breath as her despair was shattered by something far stronger. Love for herson. Despair was something she couldnât afford right now. The curse had come a step closer and her choice was clear. Act, or Fish was sure to die.
âSorry, Marsha,â she whispered, âI have to go. I have to do the best I can for Fish.â
They got to the turn into Park Avenue just as the wail of sirens split the air. Susan put her foot down until they reached the main road and joined the traffic heading north, out of the town.
For better or for worse, they were on their way.
Hanging from his branch, Grimshaw was experiencing exhilaration. He had felt a glow of satisfaction before, when some intricate arrangement had gone with the ease of clockwork, but never in his half-life had he felt such a rush of heart-stopping power as he felt now, after the explosion. It burned through him like white fire, making him tingle to his very core. It was amazing!
He opened his eyes and the devastation around him brought back that wonderful moment of BOOM. The blast had been so ⦠so ⦠CATACLYSMIC!
Grimshaw was certain in his heart of hearts that even Tun had never done anything quite like that, and he was the second most famous of all curse demons (the most famous being the awesome Mighty Curse). Yet he, Grimshaw, the third-rate demon of a curse thrown by an ordinary everyday non-magician, had created all that wonderful BOOM!
Squinting down the road, which was currently the sky as he was still hanging upside down, Grimshaw watched the car drive off in a hurry. He didnât need to guess who was inside. They had made a run for it, even while the ashes of Marshaâs funeral pyre were still burning. He had to admit he admired their guts. Some of his past Sufferers would have just given up and accepted their fate.
Happily, Grimshaw rearranged all the hands on his watch to point to zero. Then he pressed send.
It was time he reported back to his Architect.
9
AN EVENING IN LIMBO
âTell me about the knives again,â said Lampwick.
Grimshaw tried not to look bored.
âItâs no good making that face. I know it means youâre trying not to look bored. Itâs all very well for
you
.
You
can get out. Iâm stuck forever in the same place.â Lampwickâs voice took on a petulant note.
âThe crypt is better than the ground.â Grimshaw closed his notebook with a snap. Any minute now he was going to start with the twitching. He could feel the charge building up inside him.
âTrue. True.â
Grimshawâs Architect was of average height, with brown hair and a cadaverous face, the last being due to his having died over a century ago. In life Lampwick had been full-cheeked and irritatingly rosy, and it had always annoyed him that he didnât look like the magician he pretended to be. His only satisfaction in half-death was that he had finally achieved a suitably gaunt look. Unfortunately, no one but Grimshaw was there to see it.
Lampwick folded his arms across the magicianâs robe he had been buried in, as per the instructions in his Last Will and Testament, scribbled in haste on the back of an arrest warrant seconds before he died. The robe was made of the best deep blue velvet and embroidered all over with stars and moons. The half-dead were technically non-physical in a substantial sort of way, like solid ghosts, but the human view of how things ought to be had a large impact on the way they looked. This meant that over the decades the non-physical embroidery on Lampwickâs non-physical robe had begun to take on a frayed look. Most of the nap had worn off the velvet, leaving it threadbare in places.
âBut the point I was making,â the Architect continued, âhad you been bright enough to follow me, is that
you
can get back
there
whenever you want. I canât. I have to stay in Grey Space!â
âNot whenever I want. Only when I have a Litany. When theyâre
âSorry, Marsha,â she whispered, âI have to go. I have to do the best I can for Fish.â
They got to the turn into Park Avenue just as the wail of sirens split the air. Susan put her foot down until they reached the main road and joined the traffic heading north, out of the town.
For better or for worse, they were on their way.
Hanging from his branch, Grimshaw was experiencing exhilaration. He had felt a glow of satisfaction before, when some intricate arrangement had gone with the ease of clockwork, but never in his half-life had he felt such a rush of heart-stopping power as he felt now, after the explosion. It burned through him like white fire, making him tingle to his very core. It was amazing!
He opened his eyes and the devastation around him brought back that wonderful moment of BOOM. The blast had been so ⦠so ⦠CATACLYSMIC!
Grimshaw was certain in his heart of hearts that even Tun had never done anything quite like that, and he was the second most famous of all curse demons (the most famous being the awesome Mighty Curse). Yet he, Grimshaw, the third-rate demon of a curse thrown by an ordinary everyday non-magician, had created all that wonderful BOOM!
Squinting down the road, which was currently the sky as he was still hanging upside down, Grimshaw watched the car drive off in a hurry. He didnât need to guess who was inside. They had made a run for it, even while the ashes of Marshaâs funeral pyre were still burning. He had to admit he admired their guts. Some of his past Sufferers would have just given up and accepted their fate.
Happily, Grimshaw rearranged all the hands on his watch to point to zero. Then he pressed send.
It was time he reported back to his Architect.
9
AN EVENING IN LIMBO
âTell me about the knives again,â said Lampwick.
Grimshaw tried not to look bored.
âItâs no good making that face. I know it means youâre trying not to look bored. Itâs all very well for
you
.
You
can get out. Iâm stuck forever in the same place.â Lampwickâs voice took on a petulant note.
âThe crypt is better than the ground.â Grimshaw closed his notebook with a snap. Any minute now he was going to start with the twitching. He could feel the charge building up inside him.
âTrue. True.â
Grimshawâs Architect was of average height, with brown hair and a cadaverous face, the last being due to his having died over a century ago. In life Lampwick had been full-cheeked and irritatingly rosy, and it had always annoyed him that he didnât look like the magician he pretended to be. His only satisfaction in half-death was that he had finally achieved a suitably gaunt look. Unfortunately, no one but Grimshaw was there to see it.
Lampwick folded his arms across the magicianâs robe he had been buried in, as per the instructions in his Last Will and Testament, scribbled in haste on the back of an arrest warrant seconds before he died. The robe was made of the best deep blue velvet and embroidered all over with stars and moons. The half-dead were technically non-physical in a substantial sort of way, like solid ghosts, but the human view of how things ought to be had a large impact on the way they looked. This meant that over the decades the non-physical embroidery on Lampwickâs non-physical robe had begun to take on a frayed look. Most of the nap had worn off the velvet, leaving it threadbare in places.
âBut the point I was making,â the Architect continued, âhad you been bright enough to follow me, is that
you
can get back
there
whenever you want. I canât. I have to stay in Grey Space!â
âNot whenever I want. Only when I have a Litany. When theyâre
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