Ghost in the Canteen (The Adventures of Lydia Trinket Book 1)

by Rasmussen, Jen

  Tom made a grab for Helen as I pounced on Roderick. Whatever else he was, he was still a toddler. And I’d dealt with a toddler going boneless as a form of defiance enough times to be able to handle that. I pushed and pulled and flopped his dead weight around, until I held him to my chest, my arm around his neck. He clawed at me, leaving deep gashes in my forearm. It only hurts if you think it does.

  Roderick let out an angry, strangled sound. Helen was struggling with Tom, who seemed to be trying to push her from the room. She turned toward her child and her eyes flew wide as she saw me holding the knife to his temple. That’s guns, you idiot. I shifted it down a couple of inches to his neck.

  “Get out,” I said again.

  She snarled. Then she closed her eyes. It was the second part that made me realize I was in trouble. Tom pushed her again, but without opening her eyes she held up her hand, and the next second he was on the floor. Then she said, firmly, “Roderick, you are on the bed.”

  And he was. I half turned to look at him, but didn’t want to take my eyes off Helen. Tom scrambled to his feet and caught hold of Roderick before he could jump on me. I turned back toward Helen, and her clear blue eyes, open now, amused, were the last thing I saw before I was plunged into darkness.

  Sound trailed the disappearance of the light by a second or two. I could hear Tom and Roderick struggling. Then it faded away, and all I could hear was Helen’s voice.

  “Have you given any thought,” she asked, “to what it really means to control reality with your will?”

  I opened my mouth, no doubt to say something flippant, as is my way when scared shitless, but no sound would come out.

  “Reality isn’t just things,” Helen went on. “Sometimes, if you concentrate hard enough, and your subject is weak enough...”

  Of its own volition (or of Helen’s) my left hand rose to my mouth.

  “...you can also control...”

  I bit into my ring finger at the second knuckle. Hard. With intent, although the intent was not mine.

  “... people.”

  The pain wasn’t even the worst part. My stomach turned at the metallic taste of blood running down my throat, and I gagged against my finger, but I didn’t take it out of my mouth. I only bit down harder. I understood that I was going to bite it off.

  You would think my will to not do something so disgusting, not to mention self-destructive, would be stronger than Helen’s will to make me. But in that moment I felt helpless before the kind of power you only read about in myths, the kind where mortals are being punished by the gods.

  I could feel bone beneath my teeth.

  Then I heard Helen cry out, and the darkness lifted.

  I pulled my hand away from my mouth and spit out what felt like an awful lot of blood. When my vision cleared I could see Gemma, finally free, running across the room with something shooting from her fingertips. Before I could quite make out what was happening, ropes were winding their way around Helen.

  Tom followed her lead and gave Roderick the same treatment. Magic ropes flying from fingers, of course, why not? Anything was possible here. Yet I’d still resorted to the old tired movie maneuver of a standoff with a knife at the throat. Must work on getting more creative.

  There wasn’t much time to consider this, however. While Helen and Roderick struggled against the ropes, Tom flung Helen further into the room. She fell to the floor beside the bed. I jumped away from her, then tripped over Roderick and fell myself. Tom pulled me to my feet while Gemma shouted for us to follow her.

  Gemma slammed the door behind her, and the three of us, without a word, clasped hands and poured out all the force of our combined will to keep it closed. Then we ran.

  We stopped outside on the front lawn. My finger throbbed in time with my heart. I was afraid to look at it, but at least maybe the pain meant it was still there.

  “That won’t hold them for long.” Gemma nodded down at my hand. “It took a lot for her to do that to you, and she’ll be tired. But that woman’s will is stronger and more inexorable than the tides.”

  She was right. I wiped my hand across my mouth and felt my own blood drying on my lips. How foolish I was, to think I could fight back. Now I understood what we were up against. “We can’t beat her,” I whispered.

  “No, and we can’t just hold her off forever either,” Tom said. “She’ll keep coming after us.” He looked at me hard. “After you.”

