Chasing Magic
Stacia Kane
The fifth book in Stacia Kane’s gripping and gritty DOWNSIDE GHOSTS urban fantasy series, perfect for fans of Charlaine Harris, Laurell K. Hamilton and Kim Harrison.A DEADLY HIGHMagic-wielding Churchwitch and secret addict Chess Putnam knows better than anyone just how high a price people are willing to pay for a chemical rush. But when someone with money to burn and a penchant for black magic starts tampering with Downside’s drug supply, Chess realizes that the unlucky customers are paying with their souls – and taking the innocent with them, as the magic-infused speed compels them to kill in the most gruesome ways possible.As if the streets weren’t scary enough, the looming war between the two men in her life explodes, taking even more casualties and putting Chess squarely in the middle. Downside could become a literal ghost town if Chess doesn’t find a way to stop both the war and the dark wave of death-magic, and the only way to do that is to use both her addiction and her power to enter the spell and chase the magic all the way back to its malevolent source. Too bad that doing so will probably kill Chess – if the war doesn’t first destroy the man who’s become her reason for living.
STACIA KANE
CHASING MAGIC
Book Five of the Downside Ghosts
To the doctors, nurses, and surgical staff at Lister Hospital Stevenage, without whom I would literally no longer be alive
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u791d6ae3-5ebc-5ae4-b5bc-249dfd42b5d6)
Dedication (#ucfe93a10-8336-5274-9161-3f7c63c606a7)
Chapter One (#u6cd1442a-6c90-533d-9146-a27279e7e7a5)
Chapter Two (#ub86e05e4-03e3-5860-b101-1650c9b073b5)
Chapter Three (#uddb6dfe4-f483-5537-bb86-ae0d46d4e2f9)
Chapter Four (#ua35af901-d9b9-54a5-bce2-71e48fd5cab8)
Chapter Five (#u28338559-53c0-581b-8082-03affc307623)
Chapter Six (#ue9c5f5a4-0ee0-5bf3-aac4-5cad91301185)
Chapter Seven (#u495a74c4-19d4-5b87-bdad-55a125f46611)
Chapter Eight (#u4684ad6f-7cbc-5667-af62-5b8f5a669759)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Stacia Kane (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The pursuit of material goods must never eclipse the pursuit of Truth.
—The Book of Truth, Veraxis Article 1745
All of the documents were in place: the Affidavit of Spectral Fraud, the Statement of Truth, two Orders of Imprisonment and two Orders of Relinquishment, and, of course, the list of Church-approved attorneys. The Darnells would want that—well, they’d need it, because they were about to be arrested for faking a haunting.
At least, they would be when the Black Squad got there to back Chess up. She didn’t always want the Squad to come along; police presence tipped people off, made things more difficult, and most people came pretty quietly once they realized they were busted, anyway. The Darnells didn’t seem like the come-quietly type, though. Something told Chess they weren’t going to take this well.
But she’d told them she’d be there at six, and it was five past already and their curtains kept twitching. They knew she was there.
Right. She’d taken a couple of Cepts before leaving her apartment in Downside, so they were starting to hit—smooth, thick narcotic warmth spreading from her stomach out through the rest of her body, a pleasant softness settling over her mind.
That was the best thing about the drugs, really; she could still think, still be coherent, still use her brain. She just didn’t have to if she didn’t want to, and it was so much easier to keep that brain from wandering into all those places she didn’t want it to go.
And she had so fucking many of those places.
She grabbed the Darnell file from her bag, locked her car, and started walking along the cobblestoned path to the front door, weaving around the flowers and plants scattered like islands across the impossibly green sea of grass. Bees made their way from bloom to bloom, doing whatever the hell it was bees did. Sure, she knew it was something to do with pollen or whatever. She just didn’t give a shit.
By the time she reached the porch sweat beaded along her forehead and her body felt damp. Summer sucked. Only the middle of June and already it was scorching.
Brandon Darnell opened the door before she’d finished raising her hand to knock. “Miss Putnam. You’re late.”
Asshole. She faked a smile. “Sorry. Traffic.”
At least they had air-conditioning.
The entire Darnell family sat in the pretentious high-ceilinged living room, slouching on the ridiculously overpriced suede couch and chairs that were partly responsible for the enormous debt they were in. Debt they’d planned to clear by faking a haunting and getting a nice fat settlement from the Church of the Real Truth.
