by Karen Chance
“Servant, ma’am,” the old gent muttered, and emerged the rest of the way out of the clock. He had a portly body covered by a starched blue uniform. “I left it outside,” he told the man, I guess talking about Big Red. “Do y’want me to go back, see if I can salvage anything?”
“I don’t know.” My host looked at me. “Is there anything left?”
“Of the other one?” I guessed.
He nodded.
I thought about it. “The hat?”
He scowled. “No,” he told the colonel, who muttered something and went over to give Pritkin the hairy eyeball.
“What did we destroy?” I asked, in between stuffing my face. The cookies were homemade. God, so good.
“Do they not feed you in your time?” my host demanded.
“Not often,” I said honestly.
He joined the colonel in scowling at Pritkin.
“What was that thing?” I asked again as the kettle went off.
“My gardener,” he told me, getting up to attend to it. “Your—my wife,” he amended, glancing at Pritkin, “is fond of the woods. But there was not much left when we arrived. The former owners had cleared some land for farming and more to build the main house. And then Tony burnt a bunch of the rest in order to have an open field of fire, in case any of his enemies tried to sneak up on him.”
That sounded like Tony.
“We managed to reverse much of the damage, but it requires upkeep to maintain. And more now,” he said dryly, pulling down a couple of brightly colored pottery mugs.
“Then the potions . . .”
“Were fertilizer, yes.”
“Some fertilizer!”
He frowned and slopped water in a teapot that matched the mugs. “It functions perfectly well in the correct amount. Maybe next time you should take a moment to find out what you’re attacking!”
“We didn’t attack anything,” I said, remembered fear sharpening my voice. “Why did you tell it to target us? You had to have recognized me!”
“I wasn’t there,” he said, setting the teapot down on a tray, harder than necessary.
“Then you’re telling me that creature did all that on its own?”
“That’s the point of a homunculus—it has a will of its own. Too much sometimes.” He shot a look at Daisy.
“I was just trying to trap you,” she told me, looking sheepish.
“That was . . . wait.” I took the mug I was offered, because my throat was full of cookie crumbs, and I could barely talk. But as soon as I gulped down some truly scalding tea, I put it down. “That was you?”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” the colonel said. “A good soldier knows when to act, and when to ask for instructions!”
“Too bad I’m not a soldier,” Daisy huffed.
“As you continually demonstrate.”
“And I wasn’t expecting you,” she told me, ignoring him. “I was just doing a little pruning, tidying up and such, and then the alarms went off and practically scared me to—well, not death, but you know what I—”
“You lost your head!” the colonel accused.
“I don’t have a head, old man, and neither do you!” she said snippily. “And I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody, just to hold them until I could find out who they were. But then those horrid vampires arrived and blew me up. And by the time I came back here and got my other body and got back out there—”
“We were there, remember?” the colonel demanded.
“Then stop blaming me,” she huffed.
“But you’re a ghost,” I said, stating the obvious. “And ghosts can’t move things. Well, maybe a piece of paper, or a paper clip. But nothing like . . .” I gestured at the metal suit she was wearing, which was more intricate than the Tin Man outfit, almost like an old-fashioned diving suit. “No way you’re lifting that.”
“Well, no, of course not,” she agreed. “I’m only directing it, dear.”
“Then how—”
“Can we discuss why you’re here?” Roger broke in.
“No,” I said, and not just because I needed to stall until my mother joined the party. I’d thought I knew everything about ghosts, but this was a new one. “Are you telling me you just . . . made them new bodies?”
“I like to think of it as a whole body prosthesis,” the colonel said.
I looked from him to Roger. “You—how does that work? Because I don’t—”
He made an irritated sound. “Does it matter? It was an experiment, one that never quite panned out. But that’s not—”
“What kind of experiment?” I looked around at the ungainly creatures. I could see a bit of Big Red outside, through a window by the door. Maybe because it was even larger than the green one and took up too much room, so had to be left in the drive like the family car. Only there was no such thing as a car for a ghost. “Who does this?”
“The Black Circle,” Pritkin said harshly, from behind us.
Chapter Ten
Pritkin’s voice was strong, but it looked like that was the only thing that was. He needed an arm underneath himself in order to sit up, and it was trembling slightly. Bruises had blossomed all along his rib cage, he had a good start on a black eye, and his skin tone was a grayish white that I didn’t like at all. But he didn’t appear to be interested in his health. He appeared to be interested in my father.
“You’re Roger Palmer,” he said flatly.
It wasn’t a question. He’d had plenty of time to figure out who we were visiting, and no one had ever accused Pritkin of being slow. Including to anger, judging by his expression.
“Does he always state the obvious?” Roger asked me, pushing a fall of limp blond hair out of his face.
I didn’t answer. I was too busy tensing up. I wasn’t sure what happened when high-ranking light and dark mages met each other, but I didn’t think it was likely to be fun. Even when one had no weapons, and the other . . . Well, at least he wasn’t reaching for any.
Yet.
“This is what you’ve been working on for the Circle, isn’t it?” Pritkin demanded, not helping matters.
