by John Conroe
Surprise flashed across his spectral features. Whatever he thought I was going to say, that wasn’t it.
“I worked me bleedin’ arse off, now didn’t I?” he responded. I didn’t say anything and after a second, he kept going. “Worked the livery from the moment I arrived from Colb. Bit by bit, year by year, till I was bloody running the place, I was. Old man Jacobs got old and sick and I struck a bargain to buy the whole place from him. A year after, I bought me house,” he said.
“And it’s beautiful,” I said.
“Of course. That’s why the damned squatters keep breaking in, isn’t it?”
“No, actually, they bought it. You’re dead, Daniel,” I said. I don’t have a great deal of experience with ghosts, that’s more my aunt’s thing, but hitting the intelligent, interactive ones with the news of their deaths is generally a bad idea. Very traumatic. But in this case, I wanted trauma. Daniel was, in my humble opinion, a violent sort. What kind of asshole shoves people downstairs? Having him off-balance would be helpful.
“Yer daft,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Oh? Have you looked around? Do you see a single horse? Gaslight? Clothing you recognize?”
He snorted, but after a second, he glanced around. I pointed at a light post down by the park sidewalk. “Ever see lights like that?” Before he could answer, a guy on a scooter zoomed down the sidewalk and out into the street. “Or a vehicle like that?”
He frowned and opened his mouth but I interrupted. “And where have you been for the last fifteen years? Trapped inside something like that?” I asked, waving at the stick man working.
Still frowning, maybe even more, he turned and looked down where I was pointing. “You were captured by someone like me, a woman, years ago. She made you do things for her, remember?” I asked.
“Yer an uncanny one, ya are, but I doon’t remember any such thing,” he said.
“Really? Do you remember her?” I said, pointing at the little framed photo of my mom.
Arms still crossed, frown still in full bloom, he looked down at the picture. And recognition mixed with confusion flashed across his face. Startled, he looked back up at me, more recognition in his eyes before looking back down.
“Is she yer sister, then?” he asked.
“My mum,” I said, mimicking his accent slightly.
“Nah… she’s not of an age fer that,” he said.
“She died here in Boston fifteen years ago. You were there… remember?”
His expression smoothed out, his eyes un-focusing a bit as he thought about it. “I’ve seen her…” His voice trailed away. I reached a hand out and touched Rad where it crossed into my circle.
The copse of trees, the circles, the city, and even the ghost all just disappeared. My vision was filled with a face—my mother’s. Hooded, like her photo, but this was a sweatshirt hood, not the cloak in the picture. The image pulled back and I could see her in a dark gray hoodie and jeans, with hiking boots rounding out the ensemble. She looked small, down in the alley. We were looking from above—a rooftop. Someone kneeled beside me, but my attention or at least my ghost host’s attention was on the figure on the narrow side street below.
She really was small. Not how I remembered her, towering over my eight-year-old self. She moved carefully down the alley, arriving at the corner to look out at the wider street in front of her. A very, very busy street. Four lanes, in fact. Open space on the other side of the roads. It was dark out, but the open space in front of her was vast, too vast, the lights on the far side simply too great a distance away. Then I realized part of the space beyond the road was itself moving. Water. A river. The Charles.
The presence beside me moved ahead to the corner of the rooftop. An older woman, thin and spare, dressed in dark slacks and a dark, almost military-looking jacket. Just her back visible. Without looking back, she gestured, her left hand waving Daniel (and me) forward.
Our vantage point moved up and now we were looking out over the busy four-lane road. A street sign indicated we were looking down on Storrow Drive. To our right, I could see a walking bridge that crossed the busy roads, coming down in the green space on the edge of the big river. My mother was already walking across it, head swiveling in every direction.
The death witch in the dark clothes pulled chalk from her jacket pocket and began to draw symbols on the brick wall that poked up a foot above the roof all around the edge. From another pocket, she pulled a round piece of glass about six inches across and what looked like a chunk of modeling clay.
Flattening the clay onto the top of the wall, she then stuck the round of glass edge first into the clay, leaving it upright, although she twisted it slightly so that the view through the glass covered the area my mother was walking toward.
From yet another pocket, she pulled a reddish pencil with an oddly rounded point. With quick, sure strokes, she drew a half-dozen symbols into the glass and then spoke a harsh-sounding word. The view through the glass suddenly magnified, zooming in on the park space where the footbridge met the flat green. My mother was just coming down the bridge’s stairs, just entering the edge of the glass viewer.
Putting the grease pencil away, the death witch reached in to yet another pocket (I was going to have to look into this kind of jacket) and pulled out a vial of fluid that had to be blood. Using the little finger of her right hand, she retraced her chalk symbols on the brick with the blood. The rushing sound of the traffic on the road disappeared, replaced with a hush that was only broken by the soft thud of my mother’s booted feet as she arrived at the bottom of the bridge. A person was sitting on the park bench at the base of the stairs.
“It would be you, now wouldn’t it?” my mother asked the bench sitter.