Too bad for them, the Church wasn’t stupid—being in charge of everyone and everything on earth for twenty-four years proved that—and had contingency plans for such things. Chess was one of them.
Brandon Darnell indicated an empty chair along the back wall. “Have a seat.”
Alarms started ringing in Chess’s head. He seemed a little too calm, a little too … cheerful.
But all the other chairs were full, so she sat, shooting a glance out the window to see if the Squad had arrived yet. Nope. Damn it!
The Darnells sat there, unmoving. Watching her. Because that wasn’t creepy at all.
Mrs. Darnell—frowsy, bad perm, blue eye shadow up to her brows—showed her perfect white teeth in what could pass for a smile. “Do you have any news for us? When will you Banish the ghost?”
Chess’s phone beeped—a text. A text from the Black Squad, thank fuck, they were almost there. Good. She didn’t have to sit around wasting time with these people.
“I do have news.” She pulled the forms from the file. “This is my Statement of Truth, copies of which I’ve already filed with the Church. This one is for you to sign. It’s the Affidavit of Spectral Fraud, which is basically your confession, and this one—”
“What the hell are you talking about? We haven’t committed any fraud, there’s no—”
“Mr. Darnell.” Normally she’d stand up for this part, but what the hell. The chair was pretty comfortable. “I found, and photographed, the projectors set up in the attic. I won’t bother to point out to you where the holes in the ceiling are, since you already know. The ‘ectoplasm’ on your walls has been analyzed—twice for confirmation—as a mixture of cornstarch, gelatin, iridescent paint, and water.”
She waited for a response and didn’t get one. Good. “I also have pictures of the portable air conditioner you set up beneath the house—that’s another crime, by the way, putting anything underground, but I imagine you know that—to fake sudden changes in temperature. One of my hidden cameras caught you breaking the mirrors, and another one very clearly shows you and Mrs. Darnell discussing your crimes.”
Mr. and Mrs. Darnell looked guilty. Their children—Cassie and Curtis, how cute—looked confused. Chess directed her next comments to them.
“I have two Orders of Relinquishment here. You two are going to be taken to the Church with your parents, but when they go to prison you’ll be moving in with another family member or, failing that, a home will be found for you. You’ll be safe there.”
She could only hope that last line was true. It hadn’t been for her. None of those “homes” she’d been sent to had been safe, or at least not more than a couple of them.
But that was a long time ago. That was before the Church was really settled. That was a mistake; she was an anomaly, or something, and it mattered only in her memories.
Because the Church had saved her. They’d taken her out of that life and given her a new one. The Church had found her and made her into something real.
The two children looked at each other, looked at Chess, looked at their parents. What was the expression on their faces? Shock, curiosity? Chess couldn’t quite read it.
She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again. Shit, she didn’t usually have problems like this from her pills. And no way had she gotten a bad batch; Lex had given her those, and Lex might be in charge of the Downside gang in direct opposition to the one Chess’s … Chess’s everything worked for, but Lex wouldn’t try to do her any harm. She knew that. Lex was her friend.
So what the fuck?
Her eyes itched, too; she raised her hand to rub at them. Struggled to raise it. In fact, she’d been sitting still for a few minutes, hadn’t she? Without moving.
The room started to rock around her, as if she and the Darnells sat on the deck of a ship in stormy waters. Nausea slithered through her stomach, up her throat.
Her skin tingled. Not her skin, actually. Her tattoos—runes and sigils inscribed into her skin with magic-imbued ink by the Church—tingled. The way they always did in the presence of ghosts—or in the presence of magic.
It took forever to turn her head to the left, on a neck that felt like it was being squeezed by strong, hard hands she couldn’t see. Who was … Fuck, someone was casting some kind of spell on her. Who was it, what was it?
She couldn’t tell, couldn’t see well enough to tell. Just a shape, a spot of darker shadow in the long hallway. But whatever it was—it felt like a man, she had enough presence of mind to know that—it was powerful, it was strong, and it was about to beat her.
Something inside her struggled. The noise of the Darnells’ shouting faded, as if a stiff wind had come up and was blowing them all away. The adult Darnells yelling, cackling; the young Darnells panicked and confused.
And over it all words of power seeping into her consciousness, spoken in a deep smooth voice like smoked glass. Smoked glass with jagged edges; she would cut herself on them, they’d slice into her skin and her blood would spill out onto the floor, staining the carpet the Darnells couldn’t pay for. Staining everything except her soul: That was filthy enough already, covered with grime and pain that would never go away, no matter how many pills she took or lines she snorted. She deserved to be punished for that. Deserved to die for it.