“I’m retired,” Roger said mildly, but failed to offer him any tea.
I passed over my mug. It didn’t have milk, because I am a barbarian. But Pritkin took it anyway. He didn’t drink it, though, being too busy staring Roger down. Which would have worked better if the man hadn’t had his long nose stuck in the cookie tin.
“And yet you have at least three of these things, perhaps more!” Pritkin rasped. “For what purpose?”
“For whatever purpose I choose, war mage.”
“For security,” I said quickly, because Pritkin’s pale face had just flushed purple. And because it was true.
I didn’t need to be told that much. My parents had been hiding with Tony the bastard because, believe it or not, there were worse things out there. Like a bunch of leftover demigods from antiquity with long lives and longer grudges. The Spartoi had been the children of Ares, left behind when the gods were kicked off earth due to their mixed blood giving them a foothold here. They’d used it to do their father’s bidding, which was to hunt down and destroy the person responsible for his exile.
My mother.
They’d failed, but not before giving it the old Olympus try. And right now Mom and her strange protector didn’t realize that Tony the petty and rotund would one day be a lot more of a problem for them than any ancient half gods. All they knew was that her power had diminished considerably over the years, and that they needed a hideout no one would expect.
Roger was looking at me, as if he knew what I was thinking. Not too hard, since we’d battled the Spartoi together once. Well, sort of.
We’d mostly run away together.
“What kind of security?” Pritkin demanded. “If you’re telling the truth, they’re nothing but ghosts�
�”
“You think spirits are not powerful?” Roger asked archly. “You of all people should know better.”
“And why would that be?” Pritkin asked silkily. There weren’t too many people who could guess what he was, especially after half an hour’s acquaintance. But Roger merely smirked at him.
Okay, this was going well. “I still don’t get how you made them,” I said quickly.
“The same way war mages make golems,” Roger told me.
“They’re nothing alike!” Pritkin said. And he should know. He’d had a golem once.
“Well, yes, there is the matter that your lot forces demons to power your constructs,” Roger agreed. “While my associates do it of their own free will. But other than—”
“Golems are controlled—”
“A nicer word than enslaved.”
“—so they are not free to wreak havoc—”
“Until they get loose and eat your face,” Roger said dryly.
“—unlike that thing tonight! It might have killed us!”
“With what? She wasn’t armed.”
“It did a good enough job without—” Pritkin stopped. “She?”
“Her name’s Daisy,” I informed him.
Pritkin’s mouth had been open for another retort, but at that he shut it. His eyes slid over to Roger and then back to me, as if he was trying to see the resemblance. I could feel my face heating; I didn’t know why. I damned sure didn’t see any myself.
Roger Palmer was a tall, lanky guy, a bit on the thin side, with a face, nose, and teeth that were all slightly too long. It gave him a horsey appearance, which wasn’t helped by a shock of dishwater blond hair that liked to flop in his pale blue eyes. He was dressed in an old brown suit and a tan cardigan that had started to pill. He had on threadbare purple velvet slippers, since I guess the Wellies he’d worn to tromp through the forest had needed cleaning. He didn’t look like a dangerous dark mage, despite that being the story I kept hearing. And he certainly didn’t look like somebody who ought to be married to a goddess.
But then, I didn’t look much like a Pythia, either, so looks could be deceiving. I just didn’t know if they were in his case. I also didn’t know if he was provoking Pritkin when he was already in a mood because he thought he could handle him, or if he merely didn’t notice.
Judging by his reaction, I don’t think Pritkin knew, either.
“But ghosts can’t power anything,” I repeated, before they started up again. “Most of them barely manage to take care of themselves—”
“Nonsense,” Roger said. And for the first time, his face came alive. “Ghosts are amazing creatures, among the most versatile in existence. And powerful—”
“Powerful?” I repeated, because that hadn’t been my experience. Sure, the ones at Tony’s had wreaked some havoc, and I’d seen something similar on a few other occasions. But those were rare instances when a lot of ghosts found a reason to work together, usually in pursuit of their favorite sport—revenge—or of the power they needed so desperately. Without it, they ended up in a half existence, chained to whatever they were haunting and the tiny subsistence it afforded them until they finally faded altogether.
I’d often thought that was why so many eventually went mad. Eternity stops being a bonus when you’re effectively a prisoner. And there were certainly enough crazed spirits out there.
But powerful?
“Oh yes,” Roger insisted. “Take demons, for example. Everyone always talks about how strong they are, how difficult to control, how dangerous.” He did little finger motions around the last word, as if mocking the idea of anybody being afraid of a lowly creature like a demon. “When if they only knew—ghosts are far more so.”
“You’re mad,” Pritkin said, as if he’d finally come up with an explanation that satisfied him.
Roger sneered. “Oh yes, do let’s trot out the hoary old stereotype—”
“Which you’re currently doing your best to uphold.”
“—of the mad necromancer—”
“Is that what you are?” I asked, feeling my stomach fall. Jonas had said as much, but I’d been hoping he was wrong.
