“We were there, remember?” the colonel demanded.

“Then stop blaming me,” she huffed.

“But you’re a ghost,” I said, stating the obvious. “And ghosts can’t move things. Well, maybe a piece of paper, or a paper clip. But nothing like . . ” I gestured at the metal suit she was wearing, which was more intricate than the Tin Man outfit, almost like an old-fashioned diving suit. “No way you’re lifting that.”

“Well, no, of course not,” she agreed. “I’m only directing it, dear.”

“Then how—”

“Can we discuss why you’re here?” Roger broke in.

“No,” I said, and not just because I needed to stall until my mother joined the party. I’d thought I knew everything about ghosts, but this was a new one. “Are you telling me you just . . . made them new bodies?”

“I like to think of it as a whole body prosthesis,” the colonel said.

I looked from him to Roger. “You—how does that work? Because I don’t—”

He made an irritated sound. “Does it matter? It was an experiment, one that never quite panned out. But that’s not—”

“What kind of experiment?” I looked around at the ungainly creatures. I could see a bit of Big Red outside, through a window by the door. Maybe because it was even larger than the green one and took up too much room, so had to be left in the drive like the family car. Only there was no such thing as a car for a ghost. “Who does this?”

“The Black Circle,” Pritkin said harshly, from behind us.

Chapter Ten

Pritkin’s voice was strong, but it looked like that was the only thing that was. He needed an arm underneath himself in order to sit up, and it was trembling slightly. Bruises had blossomed all along his rib cage, he had a good start on a black eye, and his skin tone was a grayish white that I didn’t like at all. But he didn’t appear to be interested in his health. He appeared to be interested in my father.

“You’re Roger Palmer,” he said flatly.

It wasn’t a question. He’d had plenty of time to figure out who we were visiting, and no one had ever accused Pritkin of being slow. Including to anger, judging by his expression.

“Does he always state the obvious?” Roger asked me, pushing a fall of limp blond hair out of his face.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy tensing up. I wasn’t sure what happened when high-ranking light and dark mages met each other, but I didn’t think it was likely to be fun. Even when one had no weapons, and the other . . . Well, at least he wasn’t reaching for any.

Yet.

“This is what you’ve been working on for the Circle, isn’t it?” Pritkin demanded, not helping matters.

“I’m retired,” Roger said mildly, but failed to offer him any tea.

I passed over my mug. It didn’t have milk, because I am a barbarian. But Pritkin took it anyway. He didn’t drink it, though, being too busy staring Roger down. Which would have worked better if the man hadn’t had his long nose stuck in the cookie tin.

“And yet you have at least three of these things, perhaps more!” Pritkin rasped. “For what purpose?”

“For whatever purpose I choose, war mage.”

“For security,” I said quickly, because Pritkin’s pale face had just flushed purple. And because it was true.

I didn’t need to be told that much. My parents had been hiding with Tony the bastard because, believe it or not, there were worse things out there. Like a bunch of leftover demigods from antiquity with long lives and longer grudges. The Spartoi had been the children of Ares, left behind when the gods were kicked off earth due to their mixed blood giving them a foothold here. They’d used it to do their father’s bidding, which was to hunt down and destroy the person responsible for his exile.

My mother.

They’d failed, but not before giving it the old Olympus try. And right now Mom and her strange protector didn’t realize that Tony the petty and rotund would one day be a lot more of a problem for them than any ancient half gods. All they knew was that her power had diminished considerably over the years, and that they needed a hideout no one would expect.

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—”

“Which you’re currently doing your best to uphold.”

“—of the mad necromancer—”

“Is that what you are?” I asked, feeling my stomach fall. Jonas had said as much, but I’d been hoping he was wrong.

Roger shot me an impatient look. “Despite what you may have been told, it isn’t a bad word. It’s merely a name for a magic worker who specializes in the dead—all sorts of dead. The only reason it has an evil connotation is that the Circle has gone out of its way to give it one.”

“And because so many of the breed end up having to be locked away,” Pritkin added.

“Yes, I always wondered about that,” Roger said sweetly. “If we’re so powerless, why bother?”

“It’s not your power anyone questions, mage. It’s your principles.”

“Principles.” Roger huffed out a laugh. “As if the Corps would know anything about them.”

“As opposed to the Dark Circle, which has such a record for altruism.”

“Yes, let’s pretend those are the only two options.”

“The Corps is the only option that keeps the magical community safe!” Pritkin said, flushing.

“From everything but itself.”

“From those who would recklessly ignore the experience of centuries—”

“From those who resent the absurdity of stagnant magic that gets weaker every year—”