But she didn’t want to. Not just because she was afraid of the City of Eternity, either. As her breath came shorter and shallower, as the black edge around her vision thickened until she could see only tiny spots of the room, all she could think about was Terrible. The only man in the world who made her feel … like she was okay, like she could be happy. The only one who understood her. The only one who loved her.
The only one, period.
She would not leave him. She refused to leave him.
His face grew in her mind: black hair pomaded into a rockabilly DA, thick heavy muttonchops, the face she’d once thought was ugly and now couldn’t understand why or how she’d ever thought that. Because every scar showed how strong he was, those hard dark eyes thawed just for her, the heavy brow smoothed when he looked at her and it all added up to Terrible, and she was not going to let some shithead scam artists and their rent-a-witch steal her from him. He’d expect her to fight. He’d expect her to win, too.
Moving her lips hurt. She forced herself to do it anyway. “Arkrandia arkrandia, bellarum bellarum, dishager dishager, arkrandia arkrandia, bellarum bellarum …”
The Banishing words started to come faster, stronger. Not much, and her vision still hadn’t cleared, but she could feel it. Something was building inside her—power was building inside her—and it was chasing away the choking fog of the dark spell.
She kept chanting, her voice creaky and rough, scraping against her throat, while she made her stiff fingers move. She needed to get into her bag; she had goat’s blood in there, cobwebs and chunks of snake. If she could find a piece of iron to grab, it would help.
The witch loomed over her, his large body giving off the faint smell of sweat and cheap aftershave.
Were her feet on the floor? She thought they were, was pretty sure they were, and she guessed it didn’t matter if they weren’t, because she had to try anyway. She started to stand, her legs shaking and hurting beneath her.
The witch hit her, knocked her back. Fucker. That wasn’t even a good punch; it was a wimpy little bitch slap. Now she was getting pissed. Who the hell did he think he was, this soft bag of shit in a shiny-cheap black tent and a pair of dorky-looking loafers? He thought he could come in to one of her cases, attack her?
Bullshit he could.
More anger, to make her even stronger. She was finding it now, that pit of rage deep inside her, the hatred for everyone, for everything they’d done to her. The hatred for herself that never seemed to end, would never end, would never lessen. It was there, and she needed it, and she took it and used it to clench her right hand into a fist, a good strong one. She’d never been too bad at fighting—not with her upbringing—but Terrible had shown her some new stuff, taught her how to do it, where to hit.
So she wasn’t worried at all when she pushed herself up and punched him with all her might. And she had something nobody else had—or at least nobody who wasn’t a trained witch who’d put some real thought into physical self-defense, which her opponent obviously hadn’t.
She pushed her power into that fist, all of her energy, the anger and pain and everything else, and felt it reverberate when it hit him. Good. That gave her more strength, more will to fight.
Unfortunately, seeing her bounce back seemed to give the Darnells the will to fight, too. As she drew her fist to have another go, her energy returning in a rush as the spell was interrupted, an arm wrapped itself around her neck, yanked her against a well-padded chest.
Where the fuck was the fucking Squad? Yes, the whole thing had probably taken much less time than it felt like it had, but they should be there—
The witch dropped his shoulder, ready to hit her again. To hit her properly this time, while Mr. Darnell held her defenseless. Nice.
And, nope, she wasn’t going to let them do that.
The witch checked his swing when she leaned forward as much as she could, trying to bend over completely so Mr. Darnell would rise from the floor. He pulled back harder, his arm tightening around her throat. She kept leaning. Lights started sparking behind her eyes, red and green fireworks of imminent death bright against the figure of the witch, the tackily tasteful living room.
Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it one more second, she stood up straight. Fast. So fast Mr. Darnell didn’t have time to react; he kept pulling her, and they both tumbled to the floor, the witch’s fist barely missing her.
With Mr. Darnell beneath her and the witch leaning over, she kicked out with her right leg, managed to catch the witch in his rather ample stomach, and sent him stumbling a few steps away. Her elbow dug into the soft space below Mr. Darnell’s rib cage. His arm around her loosened—not a lot, but enough for her to sit up and start to roll off him.
Roll right into the barrel of the gun.
“Stand up.” Mrs. Darnell’s voice didn’t shake. Her eyes didn’t leave Chess’s face. “Come on, get up.”
Great. This was just great. How many people had she busted in her four-year career? Almost exactly four years, in fact. Dozens. Dozens of people. None of them had ever tried this shit with her.