“Well ya left us with a right mess, now didn’t ya,” the woman answered. It sounded like they were four feet in front of us in a nighttime meadow without a car for miles. I recognized the woman. Macha Banfill.
“Oh, ya expected I’d be happy about being raped?” Mom replied.
“See, that’s it right there it is,” Macha said. “If only ya wasn’t such a prude, if only ya was a bit more like yer loose sister, this wouldn’t be such a big deal, now would it?”
My mother’s fingers curled inward, not in a fist, but in the same cupping motion she’d taught me. Getting ready to throw fire.
“Now, now, none o’ that, dearie. I’m not here alone,” Macha said.
“No, of course not. Like I don’t sense yer slinking rats out there in the darkness,” Mom said.
“Oh, fine words to be calling yer own family,” the other witch said.
“Family? They’re not my family. Not since they treated me like chattel to be sold, they aren’t,” Mom said.
Macha sighed. “Neeve, there’s no need for this hate. We won’t be letting Perrun anywhere near ya now. Just come home. Bring yer babe and yer sister and come home.”
“This country is my home,” Neeve said.
“Not a bit it is. Not even a bit. Yer a daughter of Eerie if ever there was one and ya deserve to be back there. You and yer wee daughter. How’s it to be if she grows up without ever knowing the smell o’ peat smoke or learning the bodhran?”
“He can learn it from his aunt,” my mom said.
“He? He?” Macha asked, her voice rising.
“Aye, and yer not getting yer hands on him. He’s no girl baby fer ya ta brainwarsh, no use to yer schemes.”
“You had a boy?” Macha said, almost yelling it.
“I said I did and ya cannae deny hearing the truth of it in me voice,” Mom said. Witches, especially those that know each other, have a hard time hiding lies from each other. Which is odd because we’re the sneakiest people on the planet. Something about hiding from the Church, the witch hunters, and the bonfire.
Macha just stared at her, mouth open, clearly surprised and dismayed. Her jaw finally shut and the magnified image was so clear, I could see the sudden glint that came into her eyes. These observation spells were better
than mine and I’d have to be sure to remember them.
“Is he a witch then?” Macha asked.
“He’s a boy, that’s what he is? No use to you at all,” Mom said.
“So a witch he is, is he?” Macha said nodding. “Born of two pure lines and carrying the genes. Not what we expected, that’s fer sure, but something just might come of this bloody mess yet.”
Mom’s hand whipped up and a blast of fire like the inside of a foundry shot from her palm right at Macha. The fire flared off on a shield spell a solid foot in front of Macha, but the heat was enough to singe her hair, eyebrows, and wool jacket. Macha screamed and jumped back as counterattacks came at my mother from almost every direction.
I could hear her voice in my head as I watched the fight erupt. “Always break a circle attack to the side, either side, boyo,” she’d told me not long before this very trip and her disappearance.
“The front will like to have witches piled up, and the rear spot will have a solid crafter. But the sides will be weak.” “How do I know the sides?” I’d asked. “Witches ambush much like soldiers. We use natural terrain to help us. We use natural sides: rivers, cliffs, gorges, and the like. Meant to herd ya. Don’t be herded like a sheep, boy. Don’t do what they want. Instead, do whatever it takes, ya hear me?”
Across the road, Mom dropped low, squatting on one leg and spinning with the other leg out like an MMA fighter going for a leg sweep. Light flared from her right hand and little glowing balls shot off into the the dark. Startled yells sounded in the night as witches suddenly illuminated in the dark, covered in glowing webs that crawled over their bodies.
“There ya be,” Mom said, only the incredible observation spell making it possible to hear her. She turned to the left, toward the rushing traffic of Storrow Drive. Her left hand came up in a motion I knew so very well. Borrowing energy. Then her right punched forward and a crouching glowing form by the edge of the road suddenly shot back into traffic, the thud of vehicular impact coming before the first screech of brakes.
Spinning back, but keeping her left hand toward the crashing, horn-blaring traffic, Mom started to shoot off small compact balls of fire. Steady aimed fire like combat pistol class at Arcane. Each ball flew toward a different glowing witch, each of whom had to deflect or shield from the burning little missiles.
Backing away toward the street, Mom kept up a steady stream of shots. One witch got distracted and one of the little plasma balls splashed her from head to toe, her glow replaced by a human-shaped inferno that screamed in the dark.
Other witches fired back with whatever spell they could muster. Balls of water, blades of air, chunks of concrete all flew at my mother. She ducked, just dropped down low behind a trash can and let the deadly spells fly out into the mass collision that was happening on the highway behind her. She was still pulling energy from those impacts and car wrecks and she suddenly slammed her right hand down on the ground hard.
The very earth shook, jumping people, cars, and anything not locked down a foot into the air. The building we were on, two hundred yards away, shook like a Richter scale blowout.
The only one to keep her feet was Mom, and she used them to dart out into the mess and muddle of the multi-car pileup. Crouching low, she dodged between cars and people, twisted metal and yelling drivers.
