Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (49 page)

Throughout the room, nothing stirred.

A flapping of leathery wings announced the arrival of Sally through the shattered windows. Beneath her, the pigeons that were probably Jess circled and cooed in the still night air.

The banshee was already reaching for her whiteboard. Kevin coughed blood, Gretel was lumbering uneasily to her feet.

Is everyone all right?
wrote Sally.

Edna looked at Swift; Swift surveyed the room.

“Vampy-boy looks a bit the worse.”

“I think Kevin drank the wrong kind of blood,” ventured Edna. She was still shaking, though she didn’t know why. She could sense every capillary beneath her skin and felt at once more tired, and more alive, than she remembered being in a very long time.

Someone hesitantly opened the door, and Mrs Rafaat stepped through, followed by Dog. Hanging back from his clawed companion came the small shape of Sammy.

“What a drama,” grumbled the goblin, hopping over the recumbent form of Kevin. He saw the safe. “Hey–sacrifices! Maybe you lot aren’t as totally crap as you look.”

Without pausing, Sammy took off his coat and began unloading the single slipper, lost mitten, broken umbrella and empty fried-chicken box into its hood.

“Should we call a doctor for Kevin?” asked Gretel.

“Good idea,” murmured Swift. “And maybe for you too?”

“I’ll be all right, Mr Mayor sir,” replied the troll. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Good. That’s good. One quick question… where’s Sharon?”

Mr Ruislip loomed over Rhys, claws out, teeth bared, ready to strike–but didn’t.

“It’s like, really dark down here,” boomed Sharon’s disembodied voice.

Rhys slid away from Mr Ruislip’s reach and peered into the darkness of the pit.

Shadows stirred, spun, twisted, and it seemed to Rhys that, as they did, something was rising with them, getting closer and closer, very fast.

“I mean, I know you’re no magical genius and that,” went on Sharon’s voice, and it seemed that it too was getting nearer, carried by a rising blast of warmth that shook the water from Rhys’ hair and made his eyelids want to flicker tight shut, “but did you seriously think it was a bright idea, throwing a
shaman
into a pit of pissed-off trapped spirits?”

And there was something coming, getting larger very, very fast, something bright and burning and brilliant, with jet-black hair streaked with blue, and purple boots and an orange top and a look on its face–on
her
face of…

“You total arsehole,” said Sharon.

And up she came from the pit. It seemed to Rhys that the shaman, as she emerged from the darkness, was standing on nothing, being
carried by nothing. But when he turned his head he thought he could see in the corner of his eye a great mass of shapes, twisting, writhing, burning, dancing–none human, none even animal, but the flashing souls of streets, of buildings, of memories and time, snatched from their homes and now released, spinning through the air around Sharon. Her hair billowed around her and there was a silver-grey glow to her skin that ebbed and flowed like a thing alive in itself, and when she looked at the wendigo, Mr Ruislip cowered–he
cowered
from her glare–and there was something in her eye, something ancient and vast and old.

“You thought you could imprison us?” she roared. And at her voice the air lurched and danced and spun, and for a second glimpses of red mortar dust, of spinning electricity, of whirling voices, of cut glass, flashed in and out of existence around her.

“You thought you could control the city?” she bellowed, and this time the pit shook, the walls creaked, powdered mortar tumbled down and away into the dark while the pulsing mass of magic around Sharon shimmered and spun, and her voice wasn’t human. “You have no idea what we are!”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink. But a sudden fistful of power slammed into Mr Ruislip and threw him off his feet, knocking him against the wall hard enough to crack the bricks at his back.

“Did you think…”

Another wave of power caught Mr Ruislip in its grip and spun him round before he had time to recover himself, slamming him into the floor.

“… that you could understand the city?”

The wendigo gasped as an unseen fist caught him, wrapped itself around his whole body and lifted him up off the floor, squeezing until his eyes bulged in his face and his feet twitched at the empty air.

“Did you think…”

It dropped him again, only to pick him back up like a doll in a giant’s paw.

“… one creature could command us?”

Mr Ruislip gagged and writhed at the unseen force that contained him, black blood pulsing beneath his skin, tongue lolling in his mouth. “P-p-p-please…” he rasped. “Please!”

“Ms Li?” Rhys’s voice was a bare grasp.

