“Agnes . . . just brought you back here, didn’t she?” I asked slowly, remembering the first time I’d met my father as an adult.
It had been a few months ago, after I’d gotten the bright idea to seek out my predecessor for some much-needed training. Only to find out that that was a no-no. Agnes had not been happy to see me, partly because my very presence threatened the timeline, since I’d had to seek her out in the past. And partly because she’d been busy chasing down dear old Dad, to keep him from screwing up time before I got a chance to.
After a memorable series of events that included her shooting me in the butt, she’d left with him, something I hadn’t bothered to protest, since she still had the gun. And because I hadn’t yet known who he was. And because I’d had other things to occupy my mind than whatever kind of jail the Pythias were running.
It was occupying it now. Specifically, I was wondering how Roger and I both ended up in the same prison at the same time, despite being nabbed centuries apart. And by two different Pythias from two different eras.
This, I thought, was exactly why time travel gave me a headache.
Not that Roger seemed to care.
“Just? She left me here to rot while I ‘soften up.’ Only guess what, sweetheart. Not so soft! I’m not telling you shit, no matter how long you bitches leave me—”
“I’m not trying to leave you anywhere.”
“—in here, so tell your gun-happy friend she can shove that pistol where the sun don’t shine—”
“I’m trying to get out, too.”
“—because Roger Palmer doesn’t break!” He looked at me defiantly. And then what I’d said must have sunk in, because he frowned. “What?”
“I’m trying to get out, too.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is this some kind of trick?”
“No.” I sat down, or I tried to. His cell had a bed, a single bunk shoved up against one wall, but I was still new to this whole ghost thing, and I mostly just bobbed around.
His ghost giggled. He glared.
I sighed. “Look—”
“No, you look. If you think you can masquerade as a fellow prisoner and have me spill the beans, you can think again!”
I didn’t bother to deny it some more, since he wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I just gestured around. “So, what’s your plan? Stay here and rot?”
“Plan? Who said I have a plan?” He looked swiftly up at his ghost—Daisy, if I remembered right.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell her about the things,” Daisy said, in a stage whisper.
“What things?” I asked.
“The sparkly things. I’ve been—”
“Shut up, Daisy!” Dad said.
“—hunting them. Oh, and I caught another one,” she told him.
“Shut up!”
“—so we just need one more big fat one and I think—”
“Daisy!”
“—we might have enough. Or two or three of the smaller ones, but they’re faster and harder to—ummph.”
He’d snatched her down and clapped a hand over her mouth—which I hadn’t known we could do—but it was too late. “Sparkly ones?” I asked. “You mean those flashes of light outside?”
“I mean you’d better get back to your body,” he said nastily. “Or you may get stuck in spirit form permanently.”