by Rachel Aaron
She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be, really, without knowing the truth in advance. One thing, however, was clear: whatever disaster Ghost brought would have to be pretty freaking bad to outweigh losing to Vann Jeger. Also, Marci already had the first inklings of a backup plan, assuming things did go to pot. She could feel Ghost prowling around in her head, though, so she turned her thoughts carefully away, looking the spirit in the eye as she gave her answer.
“Let’s do this.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she felt Ghost’s claws dig in. It was just like in the alley when he’d yanked the magic through their connection, only this time, everything was multiplied by a thousand. The magic didn’t just burn as it came back in, it was blistering, the most intense pain Marci had ever felt. Likewise, the cold Ghost left behind wasn’t just cold, it was a physical presence, an anchor of ice that dragged her down until she didn’t even feel human anymore. She was just a wire, a conduit feeding Vann Jeger’s magic into something else. Something huge and cold and terrifying that she barely knew anymore.
Marci never knew how long the transfer went on. It felt like forever, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, because when she became aware of the outside world again, the evening sky wasn’t yet full dark, and Vann Jeger’s cage of water was still up. Everything was just as it had been before, only now the giant circle stuffed full of power she’d had a death grip on was empty, and Ghost was nowhere to be seen.
I’m here.
Her breath caught. The spirit’s whisper was no longer a whisper, but a voice in her head just as loud and clear as her own. That probably should have been her first concern, but Marci was more pissed that she’d gone through all that only to wake up and find Vann Jeger was still attacking Julius.
It’s not finished.
“How can it not be finished?” she demanded, forcing herself to sit up. “I gave you everything.”
A whisper of amusement floated through her head. You don’t have to talk out loud, you know, the voice chided. You did indeed give me everything I asked, but I can’t help you yet.
Marci rolled her eyes impatiently. Why not?
Because doing so would kill you, too, the presence that had once been Ghost replied. You did it, Marci. You bought my name. But the bond between us is no longer strong enough for what I am now. If we are to continue together, a new pact must be made.
She grimaced. The spell she’d used before was the only binding she knew.
Not a spell, he said, his voice smooth and deep in a way Ghost’s had never been. If I’m to continue as your spirit, I have to be part of you. For that, I need something of yours. A sacrifice.
That word conjured up bloody images of hearts on trays, and the spirit laughed.
I’m not that kind of cat.
“You’re not a cat at all,” Marci reminded him. Out loud, too, because speaking helped maintain the semblance of equal ground. “But if you don’t want blood,”—which was a huge relief—“what do you want?”
There was a long silence, and then, A memory.
“That’s it?” Marci laughed. “You’re already inside my brain. Just take your pick.”
What followed was the strange sensation of someone shaking their head while still inside hers. It doesn’t work like that. The memory is an offering, a sacrifice to forge the bond. I cannot pick what you offer. You must choose what you sacrifice, and you must surrender it willingly.
Fair enough, she supposed. “Any particular kind of memory?”
Someone who has died.
The answer came instantly, which struck her as odd. Just what kind of spirit was he?
You’ll see, he promised. Choose.
“Bixby,” she said at once.
Revulsion flooded her mind. You would offer me something you hate? What kind of a sacrifice is that?
Marci sighed. So much for the easy out. Then again, she supposed it made sense. Deals with the devil never worked when you tried to foist off something you didn’t care about.
I’m not the devil, the voice said grumpily, sounding much more like Ghost than he had before. I chose you because I thought you knew that. You accepted me as I was.
“Sorry,” Marci said, and she was. For all his creepiness, Ghost had always done right by her. That said, though, if he wouldn’t take Bixby, that left only one person.
Marci’s hands went unbidden to the rectangular shape at the bottom of her shoulder bag. With so much going on, she hadn’t had a chance to move her dad’s ashes somewhere safer, or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to let them go. Either way, surrendering his memory to a spirit, even Ghost, felt unspeakably wrong. She was his last living family, the only one who still remembered the big-hearted, overly-generous man that was Aldo Novalli. If she gave that up, he’d be forgotten forever.
