just wanted us to get along.”
“Interesting that such a thing interests you at all.”
“I’m not Dad.”
“Issue a general summons to your Host,” the Shepherd says.
“Why?”
“I want to see you do it.”
“I don’t want to. And to be honest, I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”
“Issue a general summons. You don’t even know what position your hands should be in, do you? Horatio . . . that old devil. He didn’t teach you a thing, did he?”
The Shepherd has his sly smile back.
“He taught me enough.”
“Luke.” The Shepherd holds his hands out, as if to beg from me. There are weird spiky stars tattooed on the palms. I think he wants me to see them, as if they’re supposed to mean something to me. “In life I was a great necromancer. My Host was the terror of the world. I have forgotten more pages of the Book than most men have ever seen. If you hoped to bluff me, you could not have picked a worse approach. You have no mastery of the dark arts.”
“No,” I say, fumbling for something, “I —”
“There is no shame in it. You’re a young man, not without wit or drive, and I appreciate the attempt at cunning you have shown in our dealings today. But you are no necromancer. You cannot manage a Host. You do not even want to manage a Host.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Free us. Let us go. Do not live your life burdened by your father’s sins.”
I don’t know what to say. This has to be a trick. Elza said they’d try and break free. I know this ghost is dangerous, I can feel it in my marrow, like he’s radioactive. Maybe he’s still afraid of me, a little? He’s right, I don’t want a Host. All I wanted was four million pounds, properties, DVD sales . . . I didn’t want this at all. I want them gone. What’s the harm in that, if I can just let them go? Surely everyone gets what they want?
“It’s that easy?”
“Oh, certainly Luke. It’s very easy. As easy as signing for us in the first place. We could do it right now. You don’t want a Host, Luke. You want a normal, happy life. You don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps, believe me. Let us go, and this can end here.”
It can’t be this easy. I need to be careful.
“Well —”
“All that’s required,” the Shepherd continues, flashing a gray rank of teeth, “is a suitable mark of relinquishment in the Book of Eight. Fortunately your copy is right here.”
His tattooed hands move over the surface of the table, and there’s a flicker, like someone changed the reel in a film I’m watching. The green book is on the table, just in front of the Shepherd. The cover’s eight-pointed star gleams in the glare from the light fixture overhead.
“A simple spot of blood,” he’s saying, “and we leave your life, your home, forever.”
He strokes the Book, and the clasps spring off the cover without being touched. The yellow pages move as if blown in a gale, and the Book falls open right in the middle. He pushes it toward me. I put my hand on it, spin it around to have a look.
There are no words on these pages. The double spread is covered in a psychedelic pattern of concentric circles and spirals, all of which look hand drawn, and they seem to be moving as I look at them. I feel like every time I focus on one part of the design, another part of the page will change. I’m getting a headache.
“This will free you?” I’m saying.
“Indeed, Luke. A general declaration of freedom from bond, for all eight spirits.”
“Really. Wow.”
The circles seem to have . . . depth, somehow, like there’s more to this page than just the page. If I keep looking at it, I’ll be able to see what it is. There are pages beyond the page. There are hundreds of them. Millions of circles.
“Quite something, isn’t it?” the Shepherd asks.
“It’s amazing.”
My ears are ringing, roaring. I can feel my blood flowing.
All I can really look at now is the circles.
My hand is moving toward
“Interesting that such a thing interests you at all.”
“I’m not Dad.”
“Issue a general summons to your Host,” the Shepherd says.
“Why?”
“I want to see you do it.”
“I don’t want to. And to be honest, I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”
“Issue a general summons. You don’t even know what position your hands should be in, do you? Horatio . . . that old devil. He didn’t teach you a thing, did he?”
The Shepherd has his sly smile back.
“He taught me enough.”
“Luke.” The Shepherd holds his hands out, as if to beg from me. There are weird spiky stars tattooed on the palms. I think he wants me to see them, as if they’re supposed to mean something to me. “In life I was a great necromancer. My Host was the terror of the world. I have forgotten more pages of the Book than most men have ever seen. If you hoped to bluff me, you could not have picked a worse approach. You have no mastery of the dark arts.”
“No,” I say, fumbling for something, “I —”
“There is no shame in it. You’re a young man, not without wit or drive, and I appreciate the attempt at cunning you have shown in our dealings today. But you are no necromancer. You cannot manage a Host. You do not even want to manage a Host.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Free us. Let us go. Do not live your life burdened by your father’s sins.”
I don’t know what to say. This has to be a trick. Elza said they’d try and break free. I know this ghost is dangerous, I can feel it in my marrow, like he’s radioactive. Maybe he’s still afraid of me, a little? He’s right, I don’t want a Host. All I wanted was four million pounds, properties, DVD sales . . . I didn’t want this at all. I want them gone. What’s the harm in that, if I can just let them go? Surely everyone gets what they want?
“It’s that easy?”
“Oh, certainly Luke. It’s very easy. As easy as signing for us in the first place. We could do it right now. You don’t want a Host, Luke. You want a normal, happy life. You don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps, believe me. Let us go, and this can end here.”
It can’t be this easy. I need to be careful.
“Well —”
“All that’s required,” the Shepherd continues, flashing a gray rank of teeth, “is a suitable mark of relinquishment in the Book of Eight. Fortunately your copy is right here.”
His tattooed hands move over the surface of the table, and there’s a flicker, like someone changed the reel in a film I’m watching. The green book is on the table, just in front of the Shepherd. The cover’s eight-pointed star gleams in the glare from the light fixture overhead.
“A simple spot of blood,” he’s saying, “and we leave your life, your home, forever.”
He strokes the Book, and the clasps spring off the cover without being touched. The yellow pages move as if blown in a gale, and the Book falls open right in the middle. He pushes it toward me. I put my hand on it, spin it around to have a look.
There are no words on these pages. The double spread is covered in a psychedelic pattern of concentric circles and spirals, all of which look hand drawn, and they seem to be moving as I look at them. I feel like every time I focus on one part of the design, another part of the page will change. I’m getting a headache.
“This will free you?” I’m saying.
“Indeed, Luke. A general declaration of freedom from bond, for all eight spirits.”
“Really. Wow.”
The circles seem to have . . . depth, somehow, like there’s more to this page than just the page. If I keep looking at it, I’ll be able to see what it is. There are pages beyond the page. There are hundreds of them. Millions of circles.
“Quite something, isn’t it?” the Shepherd asks.
“It’s amazing.”
My ears are ringing, roaring. I can feel my blood flowing.
All I can really look at now is the circles.
My hand is moving toward
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