Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

“This is Mort Lindquist, ectomancer,” Murphy said promptly. “He says he’s here to speak to us on behalf of Harry’s ghost, who is with him.”

Molly absolutely froze in place. Her face blanched beneath the grime.

“I’d like it if you could verify for us whether or not it’s true,” Murphy said, her voice gentle. “I need to know if he’s really . . . if it’s really his ghost.”

Molly stared at her for a second, then shivered and looked down at her hands. “Um.”

Murphy leaned a little closer to Molly. “You could tell. Couldn’t you?”

Molly shot her a wide-eyed glance and looked down again. She muttered something before she said, “Yes. But . . . not with so many people in the room.”

“Why not?”

Molly’s voice turned into a bitter snarl. “Do you want my help or not?”

Murphy folded her arms for a long moment. Then she said, “Time for another stroll in the evening air, people. Mr. Lindquist, please stay. Everyone else, out.”

Mort was trying very hard not to look like a man who wanted to run for the door, and getting mixed results. “I . . . Of course, Ms. Murphy.”

Murphy had to urge the werewolves to leave and help Marci get untangled from her dress. Forthill and Abby looked at each other and left the room without a murmur. Molly sat completely still during this, staring down at her folded hands.

“You don’t have clue one, do you?” she asked Murphy quietly. “You don’t have any idea what you’re asking me to go through.”

“If I could do it myself, I would.”

Molly looked up sharply at that. Her smile was unpleasant. Bordering on creepy.

“Easy words,” she said. “Easy words. They leave little trails of slime on your lips when they pass them. But it doesn’t make them go down any more smoothly.”

“Molly . . .” Murphy sighed and sat down and spread her hands. “You won’t let us help you. You won’t talk to us. But this is something I literally cannot ask of anyone else.”

“You always asked him ,” Molly said, her tone spiteful.

“There’s a boiler about to burst,” Sir Stuart murmured to me.

“Shut your mouth,” I said quietly, coming automatically to her defense. But he was right. The kid was teetering on a cliff as I sat there looking at her.

I stared at Molly and felt absolutely wretched. She was my apprentice. I was supposed to have taught her to survive without me. Granted, I hadn’t planned on taking a bullet in the chest, but then, who does? Or was her condition simply symptomatic of the world she lived in?

Murphy regarded the younger woman for a long moment and then nodded. “Yes. I know enough to know when I’m out of my depth. My instincts say Mort isn’t trying to con me, but we’ve got to have more than just my intuition. I need your help. Please.”

Molly shook her head very slowly, shivering. She wiped at her face with her grimy gloves, and clean streaks appeared on her cheeks. “Fine.” She lifted her head, looked at Mort, and said calmly, “If you’re running a con, I will peel the skin off your brain.”

The ectomancer spread his hands. “Look. Dresden’s shade came to me . If it isn’t him, that ain’t my fault. I’m operating in good faith, here.”

“You’re a roach,” Molly said pleasantly. “Runs and hides from any threat, but you survive, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Mort said frankly.

“Maybe I should have been a roach, too,” Molly said. “It would be easier.” She took a slow, deep breath and said, “Where is he?”

Mort pointed a finger at me. I took a few steps until I stood in the mouth of the hallway that led down to Murphy’s bedrooms. I gestured to Sir Stuart to stay back.

“Why?” he asked.

“She’s going to use her Sight. The less she has to look at, the better.”

Sir Stuart shrugged and stayed near Mort. He watched Molly through narrowed eyes, his fingertips on the handle of that monster pistol.

Molly grabbed her cane and rose to her feet, leaning on it, taking the weight off the leg that had been shot at Chichén Itzá. She straightened her back and shoulders, turned toward me, took a deep breath, and opened her Sight.

I’d never seen such a thing from this angle before. It was as if a sudden light, burning steady and unwavering, kindled just between and above her eyebrows. As it flooded out of her, I felt it as a tangible sensation on my immaterial flesh. It was blinding. I lifted a hand for a moment to shield my eyes against it before I looked up to meet Molly’s gaze.

Her lips parted. She stared at me and tears blurred her vision. She tried twice to speak before she said, “How do I know it’s you?”

I could answer her. It’s called the Sight, but it embraces the entire spectrum of human perception, and then some. I met her gaze and composed my face. Then I said, in my very best Alec Guinness impersonation, “You will go to the Dagobah system. There you will learn from Yoda, the Jedi Master who instructed me.”

Molly sat down abruptly, missed the couch, and hit the floor instead. “Ohmygod,” she breathed. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Harry.”

I knelt to be on eye level with her. “Yeah, kid. It’s me.”

“Are . . . are you really . . . really gone?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I am. I’m sorta new at this, and they aren’t in danger of winning any exposition awards around here.”

She nodded as more tears came, but she didn’t look away. “D-did you come to take me away?” she asked, her voice very small.

“No,” I said quietly. “Molly . . . no. I was sent back here.”

“W-why?” she whispered.

“To find my murderer,” I said quietly. “People I care about are in danger if I don’t get the job done.”

Molly began rocking back and forth where she sat. “I . . . Oh. I’ve been trying. . . . The city has become so dark , and I knew what you would expect of me, but I’m not as strong as you. I can’t just s-smash things like you could. . . .”

“Molly,” I said in a calm, clear tone.

Her reddened, exhausted blue eyes looked up at me.

“You know who I want to know about, don’t you? Who I wouldn’t want you to talk about in front of anyone?”

I hadn’t said my daughter’s name since returning to Chicago. Hell, I’d barely dared to think it. As far as the rest of the world knew, Maggie had been engulfed in the conflagration that devoured the Red Court. Anyone who knew of her identity might well hold it against her. I didn’t want that. Not if I wasn’t going to be there to protect her.

My throat felt tight, because I thought it should, I suppose. “You know who I’m asking about?”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“Is that person safe and well?”

“As far as I know, yes,” she said. A small smile made her, for an instant, resemble the girl I remembered. “Chewbacca is with her.”

There was only one giant walking carpet to whom she could be referring—my dog, Mouse. The beast was smarter than a lot of people, and was probably the single best supernatural guardian any child could have had. And he was huge and warm and fuzzy, and perfectly content to be a blanket or pillow—or a furious incarnation of preternatural strength and speed, depending on which was needed at the moment. Hell, Maggie was only eight. He was probably spending half his time pretending to be a pony.

I exhaled slowly and felt a little dizzy. The memories I had of Maggie—what few there were—were hammering their way across my consciousness. I mostly remembered holding her in the quiet after it was all over. I’m not sure how long I sat there with her. She had been a small, sleepy warmth in my arms, grateful for the comfort of being held.