That could have been because if she had any suspicions they might, she asked the Squad for backup, of course. Where the hell were they?
Her legs still felt weird from the spell. That energy hadn’t faded completely. She risked a glance at the witch, saw him standing with his fists clenched, whispering something. Another spell. Wonderful.
“Mrs. Darnell, I don’t think you want to do this.”
“I think you’re wrong.” Mrs. Darnell’s narrowed eyes shot beams of cold hatred at Chess. “I think you’re really, really wrong.”
“Killing a Church employee is automatic grounds for execution. Not to mention we get a special dispensation so we can haunt you until that execution happens. I really—”
“You idiot. How the hell did you manage to catch us, being that stupid? I don’t want to kill you, no. But I will, unless you sign those forms and give us our money.”
“They won’t—”
“Shut up.”
Chess shut up. What was she going to do, argue with the woman holding a gun to her face? Besides, she wanted to think.
Mrs. Darnell had obviously held a gun before, used one before. Both of her hands wrapped tight around the gun’s butt, and her arms bent slightly to absorb its kick. Her entire stance indicated complete confidence. The safety was off. “Now. Get the forms or whatever you need. Slowly.”
“You won’t be able—”
“Oh, but we will. We’re all ready to go. You didn’t think we’d stick around here, did you?”
Mr. Darnell stood up. “I’ll take the gun, Lois.”
“No. If I take my eyes off her, she’ll move.”
No, she wouldn’t. The witch’s spell grew stronger again, and this time she knew if she tried to say the Banishing words she’d be shot. This was ridiculous. She did not spend her whole life fighting to end up shot in some over-mortgaged suburban ranch house.
Might as well take a chance. She dropped to the floor, pushing herself forward so she hit Mrs. Darnell’s legs. The gun went off as Mrs. Darnell staggered back.
Chess hadn’t been hit. Excellent. She was deaf but she hadn’t been shot.
She raised her fist—like lifting a ten-pound weight through a tub of dense foam—and punched Mrs. Darnell in the knee as hard as she could.
Another explosion from the gun. Mrs. Darnell fell on top of her. Chess tried to roll over and push her off; the woman was surprisingly heavy, but she slipped a little. Enough for Chess to shift herself to the left, enough to find Mrs. Darnell’s right hand still clutching the gun.
The witch’s voice grew louder, the energy in the air darker and thicker. If Chess didn’t get that gun away immediately, she was going to die, no question about it.
She kicked back with her right leg, catching Mrs. Darnell somewhere, she didn’t know where for sure. Mr. Darnell had joined in the struggle, trying to pull his wife away and help her up, but Mrs. Darnell was apparently having too much fun trying to bite Chess and punching her in the legs and side. Chess kicked again, and again, her leg screaming from the effort—it was so heavy, so fucking heavy—until she somehow managed to hit Mrs. Darnell in the face.
The woman’s grip on the gun loosened. Only for a second, but it was enough. Chess snatched it away, raised it above her head, and pulled the trigger.
The picture window at the front of the room exploded; shards of glass filled the air, a deadly tidal wave of sharp edges and splinters that could slice veins, dust that could choke.
For a second everything stopped. Everything except Chess; she’d been waiting for that pause, hoping for it, and she used it—it and the power rushing back to her, since the witch had stopped speaking—to push Mrs. Darnell away once and for all, to stand up and hold the gun on the two of them still on the floor.
The front door flew open—the Black Squad, their own guns drawn, their all-black uniforms and helmets like moving ink spots against the pale walls.
Chess lowered the gun, looked over at them. “You’re late.”
One of the Squad members glanced around the room, then back at Chess. “Any problems?”
She grinned. Now that she had the gun, now that the Squad had arrived, relief and adrenaline buzzed through her body, and she felt cheerier than she had since … well, since that morning, anyway. “No. Not really.”
Chapter Two
The best kinds of surprises are intangible! The warmth of a sudden visit from a friend far outweighs material goods.
—Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies, by Mrs. Increase
Her body still ached three hours later, when she trudged up the stairs of her apartment building—a former Catholic church, renovated after Haunted Week proved all religions false—to the hall.
Hers was the only apartment on that side of the L-shaped building, and the stained-glass window that made up the entire front wall of her living room was only one of the reasons she loved it. The privacy, the space—it was hers, something that was only hers, for all that it was just rented.
Nobody came in without permission. Not anymore, not ever again.
