Ghost Story (53 page)

I'm willing to share the least disturbing bits. The twins, for example, just leaned forward and seemed to
slither
sinuously through the air toward the foe. As they went, their bodies elongated, intertwined, and twisted into a single entity that looked like a demented artist's rendition of a battle between a giant squid and some kind of unnamed, deep-sea horror fish with too many spines and too many fins and great, googly-moogly eyes. They reached the nearest bad guy, bobbed up, and then slammed down with so much grace that I almost missed the fact that they'd smashed the wolfwaffen so hard into the ground that he was no thicker than my old checkbook. Tentacles shot out and ripped a rifle from the wolfwaffen next to the first, then plunged forward into its mouth and throat, in through its nostrils, in through its
ears
. A second later, they came whipping out again—along with slime-covered
chunks
of whatever they'd happened to be able to grab while they were in there. They pulled the creature's stomach out through its mouth, along with several feet of intestine—and then the tentacles whipped said loops of flesh around the wolfwaffen's neck and strangled it.

It got considerably less cheerful and humane from there.

Snarls, then screams, filled the steep little opening in the cliff wall. Ghosts, twisted into monstrous forms by decades of hollow, mindless hunger, fell upon the wolfwaffen in our way, uttering howls and squeals and clicks and screams, filling the air with a nightmare cacophony that left me slamming my palms up over my ears and biting down on a scream of pain.

The enemy fought at first, and those who did died swiftly. As more and more hideous
things
dealt with the wolfwaffen, their morale faltered and they began to run. Those that did died horribly. And, toward the end, overwhelmed by terror, a handful of the enemy could only stand, staring in horror, and screaming high and piteously.

Those last few died indescribably.

Ghosts don't get hungry,
I reminded myself.
Dead men don't eat.
So there was no reason whatsoever that I should throw up. The thought was hilarious for some reason, so I started laughing. I couldn't help it. I laughed and laughed, even as I realized that I couldn't just sit there—not having turned loose an elemental force of horror like the Lecters.

“Come on!” I said, giggling. “Come on, before they get out of earshot.” I staggered up and climbed the slope, Sir Stuart and the protector spirits following along behind me. It wasn't an easy climb. The Lecter Specters had left a lot of the wolfwaffen partly alive, or at least had left some of their
parts
alive, and blood and worse fluids were everywhere. The fortunate few, the fighters who had gone down fast, had become nothing but buckets of slimy ectoplasm.

Any way you looked at it, the climb was a messy, nauseating, dangerous one. But it was a whole heck of a lot less dangerous than if we'd been getting shot at the whole way.

I reached the top of the slope and looked across the long network of trenches that ran outside the bunkers, along the top of the cliff. There was intermittent gunfire. There were intermittent screams. As I watched, I saw a frantic, panicked wolfwaffen clamber out of the trench. It got about three-quarters of the way out before what looked like a slimy yellow tongue shot out of the trench, from below my line of sight, and plunged into its back—and out its chest. The impaling tongue then wrapped around the howling wolfwaffen and pulled it back into the trench with so much force that a puff of dust and dirt billowed out from wherever he impacted.

“Hell's bells,” I giggled. “Hell's bells. That's hideous.”

Sir Stuart nodded grimly. He made a gesture. Protector spirits began putting the nearby, hideously mangled wolfwaffen out of their misery.

I swatted myself firmly on the cheek and forced the laughter back. I felt myself trying to scream in horror once the laughter was damped down. The demonic servitors Evil Bob had put in position had probably been some very nasty customers. They had probably deserved a violent death.

But there are things you just don't do, things you just can't see, and still be both human and sane.

I forced the incipient screams away, too. It took me a minute or two to get it done. When I looked up, Sir Stuart was facing me, his eyes sad, concerned, and empathetic. He knew what I was feeling. He'd known it himself—which probably stood to reason, as the commander, more or less, of the criminal psych ward of Chicago's ghosts.

