Ghost Story (8 page)

Then he sighed and exhaled. The steel head of the weapon came down to thump gently against the floor. Shapes departed him, the guardian spirits easing free of him, most of them fading from view. Within a few seconds, the only shades present were me and an exhausted-looking Sir Stuart.

Mort sat down on the floor heavily, his head bowed, his chest heaving for breath. The veins on his bald pate stuck out.

“Hell's bells,” I breathed.

He looked up at me, his expression weary, and gave me an exhausted shrug. “Don't have a gun,” he panted. “Never really felt like I needed one.”

 

“Been a while since you did that, Mortimer,” Sir Stuart said from where he sat beside the wall, his body supported by the ghost-dusted paint. “Thought you'd forgotten how.”

Mort gave the wounded spirit a faint smile. “I thought I had, too.”

I frowned and shook my head. “Was that . . . was that a possession, just now? When the ghosts took over?”

Sir Stuart snorted. “Nay, lad. If anything, the opposite.”

“Give me at least a little credit, Dresden,” Mort said, his tone sour. “I'm an ectomancer. Sometimes I need to borrow from what a spirit knows or what it can do. But I control spirits—they don't control me.”

“How'd you handle the gun?” Stuart asked, a certain, craftsmanlike professionalism entering his tone.

“I . . .” Mort shook his head and looked at me.

“Magic,” I said quietly. My bell was still ringing a little, but I was able to form complete sentences. “I . . . sort of bumped into him and called up a shield.”

Sir Stuart lifted his eyebrows and said, “Huh.”

“I needed to borrow your skills for a moment,” Mort said, somewhat stiffly. “Appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Just give me a few hours of your time. We'll be square.”

Mort stared at me for a while. Then he said, “You're here twenty minutes and I nearly get killed, Dresden. Jesus, don't you get it?” He leaned forward. “I am not a crusader. I am not the sheriff of Chicago. I am not a goddamned death wish–embracing Don Quixote.” He shook his head. “I'm a coward. And I'm very comfortable with that. It's served me well.”

“I just saved your life, man,” I said.

He sighed. “Yeah. But . . . like I said. Coward. I can't help you. Go find someone else to be your Panza.”

I sat there for a moment, feeling very, very tired.

When I looked up, Sir Stuart was staring intently at me. Then he cleared his throat and said, in a diffident tone, “Far be it from me to bring up the past, but I can't help but note that your lot in life has improved significantly since Dresden first came to you.”

Mort's bald head started turning red.
“What?”

Sir Stuart spread his hands, his expression mild. “I only mean to say that you have grown in strength and character in that time. When you first interacted with Dresden, you were bilking people out of their money with—poorly—falsified séances, and you had lost your power to contact any spirit other than me.”

Mort glowered ferociously at Sir Stuart. “Hey, Gramps. When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you.”

Sir Stuart's smile widened. “Of course.”

“I help spirits find peace,” Mort said. “I don't do things that are going to get me taken to pieces. I'm a ghost whisperer. And that's all.”

“Look, Mort,” I said. “If you want to get technical, I'm not actually a ghost, per se. . . .”

He rolled his eyes again. “Oh, God. If I had a nickel for every ghost who had ever come to me, explaining to me how
he
wasn't really a ghost. How
his
case was special . . .”

“Well, sure,” I said. “But—”

He rolled his eyes. “But if you aren't just a ghost, how come I could channel you like that? How come I could force you out of me? Huh?”

That hit me. My stomach may have been insubstantial, but it could still writhe uneasily.

Ghosts were
not
the people they resembled, any more than a footprint left in the ground was the being that made it. They had similar features, but ultimately a ghost was simply a remainder, a reminder, an impression of the person who died. They might share similar personalities, emotions, memories, but they weren't the same being. When a person died and left a ghost behind, it was as if some portion of his dying life energy was spun out, creating a new being entirely—though in the creator's exact mental and often physical image.