Macha was yelling at her circle and the death witch’s hearing and vision spells were useless as Mom disappeared into the traffic. Rising to her feet, the death witch spoke hard, sharp words that hurt my ears but sounded familiar. Then my perspective changed as the spirit of Daniel shot off the rooftop and headed in an arrow dive toward Storrow Drive and the mass crash.
We shot through the headlights, broken glass, crushed cars, and screaming drivers like a fighter pilot on speed. No one saw us, no one noticed the ghost among them as we flew through the night. Suddenly she was in front of us, her foot raised as she waited to dart through the slowing traffic on the other side of the highway. Her head turned our way just as we arrived, our flight unimpeded as we literally dove right through her. Her muscles locked up and she fell forward rather than ran, the sharp screech of brakes, then the dull thud of impact.
The pickup truck bounced my mother like a rag doll, knocking her the better part of twenty feet to lie in a limp pile.
The ghost continued his flight, pulling up into the air in a maneuver no F-35 or Raptor could ever hope to copy. Spinning in place, he looked down at the pile of clothing that used to be my mother. Clothing that was starting to move. On its own. Somehow she was still alive, still conscious.
Her jeans were torn, her sweatshirt ripped and stained from the impact, and I could see spots of blood soaking through both pieces of clothing. She stood up, swaying. Then she started to move, staggering, barely walking but moving through the stopped cars, ignoring the voices asking if she was okay. At first she was headed toward the city, toward Beacon Hill, but she turned at one point and her plodding, uneven path headed back toward the river. The ghost trailed her, hovering behind her, the death witch letting the prey flee for the time being.
Mom made it to the green space between Storrow Drive and the Charles River, somehow keeping her feet moving. She was a few hundred yards from where she’d fought Macha’s circle of witches, and their voices could be heard arguing, crying, and yelling in the darkness. Flames burned in a couple of places on the road and sirens howled as rescue responders drew near.
The river was right in front of her now and without hesitation, Mom headed straight for it. The ghost shot forward, responding to a silent command from the witch who controlled him. Getting in front of her, he attempted to push her back, away from the river. He lacked the strength. Flying, chasing, paralyzing, and more chasing had taken most of his energy. She looked at him, eyes slightly unfocused as she accessed her Sight. “Yer too weak and too late, death bitch. Ya won’t be having me boy; he’s too well hidden fer that. And you’ll not get it from me,” Mom said with a rock solid note of finality.
She waded into the water, gave a shocked gasp at the temperature. “Feels good, it does, ya bloody skank,” she said, the water up over her waist. With a sigh, she sort of lunged awkwardly further into the deeper, stronger current. The river took her, floating her body as she used the last of her strength to flip herself onto her back. Her clothing soaked through, the heavy cotton of her pants and shirt, the sodden leather of her boots pulling her down.
“Ashling Irwin, ya will take care o’ me boy,” she said to the sky. “Declan, me lad. I love ya more than me own life. Ya grow up strong, lad, knowing yer mum is proud of ya,” she whispered, staring straight up, just her face framed by the dark surface of the river. Then she slipped completely under, eyes still open and staring, air bubbling out of her mouth till she disappeared into the depths.
Chapter 35
The black river faded to black night, my mother’s face replaced by the wavering, translucent face of Daniel the ghost. Everything was still watery, though, and I could feel the tears streaming down my face.
Daniel’s features hardened into anger. “Ya made me remember that,” he said.
I was suddenly on my feet, so angry that everything was a misty shade of red. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Get back in that!” I snarled. He floated away, taken aback. Then defiance flared across his features.
“I won’t,” he said, beginning to spin away from me.
My anger reached a new level and without a single thought of the consequences, I strode out of my circle and into his. Surprise replaced his defiance but before he could even process what I’d done, my hands had reached out and grabbed him. I grabbed a ghost—and held him. Then I shoved him down, down, down into the stick man working, packing him in like dirty clothes into a laundry bag.
I was done in two seconds, the ghost that killed my mother stuffed out of sight before I could do something even worse. Because I wanted to. I wanted to pull apart his essence with my bare hands and feed the remains of his soul to the abyss. And I was pretty certain
I could do it.
“So you the one with the party tricks?”
I turned and found two men approaching in the dark. Both about average height but still built heavier than me. One of them, the one who had spoken, pulled his hand from the pocket of his jacket, the dark shape of a handgun outlined against the snow under his feet.
I didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to talk, didn’t utter a single wisecrack. With a flick of my fingers, the gun tore free from his hand, the snap of a finger clear as it jumped across the space between us to hang in midair. It was a pretty decent Ruger, probably a nine millimeter, steel frame and slide. I moved my thumb and the magazine ejected itself, falling into the snow below. Yup, nine mil.
Pulling both hands in opposite directions had the effect of tearing the gun in half, the metal snapping with a sharp ting. Then each separate piece began to spin, heating up at my thought.