  I swallowed. “You want me to leave?” There was no reason for me to feel so hurt about it. Of course he did. I needed to go someplace else, hide, and practice the ritual until he found his remnant. Then we could meet up again and get out of this place.

  I was about to say as much when Tom shook his head. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.” He stepped closer and took my hands. “You need to go back. Now. You can do it if you believe you can.”

  “Back...” I stared at him. “We had a deal. I’m not going back until we can go together. You don’t know the incantation, you can’t—”

  “Lydia. Both spirit and body, remember? You’ve said it yourself: she might be able to kill you.”

  “But I can’t just leave you here at her mercy.”

  “We won’t be,” Gemma said quietly. “She’ll chase you, and leave us in peace.”

  Tom leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “You have to go.” He kissed my cheek, then moved away.

  Something dawned on me then. “Tom, if I go back, I can get another remnant. Katie must have something else of yours. I can find a way to get it into the canteen—”

  There was no time for either of us to question how such a plan would work. There was a crash behind us, and Roderick came flying out a second story window, shards of glass raining down around him.

  “Well that didn’t take long.”

  “Go!” Tom said. “We’ll keep them busy.”

  Gemma squeezed my hand.

  And that was all the goodbye we had time for. We’d taken up too much time with it already, frankly.

  I turned and ran across Tom’s lawn, out of his plot, and made for the swamp. I was not ready to do this ritual, no matter what Tom said. But if everyone came in through the swamp, passage back and forth must be easier there. Or maybe not, but the possibility was enough, as long as I believed it.

  There was no getting around it: Tom had rescued me again. He’d given up on coming back with me, just to keep me safe. Tom three, Lydia zero.

  There was a cry in the distance, although not distant enough to suit me, the sound of a demon-toddler setting off on the hunt.

  I resolved to even that score, to do exactly as I told Tom I would.

  Someone was behind me, crashing through the scrubby, rocky terrain of whoever’s plot I was running through.

  I’d get out, and then I’d find a way to get Tom out.

  Just as long as I survived my present circumstances.

  I preferred not to think of myself as “lost” so much as “taking a convoluted route so as to throw off pursuit.” I was under a certain amount of stress, and I’d only been back to the swamp once, so I could perhaps be forgiven for my imperfect recall. I knew the general direction, but the varying landscapes of people’s plots made things confusing. I reminded myself that I wasn’t tired unless I thought I was. Each time I doubled back or changed direction, I tried to leave something misleading—a footprint, a bent blade of grass, a broken branch—going the wrong way.

  But I was still being chased. Once in a while I would hear something behind me, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. The worst was when it sounded like it was coming from somewhere above. But I never looked back. Once I took advantage of the junkyard-style plot I was running through (Whose idea of a fun eternity is this?) to throw an old tire and a sack full of something that rattled across the path behind me, in hopes of stalling anyone who came after. Which was stupid, of course, because a.) they could move things with their minds and b.) they could just fly over them. But panic by definition involves not thinking thi
ngs through.

  I was almost there. I could see the haze, hear the buzzing of those invisible insects in the distance. Then I heard something that made my stomach go cold: a small snarl. Something whizzed past my cheek. Then Roderick landed on the ground in front of me on all fours. I skidded to a stop, nearly falling into the mud, breathing hard.

  He tilted his little head to one side, sizing me up. His chubby cheeks broke into what might have been a grimace, or might have been a smile, showing his black teeth.

  There was no sign of Helen. I guessed—hoped—that Tom and Gemma were still keeping her busy. Which left it to me to keep Roderick busy too.

  A well. I don’t know why that particular thought came to me, but it would certainly do. I closed my eyes, not long enough for doubt or reason, just enough for a mental snapshot: deep, made of stone, slick and mossy sides. Then I opened my eyes and put that well right underneath him.

