Street Magic

Mosswood stood in the street with a newspaper under his arm, backlit by the gaslight on the corner. He swung a small iron key on a fob chain.
    "Even better than breaking in," Jack said. "Need to speak with you."
    "I should think so," said Mosswood. He opened the Lament's three locks and pushed the door wide, motioning Pete and Jack in. "The Black has been a veritable hive of gossip since your and Miss Caldecott's ghostly assignation."
    "What's old chilly-boy after?" Jack asked.
    "Why, your suffering, I imagine," said Mosswood. "Algernon Treadwell was not known for his humor in life, or his mercy. I once saw him put out a man's eyes for daring to meet his."
    Mosswood stalked across the main floor and led Pete and Jack to a private room done like a club in leather wingback chairs and Persian rugs. Bookshelves lined the walls and an ornate fire grate nested in the corner. Mosswood muttered and green flames sprang to life.
    Jack paced, examining the books, but Pete sat opposite Mosswood. "Thanks for your help."
    "And who said I was helping you?" Mosswood raised his eyebrows and began to tamp tobacco into his pipe.
    "You don't have a choice," said Jack with an unpleasant smile. "Treadwell will know I came calling on you. He won't believe you
didn't
help me, so you might as well."
    Mosswood sighed and looked at Pete. "I see you made the choice to continue. Regretting it yet?"
    Pete looked to Jack, who reiterated the question with his expression. "Not yet," Pete said honestly.
    "I don't know how much time we have," Jack said to Mosswood. "Mind if I get on with it? Everything on my account, as per usual."
    The Green Man sighed and puffed his pipe. "Do your worst."
    Jack went to a set of apothecary drawers on the other side of the snug room, drawers that made up a dizzyingly vast section of shelf with their tiny, precise labels, and began opening them at random, examining their contents with the avid enthusiasm of a fetishist in an underwear store.
    "Is there anything I can do?" Pete asked.
    "Not until Treadwell shows up and tries to push me heart out through my nose again," Jack said. He took two leather pouches on thongs from a drawer and tossed one to Pete. She loosened the thong and looked inside.
    "Salt?"
    "Earth. Life," said Jack. "Wear it when we go back to the graveyard." He tucked what looked like charcoal into his pocket along with a fresh chunk of chalk. "Got to piss. Back in a moment."
    "So we just sit here," said Pete glumly, when Jack had left.
    "One word of advice." Mosswood tapped his pipe stem against his teeth. "Jack is taking everything with him that he can think of. Charcoal is a focus for mage talents. He's got the salt because he doesn't believe his shield hex will protect him. But the only certain way to exorcise Treadwell is the way it's always been. Take a coffin nail and drive it into the spot where he was buried."
    "That seems awfully simple," Pete said. "Are you saying Jack doesn't—"
    "Jack will try to make his point before he gets down to business," Mosswood said. "He has the unfortunate human vice of pride. I'm telling
you
this in case Jack doesn't get his chance to deal with Treadwell. For your own good, accept the possibility of that occurrence."
    Pete looked into the fire. She tried to imagine facing Treadwell alone, Jack gone away, and couldn't. She knew her inability made her the sad, guileless little girl who couldn't protect herself, just as before. Pete swallowed a lump of bitter acid at the memory of her own trust, and how last time it had led to the end of everything.
    Not this time
, she promised.
Treadwell won't take Jack away again
.
    The embers pulsed, and the fire snuffed out as the front door of the Lament creaked open and brought the knife-edged autumn gale with it. "I'll go shut it," Pete said, relieved to be out of the weighty silence of Mosswood's presence.
    "Don't—" Mosswood started, but Pete stepped into the main room of the pub and immediately saw her mistake. Felt it, as the dark magic wrapped around her. Three sorcerers wielding the bruise-colored witchfire she'd come to recognize stood arrayed between her, the entrance, and any possible weapon behind the bar.
    "Jack—" Pete opened her mouth to shout, at the same time balling her fists. Magic be damned—she would go down kicking and punching, if that was what it took.
    One of the sorcerers flowed across the floor in a haze of blue-black fire and clamped one hand over her mouth, his other arm pinning Pete in a