The dead are always forgotten.
“Not helping,” she muttered, looking up again at Vann Jeger’s prison. She still couldn’t see through the wall of water, but she could hear the battle inside, which she hoped meant both dragons were still holding out. That was a miracle in and of itself, and Marci wasn’t foolish enough to think it would continue much longer. Unlike her father, Julius and Chelsie were still alive and depending on her. Her dad would understand. If he were here now, he might even volunteer. Aldo Novalli never had been able to resist playing the hero.
The thought brought a smile to her lips, and Marci lowered her head. Slowly, reverently, she pulled the box of ashes out of her bag and placed it in her lap, stroking the name printed on the cardboard with loving fingers. “Okay,” she whispered, blinking back the tears the blurred her vision as she tried her best to remember her father as she’d loved him best: the mage who’d taught her magic, the trickster who’d made her laugh, the one person who’d always believe in her no matter what. She gathered those memories and held them tight as she could, like she was hugging him one last time. And then, all at once, she let go.
“Goodbye, daddy.”
The moment the words left her mouth, the world went dark. Not night dark or closet dark or even the dark of the Underground, but absolute pitch. But while that should have been terrifying, Marci wasn’t afraid, because she wasn’t alone. There was a weight on her shoulder, a large, ice-cold hand squeezing gently.
The price is paid, the voice said loud and clear behind her. The bond is forged. What will you do with it?
The image of Vann Jeger’s smug blue face flashed through her mind, and Marci bared her teeth. “Take him down.”
It was impossible to see in the dark, but Marci would have sworn the spirit smiled.
As you wish.
His voice was still hanging in the air when the hand on her shoulder vanished, and then a wind began to rise, blowing away the darkness as Marci got to her feet to see what she had brought into the world.
***
“Chelsie!”
Julius rolled in the dirt, dodging the giant hammer seconds before it landed on his head. On the other side of the circle, his sister jumped at Vann Jeger, slamming her boot into the spirit’s arm and throwing his next attack crooked just long enough for Julius to scramble away. Ten minutes ago, the daring escape would have been cause for celebration. Now, with his lungs burning and every muscle in his body on the edge of giving out, Julius couldn’t even spare it a thought.
“Come on,” his sister growled, snatching him onto his feet again as she raced by. “Keep moving.”
Julius nodded and tried to move faster, though he wasn’t sure if the effort made an actual difference in his pace, or the fight’s seemingly inevitable outcome. “He’s just toying with us,” he panted, looking back over his shoulder at Vann Jeger, who was making a great show of selecting his next weapon.
“That’s why we’re still alive,” Chelsie said, her face grim. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
That was true enough, but Julius was no longer sure he preferred death-from-exhaustion over death by whatever crazy tool Vann Jeger pulled out next. He’d lost all tr
ack of time after Vann Jeger had eaten his sister’s sword, but they had to be well past Marci’s deadline, and there was still no end in sight. Just more running, the two of them avoiding Vann Jeger’s attacks by smaller and smaller margins while the spirit stood in the center, blatantly enjoying the sight of dragons scurrying like mice.
Even for Julius, who was used to running, it was a humiliating experience. Or, he would have been humiliated if he hadn’t also been so terrified. Even Bethesda had never brought him as close to death as he’d come to tonight, or half as many times. Chelsie was the only reason he hadn’t gone over. She’d stuck by him like glue, constantly pulling him out of danger and keeping him moving even when he was sure he couldn’t take another step. But grateful as Julius was for his sister’s help, it had taken everything both of them had to survive this long, and he didn’t have any illusions about their chances going forward.
“Come on, Marci,” he whispered, risking a glance at the wall of water where he thought she was, though he’d been around so many times now, he couldn’t be sure anymore. “Come on.”