  Roderick screamed, his little clawed hands scrabbling for something to hold onto, but the stones around the edges were old and shifted beneath his fingers. I didn’t stick around to watch the rest. This would distract him, maybe even hurt him if I was lucky, but not for long.

  I ran like hell.

  Why are you running? People can fly here. If you want to stay ahead of them, you should probably fly too. You just conjured a well in a split second, for fuck’s sake, you know you can do it. Just fucking go. (I swear a lot when I’m giving myself the tough love pep talk.)

  I thought about Tom and Gemma, fighting Helen. I remembered the exact spot on my face where Tom had kissed me and told me to go. Now who knew what Helen was doing to him? And he’s fighting her for you, Lydia. To give you a chance to escape. So you’d better do it, don’t you think?

  I did not want to let Tom down. But Roderick gained on me anyway.

  I thought of Warren too, and it all tumbled together in my mind, the little boy I was running from and the one I was running to, the one who’d lost his father and the one whose father had betrayed him. The one who needed to get back to his mother, and the one whose mother needed to get back to him.

  Just as I could feel Roderick breathing, literally, down my neck, I willed myself to go faster, locomotive fast, and I shot forward.

  I did not manage to fly, but I did manage to pick up speed, surprising even myself as my feet glided over the ground without feeling it, and everything whipped past me in a blur. The problem with that blur was, I couldn’t see where I was going. Finally I felt a splash, and chanced a stop. Too suddenly. I fell into something squishy and really, really smelly.

  I’d arrived in the swamp.

  I couldn’t see Roderick, but I had no illusions that I’d lost him for good. There was no cover here, nothing to hide behind. I crouched in the weeds and muck, spreading mud over myself with my still-good hand in hopes of offering some camouflage.

  I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. Then I began the ritual.

  First water and salt. But Cyrus said for this part I needed to use blood instead. Well that was handy. Helen had conveniently provided me with a bleeding finger.

  Second the fire. But that part came later in the reverse ritual, which was good. I didn’t feel ready.

  Then the incantation. That part was easy too; I’d memorized it, then repeated it to myself before going to sleep each night since, until I could do it without thought, and without pause. I started to speak.

  Last the remnant. Without a bowl of salt and water to drop it into, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with my locket. I took it off and wound it around my bleeding hand. My finger slid over the old clasp, made slick with my blood, and the locket came open. I saw a glimpse of red smeared over Nat’s smiling face before I looked away, never pausing in the incantation.

  I was nearly done. It was time. Even as my mouth spoke out loud, I gave myself a pep talk inside my head: it would be fine. I was a professional, after all. Plus I could make pies and wells and sort of fly. What was a little fire compared to that?

  I concentrated on fire, trying to think of it as something comforting and welcoming. Coming in from the cold, warmth enveloping me. Hearth and home. Home. I held the word in my mind. I felt a prickling heat in my hands and feet. I caught a whiff of campfire smell.

  And of course that little asshole jumped on me right then.

  All the devils are here.

  It couldn’t have been coincidence, Roderick attacking me just as I was almost free. He must have been watching, waiting. For what? For Helen? There wasn’t time to think about it. His disgusting little teeth sank into my shoulder, but it wasn’t warm blood and hot pain I felt. It was searing cold, an ice storm ripping through my shoulder and across my back, down my arms and into my hands, freezing my blood and dousing my fledgling fire before it even really started. The smell of wood smoke was replaced by the rank stench of the swamp around me, and the rank breath of my attacker. I stuttered and stumbled over one word, then two.

  At any other time, in any other circumstances, I have no doubt he would have beaten me then. But I was in the middle of a banishing ritual, and isn’t that the point of practice? Doing things over and over until they become reflex, instinct, automatic even in the face of panic? I hadn’t been at this since I was a teenager for nothing. I snapped my mind back into place. I stopped struggling with Roderick. My voice was trembling with the cold, but I kept speaking until it steadied, then rose.

  When he bit me again, I didn’t try to push him off me. I had a better way to get away from him.

