“And it’s up to you. We can manage this, or we can leave it be. It could be bloodier, darker, more dangerous, with each repetition of the three, or it could be quieter, a controlled chaos we can both benefit from.”
“What do I have to do?” Maggie asked.
“Her name is Molly Walker. That will be the first part. The only part of any importance, to you. You can leave the remainder to me.”
3.01
“Your name is Leonard Harlan. Come.”
I had a small iron mortar and pestle in front of me. I tipped it over, very carefully depositing the contents so they formed a straight line in front of me.
Two fires burned, one on either side of me. Running through each fire, I had a ring of salt and a loop of chain. I was grateful for the warmth of the flame.
“You made a mistake, Leonard. The memory has faded to the point that nobody necessarily remembers, it was so long ago. The doctors and nurses who witnessed it have left the world or left the city, your family all deceased.”
I picked up the folded page I’d laid across my lap. I read it, taking my time.
Others were lurking around the area, but they hung back in groups.
The Briar Girl’s spies, more than an attacker of any sort. There weren’t many Others who would be wandering the back of the property, and the circles I’d set out would help ward against them.
Even so, I was glad to have Rose watching my back.
I looked at the page. My grandmother’s description of what had happened. Outside of a microfiche of some newspaper article from years ago, this would be one of the last memories of what had happened to Leonard.
“I summon you, Leonard. I know who you are, I remember your story. I don’t know where you rest, but that place will have changed and moved on. It will have forgotten. The memories are here. Let go and answer me.”
There was a long pause.
“You knew it would be a long shot,” Rose murmured. “The last ghost you tried to call didn’t come.”
“Because it was closer to the North End. It probably got swallowed up by Johannes. This one shouldn’t be far.”
“There isn’t much tying Leonard down,” Rose said. “Maybe he’s gone. Reabsorbed into the ether, or whatever place memories go when they’re gone.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“We’re zero for three, Blake. One ghost that’s apparently a slave to someone else…”
“One of the Duchamps, probably. Or someone with a solid ability to manipulate connections, judging by the feelers they sent back in my direction.”
“Another that probably got swallowed up by Johannes’ Demesne.”
“Something like that.”
“And now another no-show.”
This one was a ghost grandmother had captured. Leonard Harlan. She’d bound him for a ritual, hence the notes, and he’d returned to his former haunting grounds when the ritual was done.
“Maybe you could stop? Take a break, eat?” Rose suggested.
“Soon. I’ll eat to build up my strength, but I’m not feeling too hungry.”
“You’re not feeling tired either,” Rose said. “That’s not a good thing. That’s you being in such bad shape that you’re not registering your basic needs anymore.”
“I know. I get it. I’ll eat a full meal in just a few minutes. I refuse to believe there aren’t any damn ghosts left in this town.”
“Lots of practitioners.”
“Who aren’t supposed to find ghosts of any worth,” I said. “Too short lived, with a permanent expenditure of power.”
“That’s what the book said. Maybe they’re gathering power in preparation for the shift of power.”
“Maybe. But these last two weren’t connected to anyone or anything. Hm.”
“Maybe strengthen the connection?” Rose asked.
“I think I’d have to. I don’t want to overdo it, though.”
“Yeah. Don’t use blood. You’ve done too much of that already.”
I removed my left glove. The locket was wound around my hand, the chain running between fingers and across my hand, holding the locket itself more or less in place. It was uncomfortable, and the chain rubbed against the bandage I’d put over the self-inflicted stab wound, and the thing required constant adjustment so the chain wouldn’t rub the skin between my fingers raw. Which was sort of the point; it ensured I couldn’t forget the thing.
It was, I was almost certain, a big factor in why the faerie hair I’d so neatly packed into the locket was growing enough to start slipping out, winding around the chain like climbing ivy.
I doubted it was as powerful as blood, but still, I used a small swiss army knife to snip the hair free, cut it up, and then put it into the small iron pot. I grabbed some snow and squeezed it until the warmth and friction produced water, and ground up the moist hair with the mortar and pestle.