The shaman’s snapped her head round to stare at him and Rhys recoiled before the sudden sense of…

       
door slamming in night

feet on stone on stone on stone on stone

running then running now running yet to come stone deep city deep

“No one can command the city,” she said.

“Sharon?” For a second a flash of something in the shaman’s eye, a flicker of doubt? “Ms Li?” he tried again. “You’re um… you’re sort of floating there a bit.”

The grey fires dancing around Sharon faltered, swirled like smoke in a storm. She swallowed and whispered, “Rhys?”

“Um… you okay?”

“I’m… I’m–we… we are… The voices are the… the… I am…” She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers clenching and opening at her side, a sound of pure frustration and concentrated rage rising from the back of her throat. “Rhys! They’re… in my–can’t stop us–mind!”

“Please!” wailed the wendigo, and Sharon’s head turned back to him, too fast, a flash of something else in her eyes.

“Rhys,” she murmured, and her voice wasn’t just her voice, there were a thousand other voices dancing behind it too, “I think the city wants to tear this creature limb from limb. Now, that’s kind of gross, but I really am feeling it, so if you don’t wanna watch I’d suggest you leave now.”

“Please, please…” groaned the wendigo.

“Um… w-when you s-say the city…” stammered the druid.

“I am the city and the city is me,” she replied, eyes fixed on some unseen point. “For without the city, I am not myself, and without me, the city is not complete. I am shaped by its streets and the journey I take, and it becomes what it is through my footsteps on its stones. I am at one with the city, and it is at one with me, as it always has been, and always will be.”

“Okay,” mumbled Rhys, “That’s kind of cool, but a little bit freaky, see?”

“I know.” Sharon’s lips trembled, her hands still blazing at her side. “And this floating thing, it’s making me feel a bit sick, actually. I mean, I’ve never been great with sheer drops, and
w
hile being held in the embrace of the spirits is all well and good, it’s really a long way down, and I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here.”

There was a clattering of running feet from the corridor behind them, and Rhys staggered out of the way as the door opened to let in the combined shapes of Swift, Sammy, Edna, Mrs Rafaat and Dog. Swift looked up, saw Sharon and stopped so hard that Dog nearly flattened him.

“My servant,” breathed Sharon, a smile of hopeful recognition on her lips.

“What?”

“You are the servant of the city,” she breathed. “Its stones call and you obey, as you have always obeyed our call.”

“Uh… yeah, I guess that’s fair, if a little unexpected,” Swift mumbled. Then his bright blue eyes settled on Mr Ruislip, and fury flared in them. “You!” he snarled. “You little wanky pile of wendigo shit, you tell us how to restore Greydawn or we will tear you apart!”

“Actually, the city’s already gonna tear him apart,” offered Rhys.

“You poor dear, what happened to you?” cried Mrs Rafaat, hurrying over to comfort Rhys and his twisted hand.

“Oh, you know, manful heroic stuff,” insisted the druid. “Ow!”

Sammy was staring up at the still-floating Sharon, speechless. Swift nudged the goblin in the skull, that being the highest part available. “Uh… what’s with the floating?”

“She’s at one with the city,” breathed the goblin. “Actually properly at one with the city.” For a moment he just stood there, then raised his head and barked, “Oi, soggy-brains! Your soul been subsumed into the mystic frickin’ ether yet?”

Sharon turned her head to peer down at the goblin. “Hello, Sammy,” she murmured. “The Seven Sisters are still very angry with you.”

“Fat is fat,” he contended. “And I’m not gonna pretend it ain’t just because the silly cow is attuned to the Wood Green ley lines! You having fun being at one with the city?”

“Not really,” whispered Sharon. “It’s all a bit… a bit… big.”

“Wanna stop mucking about then?” barked the goblin.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Course you can.”

“I remember… everything,” she whispered. “I remember when the first stone was laid on my streets. I remember the first bridge across my waters, the first foundation laid into my soil, the first ship to moor at
my quay, the first grave dug on my edges, the first coffin laid, the first child born in my arms, the first fire struck. I remember the taste of ashes and the fog that hid the plague, the weight of bombs breaking my bones, the rattle of drills behind my eyes, the rush of steam through my veins. I remember… Sammy? Help me?”

