Ben followed his son out into the hall.
"A tangle," said Mara.
"What?”
"There are several ways to bind something, but most are spells you cast on the person or thing. A tangle's a portable sort of charm—rather like flypaper. Where you drop it becomes sticky for a while.”
"That's it," I said. "How do I get it to work?”
"In this case, you'll want to create a time loop with the tangle, to hold the ghost a while, so you'll have to be dropping the tangle on a repeater ghost to create the trap and then pouring your poltergeist onto that time loop. That loop's like a bear trap—as soon as your poltergeist enters the loop, it'll grab on to it and hold it still in time until the energy of the ghost is dissipated, or burns through the loop.”
"How long is that?”
"Usually an hour or so—depends on the strength of the ghost and the tangle. I'll make a good one, though.”
"How long will it take to make it?”
"A few minutes. I'll have to go fetch some cuttings from the garden. I'll nip out. You keep your feet up—that knee still looks a mite tetchy.”
I snorted. "I'll stay put—I'm conserving my pain threshold for later.”
She laughed a single whoop and left me alone in the living room.
For a few minutes, all was calm, wrapped in the protective spells of the house. I took several long, slow breaths, letting tension flow away on the exhale. I closed my eyes for a moment. Which was a mistake.
Shouting a "Graaaaahh!" the rhino-boy galloped into the room with Albert right behind. Ben was several feet farther back.
Albert circled Brian, who tucked his head down and charged.
Albert wafted backward into the end table by my elbow.
Brian rammed his head against the polished blond oak.
The table rocked.
I swung my arm to grab. .
the bottle. .
fell. .
crashed. .
smashed.
A storm of mirrored glass whirled into the air with a shriek that shook the house. Hot yellow and bloodred, the entity gathered itself and sped toward the door.
Brian dropped to the floor with a yowl.
Mara rushed in holding a small circle of greenery in her hand and stopped, wide-eyed, in the doorway, looking back and forth between the shattered glass in which her son had plopped himself and the blazing shape that roared past her.
I jumped up and started after the entity, my knee throbbing in protest of the sudden movement. I made it to the sidewalk before I lost all sight of the entity.
"Goddamn it!" I spat.
The thin yellow strand of energy that linked me to the entity sprang taut, pointing southeast. Toward Chinatown.
I dashed back into the house, grabbing for my bag and jacket.
"I have to follow it!”
Mara shoved the little circlet of plant material into my hands. "It's not as good as I'd like—it'll only last about half an hour—but it'll do. Be careful of the thorns.”
But it was too late; they'd already pierced into my palm. I shoved the ring of blackberry vine into my coat pocket and whirled to pursue the ghost that wasn't a ghost to Chinatown.
CHAPTER 32
I had parked the Rover on Jackson and started on foot into the real heart of Chinatown. The thin yellow strand in front of me pointed mostly south and a bit east. I came down Maynard, past the red-and-yellow painted front of the Wing Luke Asian Museum, to Hing Hay Park on the corner of King Street. This short stretch of King, from the railroad terminals at Fourth to the current freeway overpass that soared over the remains of Ninth, was the place the Chinese had resettled after the Seattle Fire and the end of the Exclusion Act. The whole stretch of buildings ahead and to the east had been built by Chinese businessmen between 1890 and 1930.1 paused a moment to get my bearings and watched a troupe of kids—black, brown, and yellow, wearing Halloween masks—playing on the wet, rust-colored bricks of the park, ducking in and out of the red-pillared pavilion, to the annoyance of a couple of old men playing checkers on the stone tables inside. I heard the kids whoop and chatter, skipping away as the men waved impatient hands at them. Teenagers and young men grown too old too fast gathered in clutches around the benches and stone tables at the edge of the park, talking trash in half a dozen languages.
The stores and restaurants—shabby, but proud—were busy with the Sunday dim sum crowd. Visiting Caucasians goggled along the streets, standing out, pale in the mixed throng, to the China Gate, Four Seas, Sun Ya; ducked into Pink Godzilla for Japanese video games; carried tinted bakery boxes or bags from Uwajimaya and the Kinokuniya bookstore bulging with imported food and manga, or clever bribes for the evening's invasion of trick-or-treaters. The odor of food and fortune cookies, garbage and wet asphalt mingled with the sounds of Sunday chatter and random music in snatches from every opening door.
I checked the compass-like thread of Grey.
Ana and her parents lived a block to the southwest, as the crow flies, but the thin strand of yellow pointed southeast. I went east along King and stopped again on the next corner.
Now the strand looped around and pointed back toward May-nard. I turned, looking up and down the street. I spotted a narrow alley behind an apartment building. A sign at the mouth of the alley on the south side of King directed traffic to an aquarium and pet store, children welcome it declared.
I started to stroll across the street against the light and drew up short as a blue and white SPD patrol car rolled around the corner from Maynard. I watched the car come toward me, then turn south again onto Seventh, its occupants looking intense and stern.
I crossed the street and strolled back toward the alley, pausing again at the door to an import store beside the pet store sign. I pretended to read the sign on the door as I checked the yellow strand again.
Due south. Ian was down the alley somewhere. I poked my head around the corner. The alley was only half the length of the block on the west side, the far end being a parking lot for one of the restaurants. Only a few back doors opened on the rest. It seemed an unlikely place for a pet store.
I started down the alley. It was just wide enough for a delivery truck to get down and I could see a gouge high up in the green-painted tile on my left from where one hadn't been careful enough. A gold carp wind sock fluttered over the door to the pet shop, flicking a desultory tail over the alley with each gust of food-scented breeze. Silvery shades of Grey flickered in the shadows of padlocked doorways as I walked toward the fish.
From the green wall on my left, a deep doorway with once-impressive double doors—secured with a rusty chain and aging padlock—and a rank of glass brick gave up an unpleasant gleam in shadow. I walked past and entered the pet store.
Pretending interest in a tank of goldfish, I looked down at the Grey tether around my neck. It pointed back toward whatever lay behind those chained doors. I started to sink toward it and felt a ghastly wash of emotions and deadly cold.
"Can I help you?”
I jerked back from the repulsive sensation and turned to face the man behind me. He was slender, about fifty-five to sixty, and wore a faded green bib apron over his clothes. Thick, unfashionable glasses magnified his eyes so he seemed to stare through me.
"I'm just looking," I said.
He inclined his head. "Well, we have lots of fish, lots of aquarium equipment, if you like. I have some new goldfish in the back, some little birds, too. Do you keep fish?”