Street Magic

it. Come on, let's get the girl and get out of here."
    As they walked, toward a pool of silver light growing around a bend in the path, Jack didn't let go of Pete's hand and she didn't try to pull away.
    The whispers crested and dissipated as they rounded the corner and found themselves faced with a half-collapsed mausoleum, two sorcerers fidgeting to either side of the entrance, and between them—
    Pete choked as the air went out of her, and she felt the buzz-saw whine of magic all around her. The ghost was a column of black smoke, vaguely human, burning silver sockets where eyes should be.
    "I told you not to look at it!" Jack hissed, digging his nails into her palm. The air rippled and a shield hex blossomed in front of Pete, heavy and gleaming.
    "Oi, you!" one of the sorcerers shouted. "You, get out of here!"
    "Fucking hell," said the other. "That's really Jack Winter. He came."
    Slowly, the ghost coalesced into a figure made of shadow wisps and dark, the eyes topping a cruel mouth that curved in a black slit.
    Jack Winter
, it hissed. Pete's body was numb, stiff with shock.
    "Jack," she said. "It's from my dreams… that's the thing… I saw it." No response came, and she became aware that Jack was no longer holding her hand.
    "Jack?"
    He was staring at the ghost, shaking his head slowly back and forth. Jack's eyes had gone white, whiter than Bridget Killigan's, a snow-driven color that was icy and depthless. "No," Jack murmured. "No, no, no. I sent you back…"
    Pitiful words, crow-mage, for one arrogant as yourself
, the ghost said.
I will feed on your spirit and sculpt your bones
.
    "Let's give 'em some room," said one of the sorcerers.
    "What about the bloody kid?" hissed the other.
    "Leave her, 'less you want to get mage guts all over you!" the first shouted, as the ghost let out a howl that ground Pete's teeth together. "Let's sodding
go
!"
    They vacated the entrance to the tomb and Pete saw Margaret Smythe crouched, with her arms around her knees, eyes blessedly brown and impossibly wide peeking over the tops.
    Pete looked back at Jack. He stared at the ghost, and the ghost grinned at him, gaping and toothsome.
No more chatter, crow-mage? No more pithy words from the old tongues to expunge me
?
    "You're not him!" Jack shouted. He held up his hand and the shield hex became like a wall of heavy water, rippling and impenetrable. "Now piss off!"
    The ghost laughed, a scrape against Pete's mind that hurt so much she staggered. It turned, its face sliding along the smoke column of its body to regard her.
    Your dreams are most intriguing, young miss. The pity lies in the weakness of your flesh.
    "Not weak," Pete ground out. She held out her hand. "Margaret. Come along, luv."
    "No!" Margaret shook her head furiously, scooting backward into the mausoleum.
    She has grown fond of me, you see. Children are sometimes so very foolish
, the ghost murmured, like the moan of a dying mother.
    Pete turned on it, careful not to meet the silver orbs distorted by the shield hex. "I swear to everything above and below that if you've hurt her I'll follow you all the way down to the underworld and find a way to kill you again."
    The ghost snarled and raised a smoke-hand tipped with black claws. Pete made a dive for Margaret. She felt the swipe, felt it grab the ends of her hair and the seams of her shirt, barely missing skin, the magic burning as if she'd touched supercooled metal.
    She had the thought
I should be dead
as she hit the ground, snagging Margaret's hand and pulling her close, balling up her body around the little girl and rolling away from the shrieking spirit.
    When she opened her eyes Jack stood above her, both hands extended, the shield hex glowing blue-hot around the edges as the ghost struck it again and again. Jack wobbled under each blow, and Pete saw a ribbon of blood begin to leak out of his nose.
    "Not
exactly
like you remember, is it, you wispy cunt," he ground out. "Pete, run," he said. "Run for your life."
    The light of the shield hex reflected off the ghost's teeth and Pete shook her head. "Not leaving you. Can't."
    Margaret was sobbing, but in relief, not terror. Pete reached out her free hand and laid it on Jack's arm.
    "Pete…" he started, but she gripped his hand before he could protest.
    "I know what I'm doing," she said. It was a complete lie, and it didn't seem to appease Jack, but by then it was too late.
    Just as with Talshebeth, Pete felt the dial on her senses pushed to maximum—the shriek