“Forget her,” Chelsie snapped, reaching back to yank him forward. “The plan’s failed. I don’t know what she’s been doing, but Vann Jeger’s no weaker now than he was when we came in.”
Julius didn’t want to believe that, but it was getting harder and harder to keep up hope. Still. “Marci will think of something,” he said firmly. “She always does.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“What else is there?” he cried. “We can’t run forever!”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears,” Chelsie replied, and then she shoved him hard. “On your left.”
He stumbled to the ground just in time to miss the ax flying through the air where his head had been. As always, the weapon turned to water vapor before it could hit the ground, but the little glimpse he caught of the wickedly curved blade before it vanished confirmed it was different from the others, just as they’d all been. “How many of those has he got?!”
“From what I’ve seen? Infinite.” Chelsie pointed across the circle. “Go north. We’ll pincer.”
Julius didn’t see the point in attacking. In the short time since she’d lost her sword, he’d seen Chelsie rip off Vann Jeger’s arm, both legs, and split his head to the teeth with just her bare hands. Every time, though, the spirit had reformed good as new in seconds.
The obvious difference in power was unfair enough to make even Julius feel murderous. If it wasn’t for the seal, he’d have changed and blasted Vann Jeger ages ago, whatever his sister said. But then, just as he was imagining how good it would feel to burn Vann Jeger until he evaporated, a wind rose in the dark.
If they’d still been in the open field, that wouldn’t have been remarkable, but here inside Vann Jeger’s watery prison, the only wind Julius had felt was the gust of a weapon as it narrowly missed him. That alone made the breeze remarkable, but what really caught his attention was the cold.
Given that it was mid-September, the nights were starting to get chilly, but no amount of seasonal change could explain this kind of dry, creeping, bone-chilling cold. It was like someone had let in a draft from the abyss. Even Chelsie stopped when she felt it, a move that nearly cost her her head when Vann Jeger whipped a long sword in her direction.
The attack must have been habit by this point, because Vann Jeger wasn’t even looking at them when it happened. He was standing still at the center of the circle, his black eyes darting from side to side like he was searching for something. But while the spirit’s distraction gave them a chance to catch their breath, Julius didn’t think it was a good development. An opinion that only grew stronger when the freezing wind picked up, blowing the dirt into dust devils that stung his eyes and smelled of old graves.
“Get back.”
Julius jumped and turned to see Chelsie standing right beside him. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she said, covering her nose with her hand. “But something’s here. Can’t you smell it?”
Julius wished he couldn’t. In the few moments they’d been talking, the graveyard smell had become overpowering. The temperature had dropped as well, plummeting from normal evening chill to meat locker levels, and as it got colder, the wind grew stronger.
It came from everywhere and nowhere, ripping the loose soil from the torn-up battlefield and spinning it into shapes that looked almost like people in the dark. A few seconds later, there was no “almost” about it. The dust figures were people—shuffling, faceless human forms of every age, sex, and race. Some looked like they’d walked straight out of ancient paintings, while others looked like dust copies of normal people you’d see on the streets of the DFZ. All of them were silent, their bodies blown in and out of existence by the freezing wind that had no beginning and no end as they circled around Vann Jeger, the apparent center of the strange, spontaneous storm.
“Enough!” the spirit roared, forming a large, wicked-looking ax in his hands. “Who are you?”
The one who remembers.
Julius nearly jumped out of his skin. That deep voice had been inside his head, the words blowing though his mind just like the freezing wind blew over his skin. It wasn’t just him, either. Chelsie jumped, too, her head snapping around as she looked for the voice’s source. Vann Jeger was doing the same, turning in a tight circle with his teeth bared and his ax ready. “You are not known to me,” the spirit thundered. “And you are not welcome. This is my fight. Show yourself or be gone!”
But I have always been here.