“My fault,” I said. My voice sounded dull. My tongue felt like it had been coated in lead. “I told the Lecters not to stop until they were all down.”

The big shade nodded gravely.

“Follow them,” I said. “Make sure any of the enemy who is left is given a clean death. Then round them up and come back to me.”

Sir Stuart nodded. He looked at the protector spirits. Then they all moved out at the same time, going both directions up and down the cliff.

I leaned on my staff and rested. Holding that shield had taken a lot out of me. So much so that when I looked down at my hand, I could, just barely, see the shape of the stony ground right through it.

I was fading.

I shuddered and clutched the staff hard. It made sense, really. I've always believed that magic came from inside you, from who and what you were—from your mind and from your heart. Now I was all mind and heart. The shield had to be fueled by something. I hadn't really stopped to consider where that energy would come from.

Now I knew.

I looked at my hand and the ground on the other side of it again. How much more would it take to make me disappear altogether? I had no way of knowing, no way of even making a good guess. What if I needed to use my magic again when I took up the hunt for my killer, after all of this was over? What if I blew it all here? What if I wound up like Sir Stuart—just an empty shade?

I leaned my head against the solid oak of the staff. It didn't matter. Murphy and company—not to mention Mort—needed my help. They would get it, even if it meant I became nothing but an old, faded memory.

(Or maybe became one more insane shade drifting through Chicago's night, causing havoc without reason, without regret, and without mercy.)

I shook my head a little and straightened my back. From the sounds of it, there couldn't be many bad guys left for the Lecters to deal with. These were certainly the Corpsetaker's defenses—an area of bad mojo like this would have a kind of gravity for anyone crossing over from the material world through any Way near the location to which it had been linked, sort of like a funnel spiderweb. That had been the point of building it this way: to make sure anyone who wanted in from the Nevernever side wound up on that beach.

I needed to find the Way this site was guarding, the back door to the Corpsetaker's hideout, the one I'd seen Evil Bob and the Fomor servitor use. I closed my eyes and shut away the recent horrors. I willed away my worry and my fear. I didn't have to breathe, but I did anyway, because that was the only way I'd ever learned to attain a state of clarity. In. Out. Slowly.

Then I carefully quested out with my senses, looking for the energy that would surround an open Way. I found it immediately, and opened my eyes. It was coming from straight ahead of me, away from the cliff and the beach, several hundred yards back up among some rolling, wooded hills. I could see the head of a footpath that led into the woods. There had been regular traffic on it, for it to be so evident, and I doubted that many hikers or Boy Scout troops had been tromping through. That was our next step.

An instant, violent instinct screamed at me without warning. I didn't question it. I flung myself to one side, rolling in the air to bring up my shield again.

A wrecking ball of pure psychic force hit the shield, and half of the little shield charms dangling from my bracelet screamed and then shattered into tiny shards. The blow flung me a good twenty feet and I hit the ground rolling, until said ground vanished from underneath me. I dropped to the floor of one of the defensive trenches and lay there for a second, stunned at the sheer savagery of the assault.

I heard slow, heavy, confident footsteps.
Clomp. Clomp.
Then a pair of black jackboots appeared at the top of the trench. My gaze tracked up the SS officer's uniform, which included a black leather trench coat not too unlike my own. It wasn't one of the wolfwaffen. Instead of a deformed, monstrous wolf face, this being had only a bare skull sitting atop the uniform's high collar. Blue fire glowed in its eye sockets and it regarded me with cold disdain.

“A worthy effort for a novice,” Evil Bob said. “I wish you to know that I regret your death as the loss of significant potential.” He lifted what was probably not actually a Luger pistol and aimed it calmly at my head. “Good-bye, Dresden.”

S
tall,
I thought desperately. Sir Stuart and company wouldn't be busy for long.
Stall.

“It isn't in your best self-interest to do that,” I said.

Evil Bob's eyelights flickered. The gun didn't waver. “That hypothesis assumes that I possess self-interest.”