Of course, that also meant that they were subject to many of the same frailties as mortals. Obsession. Hatred. Madness. If what Mort said about ghosts interacting with the material world was true, then it was when some poor spirit snapped, or was simply created insane, that you got your really good ghost stories. By a vast majority, most ghosts were simply insubstantial and a bit sad, never really interacting with the material world.

But I couldn't be one of those self-deluded shades.

Could I?

I glanced at Sir Stuart.

He shrugged. “Most shades aren't willing to admit that they aren't actually the same being whose memories they possess,” he said gently. “And that's assuming they can face the fact that they are ghosts at all. Self-deluded shades are, by an order of magnitude, more common than those that are not.”

“So what you're saying is . . .” I pushed my fingers back through my hair. “You're saying that I only think I did the whole tunnel-of-light, sent-back-on-a-mission thing? That I'm in denial about being a ghost?”

The ghost marine waggled one hand in an ambivalent gesture, and his British accent rolled out mellow vowels and crisp consonants as he answered. “I'm simply saying that it is very much poss—
Mission? What
mission? What are you talking about?”

I eyed him for a moment, while he looked at me blankly. Then I said, “I'm gonna guess you've never seen
Star Wars
.”

Sir Stuart shrugged. “I find motion pictures to be grossly exaggerated and intrusive, leaving the audience little to consider or ponder for themselves.”

“That's what I thought.” I sighed. “You were about two words away from being called Threepio from here on out.”

He blinked. “What?”

“God,” I said. “Now we're transitioning into a Monty Python skit.” I turned back to Morty. “Mort, Jack Murphy met me on the other side and sent me back to find out who murdered me. There was a lot of talk, but it mostly amounted to ‘We aren't gonna tell you diddly, so just do it already.' ”

Mort watched me warily for a moment, staring hard at my insubstantial form. Then he said, “You think you're telling the truth.”

“No,” I said, annoyed. “I
am
telling the truth.”

“I'm sure you think that,” Mort said.

I felt my temper flare. “If I didn't go right through you, I would totally pop you in the nose right now.”

Mort bristled, his jaw muscles clenching. “Oh yeah? Bring it, Too-Tall. I'll kick your bodiless ass.”

Sir Stuart coughed significantly, a long-suffering expression on his face. “Mortimer, Dresden just fought beside us to defend this home—and rushed in here to save your life.”

Then it hit me, and I eyed Sir Stuart. “You could have come inside,” I said. “You could have helped Mortimer against the shooter. But you wanted to see where I stood when I was under pressure. It was a test.”

Sir Stuart smiled. “Somewhat, aye. I wouldn't have let you harm Mortimer, of course, and I was there to help him the instant he called. But it didn't hurt to know a little more about you.” He turned to Mortimer. “I like this lad. And Jack Murphy sent him.”

Both Mortimer and I glared at Sir Stuart and then settled slowly back from the confrontation.

“Head detective of the Black Cats a generation ago,” Stuart continued. “Killed himself at his desk. Sometimes new shades show up claiming they've had a run-in with him, and that he brought them back from the hereafter. And you know that he is no deluded fool.”

Mort didn't meet Sir Stuart's eyes. He grunted, a sound that wasn't exactly agreement.

“Or maybe Jack Murphy's shade is simply more deluded than most, and has a talent for nurturing the delusions of other new shades.”

“Hell's bells, Morty,” I said. “Next you'll be telling me that I didn't even meet his shade. That I deluded myself into deluding myself into deluding him into deluding me that I made the whole thing up.”

Sir Stuart snorted through his nose. “A fair point.”

“It doesn't matter,” Mort said. “There's no real way to know.”

“Incorrect,” Sir Stuart interrupted. “Summon him. That shouldn't be difficult—if he is just one more deluded shade.”

Mort didn't look up. But he said, very quietly, “I won't do that to Jack.” He looked up and seemed to recover some of his composure. “But even if Captain Murphy is genuine, that doesn't mean Dresden's shade is legit. Or sane.”

