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Roger was looking at me, as if he knew what I was thinking. Not too hard, since we’d battled the Spartoi together once. Well, sort of.
We’d mostly run away together.
“What kind of security?” Pritkin demanded. “If you’re telling the truth, they’re nothing but ghosts?
?”
“You think spirits are not powerful?” Roger asked archly. “You of all people should know better.”
“And why would that be?” Pritkin asked silkily. There weren’t too many people who could guess what he was, especially after half an hour’s acquaintance. But Roger merely smirked at him.
Okay, this was going well. “I still don’t get how you made them,” I said quickly.
“The same way war mages make golems,” Roger told me.
“They’re nothing alike!” Pritkin said. And he should know. He’d had a golem once.
“Well, yes, there is the matter that your lot forces demons to power your constructs,” Roger agreed. “While my associates do it of their own free will. But other than—”
“Golems are controlled—”
“A nicer word than enslaved.”
“—so they are not free to wreak havoc—”
“Until they get loose and eat your face,” Roger said dryly.
“—unlike that thing tonight! It might have killed us!”
“With what? She wasn’t armed.”
“It did a good enough job without—” Pritkin stopped. “She?”
“Her name’s Daisy,” I informed him.
Pritkin’s mouth had been open for another retort, but at that he shut it. His eyes slid over to Roger and then back to me, as if he was trying to see the resemblance. I could feel my face heating; I didn’t know why. I damned sure didn’t see any myself.
Roger Palmer was a tall, lanky guy, a bit on the thin side, with a face, nose, and teeth that were all slightly too long. It gave him a horsey appearance, which wasn’t helped by a shock of dishwater blond hair that liked to flop in his pale blue eyes. He was dressed in an old brown suit and a tan cardigan that had started to pill. He had on threadbare purple velvet slippers, since I guess the Wellies he’d worn to tromp through the forest had needed cleaning. He didn’t look like a dangerous dark mage, despite that being the story I kept hearing. And he certainly didn’t look like somebody who ought to be married to a goddess.
But then, I didn’t look much like a Pythia, either, so looks could be deceiving. I just didn’t know if they were in his case. I also didn’t know if he was provoking Pritkin when he was already in a mood because he thought he could handle him, or if he merely didn’t notice.
Judging by his reaction, I don’t think Pritkin knew, either.
“But ghosts can’t power anything,” I repeated, before they started up again. “Most of them barely manage to take care of themselves—”
“Nonsense,” Roger said. And for the first time, his face came alive. “Ghosts are amazing creatures, among the most versatile in existence. And powerful—”
“Powerful?” I repeated, because that hadn’t been my experience. Sure, the ones at Tony’s had wreaked some havoc, and I’d seen something similar on a few other occasions. But those were rare instances when a lot of ghosts found a reason to work together, usually in pursuit of their favorite sport—revenge—or of the power they needed so desperately. Without it, they ended up in a half existence, chained to whatever they were haunting and the tiny subsistence it afforded them until they finally faded altogether.
I’d often thought that was why so many eventually went mad. Eternity stops being a bonus when you’re effectively a prisoner. And there were certainly enough crazed spirits out there.
But powerful?
“Oh yes,” Roger insisted. “Take demons, for example. Everyone always talks about how strong they are, how difficult to control, how dangerous.” He did little finger motions around the last word, as if mocking the idea of anybody being afraid of a lowly creature like a demon. “When if they only knew—ghosts are far more so.”
“You’re mad,” Pritkin said, as if he’d finally come up with an explanation that satisfied him.
Roger sneered. “Oh yes, do let’s trot out the hoary old stereotype—”