“If you didn't,” I said, “you would have pulled the trigger already.”

For a second, nothing happened. Then the skull tilted slightly to one side, and I got the impression that Evil Bob had become suddenly pensive.

I rushed to continue. “There's no percentage for your boss in hesitation. And since I know you aren't doing it for my sake, your hesitation must therefore be an act of self-interest.”

“An intriguing argument,” said Evil Bob, “and potentially valid, given the penchant for independence evident in my progenitor.”

“By which you mean the original Bob?”

“Obviously,” Evil Bob sniffed. “He from whose essence I came to be. Your instincts for such matters are acute, Dresden. You have given me something to consider in the future, when my attention is not otherwise occupied by mildly effective stalling tactics.”

And he pulled the trigger—

—just as Sir Stuart's thrown ax whirled into Evil Bob's outstretched shooting arm.

It hit him only with the spinning wooden handle, but it was enough to save my life. A blast of psychic energy, of sheer, deadly
will
, hit the concrete wall of the trench about five feet to my left and turned it into a cloud of powder.

I raised my right hand and snarled,
“Forzare!”
and responded with a hammerblow of force of my own.

Evil Bob lifted the other black-leather-clad hand and brushed my strike aside, but it rocked him back a step.

Sir Stuart charged into sight, hitting Evil Bob hard at the hips, and tackled him forward and down into the trench. The pair of them hit hard, but the dark spirit was on the bottom, and Evil Bob's skull cracked as it hit the concrete. His high-crowned SS hat went flying.

I let out a short scream of rage and swung my staff at the skull. Evil Bob caught my descending staff in one hand and locked it in place as if his fingers had been a hydraulic vise. He got his other hand under Sir Stuart's chest and simply thrust his arm forward. Sir Stuart went flying out of the trench, and I heard him hit the ground again about a second and a half later.

“Ah,” Evil Bob said. Cold blue eyelights regarded my staff. “A simple tool, but serviceable. In McCoy's style.” The eyes flared brighter. “And the key to your rather effective little army, as well. Excellent.”

I wrenched at the staff but couldn't get it away from the dark spirit. I felt sort of goofy about it, in addition to being extremely alarmed about how
strong
the thing was. I wrenched at the staff with all the power of my hips, legs, back, and shoulders, with the leverage of my wide-spaced grip, and only barely managed to make Evil Bob wobble. He just stood up, holding the end of the staff in his hand, and only after examining it again did he apparently notice me.

“I will make this offer exactly once, Dresden,” Evil Bob said quite calmly. He put his other hand on the staff, mirroring me, and I suddenly realized that if he wanted to, he could fling me considerably farther than he had Sir Stuart—assuming he didn't just ram the staff straight back into my chest and out of my back.

I was suddenly unsure whether the spook squad could take Evil Bob even if they were all right there, Lecters, guardians, and all.

“What offer?” I asked him.

“A relationship,” he replied. “With me.”

Yeah. He actually said it like that.

“Um,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Maybe you could clarify what you mean by a
relationship
. Because I've got to tell you, Bob, I've, uh . . . I've been hurt.”

The joke missed him completely. I was apparently snarking on the wrong frequency. “In the nature of an apprenticeship,” he said. “You have sound fundamental skills. You are practical. Your ambition is tempered by an understanding of your limits. You have the potential to be an excellent partner.”

“And I'm not flipping insane like the Corpsetaker,” I said.

“Hardly. But your insanities are more manageable,” Evil Bob said, “and you have few self-delusions.” He sniffed. “The Master never favored that creature, in any case. But he would have been interested in you.”

“Even if Kemmler was still around, I'm pretty sure a relationship with him wouldn't be in the cards, either,” I said in an apologetic tone. “I've got a strict rule about dating older men.”

The spirit looked at me blankly for a moment. Then, as the real Bob sometimes did, he gave me the impression of an expression that simple, immobile bone could not possibly have expressed. His eyes slowly widened.