“Consider the possibility,” Sir Stuart said. “There is something unusual about this one.”

Mort perked up his metaphorical ears. “Unusual?”

“An energy. A vitality.” Sir Stuart shrugged. “It might be nothing. But even if it is . . .”

Mort let out a long sigh and eyed the shade. “You won't let this rest, will you?”

“I have no plans for the next fifty or sixty years,” Sir Stuart said affably. “It would give me something to do. Every half an hour or so.”

Mort pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”

Sir Stuart grinned. “There's another aspect to consider, too.”

“Oh?”

“The attack was larger tonight. It cost us more defenders. And the creature behind it revealed itself.” He gestured at his still-translucent midsection. “I can't keep holding them off forever, Mortimer. And the presence of a mortal pawn tells us two things.”

I nodded. “One. The Grey Ghost is bad enough to have its way with mortals.”

“Two,” Sir Stuart said. “The creature is after
you
. Personally.”

Mort swallowed.

I rose and shuffled over to look down at the still-unconscious intruder. The man let out a low groan.

“It is a good time to make friends,” Stuart said, his expression serious. “Dresden's one reason you'll live the night. And he had allies in this city—people who could help you, if they had a reason to.”

“You're fine,” Mort said, his tone uncertain. “You've survived worse.” Sir Stuart sighed. “Perhaps. But the enemy isn't going to give me time to recover before he attacks again. You need Dresden's help. He's asking for yours.” His expression hardened. “And so am I.”

The intruder groaned again and stirred.

Mort's forehead broke out in a sudden sweat. He looked at the fallen man and then, rather hurriedly, heaved himself to his feet. He bowed his head. Then he turned to me and said, “Fine, Dresden. I'll help. And in return, I expect you to get your allies to look out for me.”

“Deal,” I said. I looked at Sir Stuart. “Thank you.”

“One hour,” Mort said. “You get one hour.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” Mort echoed, evidently speaking mostly to himself. “I mean, it's not like I'm trying to join the Council or anything. It's one hour. Just one little hour. What could happen in one hour?”

And that's how I knew that Mort was telling the whole truth when he said he wasn't a hero.

Heroes know better than to hand the universe lines like that.

M
ort drove one of those little hybrid cars that, when not running on gasoline, was fueled by idealism. It was made out of crepe paper and duct tape and boasted a computer system that looked like it could have run the NYSE and NORAD, with enough attention left over to play tic-tac-toe. Or possibly Global Thermonuclear War.

“Kinda glad I'm dead,” I muttered, getting into the car by the simple expedient of stepping through the passenger's door as if it had been open. “If I were still breathing, I'd feel like I was taking my life into my hands here. This thing's an egg. And not one of those nice, safe, hard-boiled eggs. A crispy one.”

“Says the guy who drove Herbie's trailer-park cousin around for more than ten years,” Mort sniped back.

“Gentlemen,” Stuart said, settling rather gingerly into the tiny backseat. “Is there a particular reason we should be disagreeable with one another, or do you both take some sort of infantile pleasure in being insufferably rude?”

Now that the fighting was done, Sir Stuart's mannerisms were reverting to something more formal. I made a mental note of the fact. The Colonial Marine hadn't started off a member of proper society, wherever he'd been. The rather staid, formal, archaic phrasing and patterns of speech were all something he'd acquired as a learned habit—one that apparently deserted him under the pressure of combat.

“Okay, Dresden,” Mort said. “Where to?” He opened his garage door and peered out at the snow. It was coming down even more thickly than earlier in the night. Chicago is pretty good about keeping its streets cleared in winter weather, but it was freaking May.

From the deep piles of old snow that had apparently been there for a number of weeks, I deduced that the city must have become increasingly beleaguered by the unseasonable weather. The streets were covered in several inches of fresh powder. No plow had been by Mort's house in hours. If we hit a patch of ice, that heavy, crunchy little hybrid was going to skitter like a puppy on a tile floor.