That didn’t stop people from visiting, though, at least it didn’t these days. Proof of that stood right outside her front door, slumped against the wall in that elegant lean he did so well. “Hey there, Tulip. Starting to wonder iffen you come home at all on the anymores, aye?”
“Hey, Lex.” As always, a confusing mix of emotions tumbled through her head, through her chest. Happiness to see her friend, the desire for him to leave before Terrible got there, annoyance at the way he always just showed up and assumed he’d be welcome—what if Terrible had been with her? Just because he didn’t forbid Chess from seeing Lex didn’t mean he approved or liked the fact that she did.
She didn’t approve of or like it, either. Nor did she approve of or like the small, insistent tingle of arousal low in her belly, but she couldn’t change it. For almost three months, seeing Lex waiting for her had signaled more drugs and at least a couple of orgasms. It took time to undo that sort of conditioning, no matter how completely in love she was with someone else and no matter how much Lex knew it.
He bent to give her a kiss on the cheek—that familiar Lex smell washing over her—and smiled. “Figured I’d give you the hellos, me, see iffen you needed all anything.”
“I can always use more.” A minute or so to unlock the three bolts on her door and release the magical wards she’d set up, and she led him into her kitchen.
“Figured on that.” He reached into the front pocket of his battered jeans and tugged out a wrinkled plastic sandwich bag half full of her little white best friends.
She took it. Her pillbox was only about a third empty, she’d just refilled— Wait a minute.
She gave him a sharp look. “Why are you really here?”
“Ain’t I can come on a visit? Thinking you ain’t give Blue the what’s-up she brings sheself here, so why I getting it?”
She washed four Cepts down with water. “Because Blue doesn’t only show up when she wants something from me. And because I know you.”
“Know you, too. Like how mean you is.” He walked the few more steps into her living room, plunked himself down on her new couch. Well, maybe not exactly new—she’d had it for about two months—but it still seemed new.
Without asking she grabbed a beer from the fridge and handed it to him.
He nodded his thanks. “Coursen … now you mentioning it, could be maybe I got a favor you could do me.”
Uh-huh. She let the totally-not-fooled expression sit on her face another few seconds. “Really. Like what?”
“Thinking maybe you ain’t mind working me up a chatter with Terrible.”
If she’d had any liquid in her mouth she would have sprayed it everywhere in shock. Luckily she didn’t, but she sort of sputtered anyway. “What—but—why? Why would you want to talk to him?”
“Got my reasonings, I do.”
Right. Like trying to kill him, presumably, since Lex wanted nothing more than to take over all the areas of Downside currently run by Terrible’s boss—her regular dealer—Bump. Without Terrible, Bump would be a lot easier to defeat, and everyone knew it.
She eyed him with extra suspicion. “Why, Lex?”
“Gots some stuff to chatter on with him.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “Know what thought you got, I do, but ain’t that way. Just wanna sit us down, is all, nothing on the extra.”
Terrible would never go for it. Never. The only time he’d even acknowledged Lex’s existence as anything but an asshole he’d enjoy killing was the night three months or so ago when she’d almost died, and the two men had driven around Triumph City to find her. And that had required her to almost die. Nothing short of that would make him agree to speak to Lex again.
“I don’t think—”
He sighed. A heavy, put-upon sigh, the kind at which he excelled. “Shit. Gotta give you the swears? I swear on it, Tulip. Ain’t gonna do shit to him, I ain’t.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him. Well, it was, a little, but mostly it was just … shit.
“Notice you ain’t got so much worryin on me, you ain’t. Gotta give you the thanks for that one.” His tone was dry, barely on the right side of sarcastic, but it pinched her all the same. Yeah, that was kind of shitty of her, wasn’t it? Especially since anyone who would bet on Lex in a fight between him and Terrible—shit, anyone who’d bet against Terrible in any fight—might as well throw their money into the bay.
She hesitated, and he took his shot. The one shot guaranteed to work on her, and she knew he knew it. “Ain’t never given you the asks on the befores, aye, and seems I recall doing you favors plenty.”
“Fine.” It went against everything she wanted, but he had her there. He’d done her a lot of favors, done a lot for her. The least she could do was ask Terrible to talk to him.
It might mean spending a night alone—Terrible didn’t enjoy being reminded that she was friends with Lex, that for a while she’d been naked friends with Lex—but she didn’t have much choice. Hell, she had a full pillbox and a nice-sized backup now, for free, and that was another favor.
