“I’m okay standing here, thanks,” B said. It occurred to him, distantly, that he was terrified. His stomach fluttered with something like stage fright, which he hadn’t experienced on an actual stage in many years. But he kept his posture relaxed, his voice clear and firm, using the tools of acting that he’d put away but never forgotten. Rondeau’s eyes were wide, doubtless trying to convey to B that there was a trap here, don’t come any closer, but B had already figured that out, so he nodded to Rondeau in a friendly way. “Anyway,” B said. “Marla had some business to take care of, so she sent me to chat with you.”
“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 and moan. The apprentice in the old man’s body stood back, looking at the creature, expression completely unreadable.
B wondered what the spirits were. The Celestial’s actual ancestors? Or phantasms of guilt or madness that B had given a sort of temporary life? Whatever they were, they seemed to have the Celestial occupied, and so B hurried to Rondeau and began stripping the tape away. When he tore off the duct tape from Rondeau’s mouth, Rondeau said, “Is Marla dead?”
“Not last time I saw her,” B said, unbinding Rondeau’s ankles. “She wanted to come herself, but we got the word from an oracle about when Mutex was going to make his move, and it’s soon, so she had to go deal with that.”
“She gave you her cloak?” Rondeau said, stunned. “So you could come save me?”