Despite the bitter cold, Julius began to sweat. Maybe it was his imagination, but he’d have sworn the voice had sounded familiar that time. He was desperately trying to remember where he could have possibly heard something that terrifying before when Vann Jeger froze in his tracks. Chelsie grabbed Julius’s shoulder a split second later, yanking him around until he was facing the prison’s far edge. But while both his sister and Vann Jeger were clearly looking at something, Julius had no idea what. So far as he could tell, that side of the circle was filled with the same ghostly, shuffling dust figures as everywhere else. A second later, though, he realized that wasn’t quite right. One figure in the crowd, a shadow of a soldier in the tattered armor of the Roman Legion, was standing still, and his eyes—two angry slits that glowed like blue fireflies in the empty dark of his helmet—were looking straight at Vann Jeger.
Had Julius been in Vann Jeger’s shoes, this was the point where he would have started running. But being functionally unkillable must have been a crazy confidence booster, because the spirit just looked pissed. “I’m in no mood for games,” he growled, swinging his ax through the swirling ghostly figures. “What are these shades? Answer truthfully, or die.”
For some reason, the soldier seemed to find this hilarious. Die? he cackled, his voice growing stronger. But they already have. They are the forgotten dead, memories lost to all but me.
“And who are you?” Vann Jeger demanded.
The soldier raised his head, and when he spoke again, the words were no longer in Julius’s head, but actual sound—a man’s deep voice, warped by the blowing wind into something much more terrifying. “I am the Empty Wind, Spirit of the Forgotten Dead, and I have come for what is mine.”
By the time he finished, Julius was petrified. He’d never heard of a spirit of the forgotten dead, but it didn’t sound friendly. The only positive thing he could say about their situation was that at least none of the terrifying, ghostly dust figures were looking at him or Chelsie. Their attention was fixated on Vann Jeger, who looked pretty terrifying in his own right.
“Spirit of the Forgotten Dead?” he roared, his blue face turning navy with anger. “Impossible! You are an illusion, a trick!”
The soldier tilted his head. “Does this feel like a trick?”
The wind picked up as he spoke, nearly blowing Julius over. Even Vann Jeger was starting to look spooked as ice crystals began forming in his kelp beard, bu
t that didn’t keep him from yelling. “There are no more Mortal Spirits!” He swung his ax through the dust figures, who didn’t seem to care. “This is Algonquin’s land, the domain of millions of years of water! We have no place for fears made flesh.”
“You speak as if you have power,” the Empty Wind said calmly. “But you’re nothing but a misplaced drop of water riding on stolen magic and hiding in Algonquin’s shadow. Even the Lady of the Lakes is nothing but a pond who’s overflowed her bounds.” He held out a ghostly hand, pointing down at the ground. “This land is more my domain than it ever was hers. All that you call the DFZ was built on the forgotten, the unknown thousands who drowned beneath Algonquin’s wave and now lie lost without even a monument to their name.”
The wind rose higher as he spoke, bringing more figures out of the dirt. But while the ghosts were still little more than faceless shapes in the swirling dust, Julius could feel their anger like a weight as they pressed in around Vann Jeger.
“They called to me,” the Empty Wind continued, his deep voice shaking with fury. “Their pleas woke me from my slumber, and I will give them satisfaction.” He stepped forward, his eerie blue eyes glowing brighter than ever. “They will be remembered, Spirit of the Geirangerfjord! And you who put on airs and claim power not your own, you will be forgotten.”
The moment he finished, the ghosts charged in, plunging their transparent hands into Vann Jeger’s body. The spirit roared in reply, swinging his ax in great, sweeping circles as water surged up from the ground to fill the arena. By the time Julius realized what was going on, the icy saltwater was already up to his chest. But though the dust that gave the ghosts their shape was now crushed under several feet of water, it was too little, too late. The dead were already here, and even without the dirt that had defined their edges, they kept swarming, plunging their glowing hands into Vann Jeger, and when they pulled them out again, his weapons were clutched in their transparent fingers.