He grinned. “Aye, that’s real good, real good. Knew you gimme the stand-up. Counted on you, I did.”
Yeah. She was certain of that.
She was also certain that Terrible would arrive at any minute and that, whatever she’d agreed to, he wouldn’t be thrilled to find Lex there. She was also blessedly aware that her pills were starting to hit, her muscles relaxing, peaceful cheer seeping into her head and making her feel light. Making the situation seem not so bad.
Good thing, too, because the sound of the Chevelle’s engine drifted through the window. One thing about stained glass: It was beautiful, and it made the room look like the inside of a jewel box when the sun hit it, but it wasn’t particularly well insulated.
Lex heard it, too. “Hey, lucky chances. Sounding like he got heself here on the right now, aye? Just have myself the wait, catch him he gets inside.”
“Yeah, lucky chances.” Fuck. Double fuck. For one mad second she thought of kicking him out, pushing him out the door and slamming it behind him. But what difference would it make? Terrible would run into him in the hall or as they both crossed the lobby that had once been the nave.
Oh well. Worrying about it wasn’t going to make it any better, and there was no way it could be good.
Terrible’s key turned in the lock; her nerves gave a fluttering twist in her chest as he stepped inside.
His smile dropped like a guillotine blade when he looked past her and saw Lex leaning back on her couch, with his arm along the back and one foot propped on her battered coffee table. “The fuck you doin here?”
Lex opened his mouth, but Chess was faster. “Hey. Um, Lex just got here, he wanted—actually, he wants to talk to you, it’s why he came. I didn’t know he was coming, he just showed up.”
Wow. That didn’t sound guilty at all. She met his dark eyes, hoping he could see the truth behind hers. Trusting that he would, or at least trying to trust, because he needed her to trust and she wanted to.
“Wanna have me a chatter,” Lex said.
Terrible glanced up. “No.”
“Aw, c’mon now, only the speech, dig, not—”
Terrible shook his head. His left hand rose to grip the back of Chess’s neck, a possessive gesture she wasn’t sure he realized he was making. “Ain’t saying no to chatter. Sayin no to whatany it is you want.”
“Aye?” Lex lit a cigarette, leaned forward to pick up Chess’s cheap plastic ashtray, and set it beside him on the couch. “Thinking you wanna make Tulip here happy, you listen up.”
Terrible looked at her, What the fuck? written all over his face. Too bad she didn’t know, either.
“Coursen, maybe you ain’t wanting her happy? You just gimme the tell, then, I see what I can—”
Terrible lunged. Chess moved a second before, knowing it was coming. She leapt in front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the weird yelp that came out of her mouth in her amazement that she’d managed to catch him at all. “Don’t, just … just don’t, okay? Please?”
It didn’t make much difference, really; he could have kept going without even noticing the extra weight of her body. But something—maybe her presence, maybe her words, maybe the fact that it was her house—stopped him.
“Talk.” His anger vibrated against her skin even as she stepped away from him. This was so not the way she’d wanted the evening to go.
Lex smiled. He hadn’t moved once. “Only a tease there, aye? Ain’t meaning harm by it.”
Damn him, that whole fucking thing had been a ploy, a game to see what it would take to make Terrible mad. Information Lex could use, a weakness he could exploit—as if he needed another one of those.
She hadn’t figured out a way to neutralize the sigil carved into Terrible’s chest, and she couldn’t risk just slicing the skin off even if she could stomach the idea. For all she knew, that sigil, the one whose very presence was testimony to her crimes—killing a psychopomp hawk coming to claim his soul, and using her knife to make the sigil itself—was all that actually kept him alive.
She didn’t regret it. Never could regret it; if she hadn’t done it he’d be dead. But she did wish to hell it hadn’t made him so vulnerable. Passing out in the presence of dark magic was not a good thing, especially not when Lex knew about it.
Lex indicated one of her lumpy chairs, waving his hand as if he were lord of the manor or something. “Ain’t you wanting to have you a sit-down?”
“Talk.”
“Aw, c’mon now, Terrible, ain’t needing to get all fratchy, aye? Let’s us have a real chatter, friendly-like. True thing.”
Terrible didn’t move. This was not going to go well; Chess knew that, of course, but that stupid hope would never go away, even though she knew how useless it was.
Lex paused for a second, then shrugged. “Guessing I ain’t gotta give you the knowledge who’s in charge my side now, aye?”
