Untitled

“I will bear no further insults,” the Celestial said, eyes narrowing, small pale hands
curled into fists. B wondered if the old sorcerer had always been so prone to rages, or if
switching bodies had made his mind fracture. When Rondeau had told B about the
Thing on the Doorstep trick, he said that could happen, that the trauma of moving the
psyche to a new body could create anything from hairline fractures to great gaping
chasms in the mental landscape. “She cannot trifle with me. She will come, she will
bring back Ch’ang Hao, whom she stole from me, she will come now.”
B’s eyes were adjusted to the dimness now, but the shadows continued their squirming,
and he frowned, because the shadowy movements didn’t seem related to the flickering
of the lamplight. He squinted, and suddenly the movements took on sense. There were
spirits here, dozens of them, possibly more, twisting and writhing. There were creatures
with fangs and night-blue faces, sinuous dragon-shapes, coiled serpents, a one-legged
bird, a stag with a huge rack of antlers, a grotesque toad—but the majority were human,
wearing robes, faces twisted in a range of expressions that seemed to run from
disappointment to fury.
And every one of them was turned toward the Celestial, who was still shouting about
Marla’s injustices. A crackling field of energy was forming around the Celestial,
especially the hands and forearms, and B realized with surprise that he could actually
see the sorcerer gathering energy. He’d seen something similar with Marla on Bethany’s
train, a whitish mist forming around her as she’d prepared to freeze the poison frogs
solid, but he hadn’t really understood. The Celestial was about to do something, cast
some spell, and B had to stop him.
“Hey!” he shouted, speaking not to Rondeau, or the Celestial, or the elderly apprentice,
but to the spirits who churned just beneath the skin of existence. Every one of them
snapped to attention and looked at B, most of them exhibiting shock, a few smiling
bitterly. “You can come out,” B said. “I’ll help you.”
“Who are you talking to, lickspittle?” the Celestial said, and the crackling black energy
hid his hands completely now.
“Them,” B said, and spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. He reached out to these
ghosts and fragments, the way he reached for spirits and oracles, and he felt them
respond.
The spirits burst into greater visibility, and though they were still insubstantial, still
flickering on the edges, everyone could see them now. They strode out of the corners
toward the Celestial, and where their bodies touched the red filaments the wires snapped
harmlessly and disappeared. The Celestial backed away, his gathered magic forgotten
and dissipating, his eyes wide. “Ancestors,” he said. “Honored ancestors, you
misunderstand, these things I’ve done, I had no choice, I meant no harm to you or your
memories….”
The spirits didn’t speak. They just pressed in, squeezing in a tight knot around the
Celestial, who shrank away, hunching onto the ground and covering his head. They did
not strike him—B doubted that they could—but they hissed, barely audible, and they
looked, and they whispered, and whatever they said made the Celestial shake his head