  Roderick probably even helped me that day. If it hadn’t been for his attack, my confidence might have wavered. I might never have gotten that fire going. But in the heat—literally—of the moment, I didn’t have time to doubt or think or worry. I only had time to do. Flames danced around me. Roderick sounded like some sort of wild cat, but his voice was drowned out by the crackle of fire, rising in my ears until I could hardly hear my own voice finishing the incantation.

  I had one moment of panic as I felt the heat spread over me. It was too hot. I was burning. I was on fire.

  good heat, warming you up heat, friendly heat, Christmas-by-the-fire heat, marshmallow roasting s’mores-scented heat

  I don’t know how long I could have held out like that, but there was no need to find out. I was finishing the last line. I had my remnant, I had my blood, I had my fire. I was there.

  I shouted the last word, choking on the smoke.

  TWELVE

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was my hand, clasping my locket with my first and second fingers. The third was still bleeding heavily. Through the blood I could see jagged teeth marks, black around the edges, and my stomach turned.

  I coughed, tasting smoke. To say my head ached would be a vast understatement. It felt filled with concrete. And like it was expanding against my skull, pushing out against the bone, threatening to crack it.

  I was sprawled on a floor. And it had to be a real floor, in the real world, because the switchel ring was beside me. The cork wasn’t in it. There was a rug under me. It looked familiar. Was it 2GR8KIDS lady’s rug? I couldn’t even remember her name.

  I brought my hand up to my neck and shoulder, where Roderick had bitten me. I felt no wounds there, only a crust of dried blood. So non-physical wounds didn’t translate into the physical world, but they had bled for real while I was in the non-physical one. Thinking about it only made my head throb harder.

  The wound in my finger was real. Of course it is, you idiot. You did that to yourself. There was the answer, I guessed, to my question about whether I might count as a weapon in the netherworld.

  It was an effort to swallow. I needed water. With bourbon, preferably. I sat up, then stood. My legs were shaking so much I had to lean against... I looked down, frowning, at what I was leaning against. Now this desk was definitely familiar.

  I was in my house. Well, Charlie’s house.

  “How did I get here?” I asked out loud. My voice was hoarse an
d weak, unrecognizable. A stranger’s voice.

  “You tell me.”

  That voice was not a stranger’s.

  Charlie came into the room, looking equal parts shocked, delighted, and pissed off. He hugged me hard. I hugged him back.

  “Where’s Warren?” I croaked.

  “He’s in bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Which explained why Charlie was wandering around in his boxers. And why I had so much trouble identifying the room. I only then realized that it was dark. I nodded.

  “There was quite a crash down here, and I smelled smoke,” Charlie said. “I thought the house might be on fire.”

  “Nope, only me. I’m on fire.”

  Charlie switched on his desk lamp, then bent forward and put one hand under my chin. He looked intently into first one eye, then the other. “Do you have a head injury?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Well you’re not on fire.”

  “That’s good then.”

  I was suddenly tired, so tired I could hardly stand.

  “Come on,” Charlie said. “I’ll make you some tea—”

  “With bourbon,” I interrupted, and then, “Do we have any rye?”

  “I don’t think so. And while you drink it you can answer the question.”

  “Which question?”

  “How did you get here?”

  I shook my head. I would not be answering that question, not that night. Charlie seemed to think it was because I didn’t know the answer, which was a reasonable assumption given how dazed I was. He took pity on me and didn’t ask any more. He just sat with me, rubbing my shoulder while I sipped chamomile (no bourbon, I guess he thought I wouldn’t notice), then helped me upstairs.

  When I undressed I didn’t see any mud or dirt, only blood here and there. I didn’t even take the time to wash it off. I threw on the first t-shirt and sweats I found and got into my bed.

  My own bed, in my own house. Charlie’s house. I wasn’t sure why that thought kept piping up. I always thought of it as my house too. It didn’t matter who owned it. I was home. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home—my only home. It didn’t fit this time, or this place. I couldn’t think about why. I couldn’t think at all.