When Terrible didn’t reply, he continued. “I gots me-self some plans, I do. Changes coming, if you dig me.”
Great. Why didn’t he just threaten Terrible outright? Despite what some people thought—despite what he himself thought—Terrible wasn’t stupid. Especially not about shit like this.
She glanced over at him, watching him pull a cigarette from the pocket of his bowling shirt and light it with his black steel lighter. The six-inch flame cast a faint glow that told her maybe turning on some lights would be a good idea. The sun wouldn’t set for another hour or two, no, but … it felt dark in there. Dark like Terrible’s anger, dark like the world. Dark like the emptiness inside her.
“Big changes. Ain’t having no more game-plays, I ain’t.”
Smoke drifted into the air in a thin, curling stream, hiding part of Terrible’s face behind it, hiding his expression and thoughts in a fragrant, ever-moving veil.
Chess knew what he was thinking anyway; she could still feel it throbbing in the air.
Lex lifted his beer. The smirk had left his face, at least. “Aye, seein you dig. Could use me someone worth trusting, gimme the help-out. Someone make heself more on the money side than he getting now, guessing. Like bein a partner, takin he own piece.”
Oh no. No, he couldn’t be saying that, could he? How in the hell could he honestly think Terrible would go to work for him—with him?
Terrible looked as if he had the same thought. His eyes narrowed; his head tilted to the left. Waiting. Watching, that dead-eye glare like a snake about to strike.
“Thinkin you come on over, do you work for me, aye? What you do now, only my side. With me. Make it all worth up, I will.”
“No.”
“Aw, now, why ain’t you giving it a thought, leastaways? Make Tulip happy, ain’t you thinkin? Us not tryna make each others dead, be a cheer-up for her.”
Just what she wanted. Bring her into the discussion. Remind Terrible that she’d betrayed him, that while he’d thought something was starting between them—while something was starting between them—she’d been running off to spend long sweaty nights in Lex’s bed.
Not that Terrible would or could ever forget, but still.
“All knowing nobody beats you, aye? Need me a man like that, make things tight up. Needs a brain, too, which you know you got. You name me a price. True thing, Terrible. Makes me happy, makes you happy, makes Tulip happy. Ain’t that the juice?”
“No.”
Lex’s expression didn’t change. He stubbed out his smoke, took another swig from his beer, and set it on the table. “You have you a think on it, aye? Ain’t needing the answer on the now, you gimme the tell on the morrow.”
Terrible shrugged. “Answer ain’t changin.”
“Aye? Whyn’t you get the thoughts, anyway, we chatter again.” Lex stood up and started toward the door. Chess and Terrible moved back a few steps into the kitchen so he could get past, but he stopped a foot or so away from them. Almost—but not quite—too close.
“Oughta give one more thing the mentions here. You ain’t wanna come on with me … means I get on finding one who will, dig, get me a steel-man of my owns. Ain’t sure Downside got size enough for two, aye? Rather not be fighting you causen of Tulip, but … got plans, I do, an I ain’t losing em.”
Chess closed her eyes. Fuck. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way she was standing in her own kitchen, listening to Lex threaten Terrible while Terrible’s hand twitched on the back of her neck and anger rolled off him in thick waves.
When she opened her eyes again, Lex stood by the door. “On the laters, Tulip. Give you a ring-up, I will.”
What was she supposed to say? Great? Awesome, you do that? She managed to raise her hand in a weak sort of wave before the door closed behind him, leaving Chess alone with Terrible and his rage.
She didn’t want to look at him. The thought of what she might see in his eyes scared her, and that made her even angrier because she wasn’t supposed to be scared of him, and that scared her even more, and four Cepts had totally not been enough. She’d have to grab another one. Immediately. Five was pushing it, but not beyond the boundary of acceptable.
But first … time to pay the piper, or take her punishment, or whatever the hell. She glanced up at him, found him staring at the door like he expected it to fly back open and reveal Lex with a loaded gun.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t— He was waiting here when I got home, and he said he wanted to talk to you, he wanted me to ask you to talk to him. He didn’t tell me why or what he wanted.”
His hand left her neck, leaving her skin cold and oddly light, missing its warm weight. She watched him pull his bottle of bourbon out of the cabinet and down a couple of swigs. Watched him grab a beer out of the fridge, stride past her to the couch—the other side from where Lex had sat—and chase the shots with almost half the bottle. Shit. Of course he drank—who the fuck didn’t?—but not like that, not usually. Not like he was trying to drown something out, forget it, get rid of it, hide it under an ocean of booze until no one even knew it had been there.
