ghost, gentlemen! It’s something else!” I prepared another spell, one not specific to specters, ghosts, spooks, or haunts. Hopefully, what it lacked in precision it would gain in unsubtlety. “When I blast it, ‘stand not on the order of your coming, but go at once!’”

This will probably be finished next week; it’ll be more than 3K words, but not too long. I have about three, four scenes left to write.

In the spiky shadows of the ward and Curwin’s tonfa the attacker was no more definable than a haze, roiling and oozing around itself. But it was a directed, twisted haze that hinted at ancient hungers — and a terrible, voracious need. I was shocked, honestly. How could something this powerful still exist in the United States? We had Soothed our portion of the East Coast centuries ago!

Fortunately, it was also not subtle: the enemy’s first attack was an attempt to batter down my ward with sheer force, which is obviously the exact thing that the spell is designed to counter. I still almost staggered as a whip of cloud-curdled magic smashed against my ward, scoring the ground in front of it as it recoiled and drew back.

“Stay inside the ward!” I shouted, my free hand twisting as I assembled another spell. “It’s a manifestation!”

The joke may be too obscure.

Well, you know, ignoring a problem never makes it better. Especially when a by-product of the problem is a pile of rotting rats.

Although ‘pile’ was the wrong word: the poor things had formed a rough circle before they died, and at least it didn’t look like they had suffered much. Their limbs were untwisted and there were no remains of froth or blood. If it weren’t for the smell, you might even think they were slipping.

“Hrm,” mused Marsh. “Where are the flies? — Do not say a word, Sunshine!”

I restrained my smirk with some difficulty. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Horace. But you are right. There should be flies. Flies, gnats, lice… maybe even a worm or two. But nothing is alive in this chamber, save us.”

I closed my eyes, to see how far this effect extended  — then snapped them open, instantly. “Back the way we came, and stay together! Something noticed my presence, and it is… very large.”

Getting there.

Grimoire House
The Next Morning

“You will forgive me for not explaining my meaning until the sun was in the sky,” I told Curwin. “It is bad, when the dead kill the living. It is even worse when you talk about their crimes where the dead can hear.”

“So that’s what this is, then? A murderous ghost?” Curwin looked dubious, and for good reason. “I am given to understand that such creatures would need to be extremely powerful, and extremely angry. Souls are not supposed to linger on this plane, are they not?”

“They are not.” I suppressed a smile. Marsh had arranged last night to have Curwin liaise with me in this investigation, and I was glad for both the company, and the help. The good lieutenant might not have had any significant magic on his own, but he had a useful grasp of theory. “It is no simple task to resist the pull to Eternity, and no sensible necromancer will allow a soul to linger overlong, for exactly this reason. With the power comes a certain recklessness, and spite. It’s not really the soul’s fault. Well, except for deciding to stay on this plane, I suppose.”

This wants to be more than 3K, but I shall be firm. For now.

At least we had one clue: the identity of our murder victim. “You came damned close, Sunshine,” Marsh told me as he pulled a sloppy folder out of his filing cabinet. “The dear departed was one David Shane. You can probably guess that he was known to the police.”

“If not quite by name,” I observed while opening the file. “Ah. He had an alias.” My eyebrows raised. “Many, many aliases.”

“He was in the sort of business where he’d need a few. Ghostlegger. You familiar with them, Lieutenant?”

“A bit,” Curwin admitted. “We’d get the odd addict from far foreign, looking for their fix of spookweed. Tobacco mixed with ghost-stuff, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Not souls, although ectohuffers would smoke them too, if only the perverts could. Strip a ghost of its old memories, mix the stuff up with whatever street-sweeping baccy’s around, and smoke somebody else’s life away. Hell of a high, I’ve heard the poor bastards say.” Marsh’s frown showed teeth. “Even more of a low, when you haven’t gotten any for a bit.”