ectoplasm

“Ring of fire,” I said. “Damn. Sure wish I had a buck—”
The sneeze took me completely off guard. It came out of nowhere and was louder than it had any right to be, my voice cracking halfway through. There was a surge of tension and energy, a dizzying burst of involuntarily expended magical energy, and way too much ectoplasm coming out of my nose.
There was also a clatter, and a galvanized five-gallon steel bucket fell to the ground at my feet and started rolling. Ebenezar spat a curse and stabbed his staff at the bucket, pinning it to the ground an inch or two before it could break the circle and get us both killed.
“Bucket,” I finished lamely, my nasal passages completely obstructed by ectoplasm. Ugh. “Sorry. It’ll be gone in a second.”
The old man blinked at the bucket. “Hell’s bells, boy. Conjuritis? At your age?”
“Conjurwhatnow?” I asked.
The old man lifted his right hand and murmured a word, fingers curling into a complex little sequence, and there was a surge of will from the old man that enveloped the bucket—and instead of quivering and collapsing into ectoplasm, it held steady while the old man bent over and picked it up. “Conjuritis. I’ve told you about that.”
“No, you haven’t, sir,” I said.
The old man scowled at me. “Are you sure? Maybe you just weren’t listening. Like on vampire day.”
“Seriously? Really?” I demanded of him and swiped an arm at the tentacular horrors closing in on us. “Right now?”
He thrust his jaw and the bucket at me. “Every time you get tangled up with them, you get burned,” he said. “Boy, when are you gonna use your head?”
I seized the bucket from him.


Peace Talks Chapter 12, Page 101