“You still clearly remember being you, skinny strange human girl-thing,” retorted Sammy. “Else there wouldn’t be all this drama. So just focus on that, yeah?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Arses!”

“I am… I am… I…” She dragged in a shuddering breath, and the mass of nameless shadows flowed in and out of her lungs as she gasped for the air to speak. “Help me!”

“Help yourself! You’re Sharon Li. You’re an unemployed, uneducated ex-maker of coffee with no real job prospects and some overdue rent you’ve gotta worry about–how hard can it be to focus on that?”

Something fiercely human and familiar flickered over Sharon’s face, and Sammy warmed to his theme. “You’re single, your friends don’t really get you, you’ve been lonely for so frickin’ long you’ve started reading books with crappy titles like
How to Be Loved,
you’ve got
no
social skills, your shamaning sucks, you run this Facebook group with a stupid name and gotta go apologise to a vicar tomorrow morning for blowing up his hall.”

“I did
not
blow up his hall!” she barked, and it seemed to Rhys that the silver-grey fires clinging to Sharon’s skin flashed at her indignation, spinning away from her like a corona, growing brighter, whiter, more violent. “Four killer builders blew up his hall; I just happened to be there!”

“Yeah? If you’re so innocent, then how come dribble-nose is all swollen and sticky right now?”

“Can I query ‘swollen and sticky’?” hazarded Rhys.

“Look,” cried Sharon, and now the room was spinning around her, a great voiceless roar in the air, drowning out all but her indignant words. “I’ve only been doing this shamaning thing for a few weeks, properly, I mean.

“And you,” stabbing a finger at Sammy, bringing with it a swirl of still-laden wind, “you’re like, the most unsupportive teacher
ever.
I mean,
‘soggy-brains’? What kind of crap name is that? You gotta encourage your pupils, you’ve gotta be supportive, encouraging, flexible. You can’t just go around insulting everyone who’s taller than you, because that’s the whole world and… Oh.”

Rhys dived for cover as the light spinning around Sharon exploded out from her like a sky-borne magnesium flare. Peering from behind his hands, he saw Sharon’s fingers open at her side, her eyes widen, her face turn towards the ceiling. There came a rippling in the centre of the room, a cacophony, a cracking, a tearing of the darkness in two, as if nothing could be torn into a deeper nothing yet.

With a roar, a churning mass rose from the pit–the trapped spirits, a great dancing conundrum of them twisting in the air, a vibration of voices that made no sound. They whirled around Sharon like an old friend, tangling their fingers in her hair, whispering their stories in her ears, wrapping round her ankles like a family cat. Dog sat up on his haunches as the spirits tornadoed about the room, raising his head to the ceiling as, screaming or singing, or maybe both, they rose, spread across the ceiling in a wall of silver-grey fire and burst out into the dark.

Dog’s howl followed them, a rising farewell to speed them into the night.

Silence fell on the pit.

It was, Rhys reflected, a deeper, truer silence than any that had gone before.

The hole was now…

… exactly that.

A hole, and a dull and uninteresting one at that.

He looked, and there was Sharon, standing now on solid ground, her fingers still open at her side, her hair standing almost on end, swaying a little, eyes closed. The last of the silver-grey fires went out over her skin, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the members of Magicals Anonymous staring at her with a mixture of trepidation and respect.

“Oh,” she murmured, “so that’s who I am.” A pause as she considered this fact. Sammy was grinning, arms folded, one foot tapping a told-you-so rhythm on the floor.

Sharon glared. “So none of this makes anything I said about Sammy actually
wrong,
because you still are a really rude individual, and I think
your hiding behind the whole goblin identity thing isn’t good enough.”

There was a gentle snuffle.

It was the sound of Mrs Rafaat trying not to cry.

“That,” she sniffed, “was the nicest thing…”

Sharon edged towards Mrs Rafaat, her indignation briefly forgotten. “You, um… feeling yourself?”

“Oh yes, I think so, dear. I mean, if this is who I’m meant to feel like.”

“She’s still not Greydawn,” interjected Sammy. “All you done is released the spirits what Burns and Stoke caught. Greydawn was never caught–just changed.”

Swift looked impatient and turned to the prone Mr Ruislip. “All right, you little…”