Roger shot me an impatient look. “Despite what you may have been told, it isn’t a bad word. It’s merely a name for a magic worker who specializes in the dead—all sorts of dead. The only reason it has an evil connotation is that the Circle has gone out of its way to give it one.”
“And because so many of the breed end up having to be locked away,” Pritkin added.
“Yes, I always wondered about that,” Roger said sweetly. “If we’re so powerless, why bother?”
“It’s not your power anyone questions, mage. It’s your principles.”
“Principles.” Roger huffed out a laugh. “As if the Corps would know anything about them.”
“As opposed to the Dark Circle, which has such a record for altruism.”
“Yes, let’s pretend those are the only two options.”
“The Corps is the only option that keeps the magical community safe!” Pritkin said, flushing.
“From everything but itself.”
“From those who would recklessly ignore the experience of centuries—”
“From those who resent the absurdity of stagnant magic that gets weaker every year—”
“—and attempt dangerous experiments that are almost certain to end in disaster!”
“—while our enemies get stronger! Yes! Cut off your nose to spite your face, war mage!” Roger snapped. “But don’t doom the rest of us to go down with you. There are those who would prefer a fighting chance!” And the mug came crashing down.
Daisy and I jumped. The colonel’s mustache twitched. Pritkin and Roger glared at each other. And I jumped in while I had the chance, since I might not get another.
“How are ghosts more powerful than demons?” I asked. Because if it was true, I really needed to have a chat with Billy Joe.
Roger sent me a glance, like he knew what I was doing. But after a moment, he answered anyway. “Well, for one thing, they’re less vulnerable. Take the colonel. Do you see a control gem in his forehead?”
“He doesn’t have a forehead,” Daisy said, looking disapproving. “Doesn’t even have a head—”
“I have a head, woman!” the colonel said indignantly.
“I meant on your new body.”
“So did I! The whole point was to leave ’em empty above the neck so our own heads would have a place to go!”
“But nobody sees our heads,” Daisy pointed out. “And they look so . . . odd.”
“They’re not the only thing odd around here.”
“My point,” Roger said, talking over them, “was that the colonel doesn’t have to worry about someone erasing a spell on his forehead or pulling a scroll out of his mouth—”
“Which would be easy enough since it’s usually open,” Daisy put in.
“—or any of the other typical ways of immobilizing a construct like a golem. Because they’re not constructs; they’re just using them.”
“Like driving a car,” Daisy told me. “It gets totaled, but you walk away.”
“Can’t a demon walk away?” I asked.
“Yes, but it’s not going to come back, then, is it?” Roger countered. “Once the golem—its prison, essentially—is destroyed, its sentence is over. And it doesn’t usually waste any time getting out of there. Unless it decides to get . . . testy . . . with its former master. But either way, you’ve lost your servant.”
Pritkin glowered at him, but he didn’t refute it. Which I supposed meant Roger’s account was pretty accurate. He enjoyed an argument even when he liked someone, and I didn’t think he liked Roger.
“And then there’s the way they feed,” Roger continued, oblivious. “Ghosts and demons are both spirits, yes?”
; “Well, some demons . . .”
“And they both gain strength by feeding off living energy.”
I nodded.
“The difference is that demons can only hold so much. They’re like humans that way, or vampires. They feed to satisfy their current needs, and to store up power for later. And, of course, with the elder demons, the amount they can hold can be very, very large. But even they have limits, although they don’t like to admit it. Whereas ghosts . . .”
“What about ghosts?”
“They’re eternal sponges: they never get full. You can feed them and feed them and feed them, and they just . . . soak it up.”
Daisy nodded her substitute for a head, and the eyelash fell off again.
I frowned. “How do you know? No ghost has access to that kind of power.” For most of the ghosts I’d known, the problem was finding enough energy to keep going, not in seeing how much they could store up.
“They do if someone provides it.”
“But why would anyone—”
“You’re making indestructible soldiers!” Pritkin accused.
I looked at him, faintly surprised, but not as much as Roger. Who seemed amazed that a magical jock could put two and two together. But he shook his head.
“Not indestructible. You discovered that much tonight. Not that that model was designed for combat, mind you, but any of them can be destroyed under the right circumstances. But that isn’t really the issue.”
“Then what is?”
Roger looked thoughtful. “I suppose the best analogy would be your Spitfires in the Second World War.”
Judging by his confused expression, that didn’t clear up much for Pritkin. It didn’t for me, either, but I was a little distracted by the sick feeling that had opened up in the pit of my stomach. Because it wasn’t the why of Roger’s weird hobby that interested me.
It was the how.
“During World War Two, the Nazis planned to invade the British Isles,” he told me. “But to do so, they first needed control of the skies, and that meant wiping out the RAF—that’s the British Royal Air Force.”
I nodded numbly.
“But the RAF held on, mainly because their airplanes, the Spitfires, were damned good little planes, and because their factories could churn them out in a seemingly endless supply. Every time a plane went down, there were two more waiting to replace it. There was just one problem.”