Fierce Lessons (Ghosts & Demons Series Book 3) by Robert Chazz Chute, Holly Pop

I was sure he was Patton Oswalt. He even sounded like Patton Oswalt.
    “I’ve been meaning to watch you on that show,” Manny said. “I mean — ”
    “Still not him,” the man said, exasperated. “I can prove it. I won’t say anything funny.”
    A moment passed and he stared at us. To his disappointment, that deadpan look made Manny, Wil and I break into laughter.
    “I’m the Great Psymon, Psymon the Inimitable!”
    “Okay, Psymon, Psymon,” Victor said. “They’re going to need a mind reader.”
    Psymon tossed me my cell phone.  
    “Oh, right,” I said. “You’re Fawn’s dad.”
    He made a sour face. “I love that kid more than life and chocolate fudge cake and gingerbread cookies with coffee, but I’m sure that, forever and always, my greatest achievement is that I will be the footnote who was her father. I will only ever be known in relation to Fawn. I’ll always be her Dad, when I’m not Patton Oswalt, of course.”
    “There are worse things,” Wil said. “What if you were Bill Cosby’s twin?”
    Psymon did not look amused.
    “Is Fawn’s last name, ‘the Inimitable,’ too?” Manny asked. “That’s a lot for a kid to carry around.”
    “Platt,” he said. “My last name is really Platt.”
    “Sorry,” Manny said.
    “Me, too.”
    I moved to shake his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Patton…I mean, Mr. Oswa — uh, Mr. Platt.”
    “Call me Psymon. And no, I never thought about doing some kind of tribute act. Geez, I’d love that guy so much if we didn’t have the same face.”
    Lesson 167: We measure ourselves against others. Whether that person is a celebrity who happens to be your unrelated twin, a precocious daughter destined for greatness or your greatest hero, make sure you’re measuring your worth against the right idol.  
    I wish I had chosen better.

12
    M y hapkido teacher, Kevin Chang, waited for us at the Newark Airport. He was supervising six sword singers, keeping them busy loading gear into a Challenger jet.
    While Manhattan and Wilmington hauled a trunk from the Keep’s helicopter, I paused to look for the misty wistful out on the runway. The dead crash victim had wandered farther down the runway than I remembered. The ghost seemed to be staring at a windsock. I wondered what the ghost was thinking. Almost all ghosts seem to be waiting for something.
    The only misty wistful I knew who wanted to stay and help fight the Ra was Rory and he was still recovering from the sneak attack by my half-brother.
    I just reread that sentence. Oh, my God! My life is like a weird Spanish soap opera on Telemundo, but with ghosts. Or maybe it’s more like Spider-Man’s life, where everybody, his friends and even Aunt May, gets dragged into every fight and becomes a villain or a victim.
    Speaking of victims… “Mr. Chang? I haven’t seen much of you since Medicament.”
    He glanced my way, took in my horned head, nodded, and went back to watching the sword singers load the plane. I suspected his mood was sour, like he might tell me to pump out one hundred pushups at any moment.
    I was wrong. “I should have come to see you,” he said.
    “That’s okay, sir.”
    “No,” he said. “It is not.”
    “You lost a lot, Mr. Chang. I don’t blame you for being busy with other things.”
    “The explosion destroyed my accounting office and the dojang ,” he said. “I lost nothing of real consequence…not there.”
    “Your house?”
    “It is far enough from town that it is fine. The property value has plummeted, but Victor informs me I will be compensated.”
    “At least there’s that.”
    “None of that matters. Nothing can compensate me for the losses I have suffered that have no price tag. What’s worse is that I brought all the trouble on myself.”
    “You had a mission.”
    Mr. Chang gave me another look, longer this time. His gaze lingered on my horns. “Yes. We got Victor his secret weapon but your mother has not spoken to me since the quarry. Neither has my