Not like … well, not like her.
What was she supposed to do? She’d already apologized. She’d explained. He wasn’t responding. Damn it, she wasn’t good at this, didn’t have any experience with this. She’d never even dated someone for more than a single night, at least not before Lex came along, and they’d never really gotten mad at each other because their relationship didn’t matter enough to bother getting mad over. So what the hell was her reaction supposed to be?
Whatever it was, she guessed standing there staring at him wasn’t it. She dug in her bag for another pill and forced it down without water while she sat next to him. Not touching him—that might not be a good idea—but close to him, so the heat from his leg brushed against hers.
“So I know that probably wasn’t what you wanted to deal with right when you walked—”
“He got the truth?”
“What?”
He lit another cigarette off the butt of the first one. His eyes stayed focused on the stained-glass window. “He got the truth. That what you’re wanting? Me with him?”
“What—no, no, I mean, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
Even as she said it, a sneaky, selfish part of her wondered if it was entirely true. Oh, who was she kidding? Pretty much all of her was sneaky and selfish, but it was still just a small part of her that wondered.
She couldn’t ask Terrible to do that. Not ever. But she couldn’t deny it would be so much easier. For Terrible to stop hating Lex, to stop gritting his teeth and clenching his fists every time Lex’s name came up—which wasn’t often—and to not get mad if she wanted to get something to eat with Lex. To not get mad when she went shopping or whatever with Lex’s sister Blue—Beulah, actually, but she preferred Blue, and in that Chess supposed she didn’t blame her—who had become her friend, weird as that was.
Even weirder was how she was more willing to give up Lex than Blue, if she really thought about it. It was kind of cool having a female friend, even if they didn’t do girlie-type things. No manicures or pink cocktails, and no chatting about sex—at least, not on Chess’s part. Blue was more open, but then Blue was dating some married guy so didn’t have anyone else to talk to about him. But it was … well, it was fun. She couldn’t help it. It was.
Chess didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to dream about it, but she couldn’t help the images that bounced through her head in the few seconds before she managed to shut them down. The four of them hanging out at Lex’s place, drinking beer on her roof, her not feeling guilty and shitty anymore when Lex called or she went somewhere with Blue. Terrible could just smile and give her a kiss and tell her to have fun …
Right, sure. And then they could all go for a frolic in the sparkly diamond rain.
Besides, the thought of Lex and Terrible together all the time—that would never work. Could never work. Even without the whole business rivalry, Terrible hated Lex. Hated Lex because of her, hated Lex because he knew she’d been leaving him after an evening of hanging out—after many evenings of hanging out—and heading over to Lex’s place to spend the night in his bed. She’d betrayed him with Lex, over and over again, and even if she could expect him to put his loyalty to Bump aside she knew he couldn’t possibly ever forget that.
Hell, even if he tried, Lex wouldn’t let him, would he?
Terrible watched her, watched her tight so she felt like she couldn’t escape. She wanted to rest her head against his shoulder, wrap her arms around him, but something told her she should hang back. “No. I don’t want that.”
His eyes searched hers. “Aye?”
“Aye.” She smiled.
He smiled back, a brief flash of a smile across his face before his mouth twisted down again. “He ain’t lyin on havin plans. Two street men dead in the last week, dig. Right onna corners, just left there.”
“Lex killed them?”
“Ain’t can see who else done it. Watchers said dudes pull theyselves up in a car, jump out, stab em up an take off again. Ain’t even dipped them pockets, dig.”
Shit. “So … what are you guys doing?”
“Do what we gotta, aye? Ain’t can have that shit. Wonder on he not sayin on it, but guessing he ain’t with you here.”
“Or he didn’t mention it because he wants you to work with him.”
Terrible shrugged and leaned forward to stub out his smoke. As he did, his glance fell on her arm. “What’s on there?”
“Huh? Oh.” Damn, she’d almost managed to forget about the Darnells. “Remember my case, the people who broke the mirrors? I busted them today. They weren’t very happy about it.”
“They hit you?”
“Yeah. Well, they had a witch there who tried to kill me, then they had a gun, but it was fine. I’m fine, no biggie.”
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “How about you, how was your day?”
She could practically see him trying to decide if it was worth pushing or not; thankfully, he didn’t. Even better, he lifted her arm and kissed the smudgy dark spot forming there, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Hey.” She reached up to trail her fingers down his thick sideburns, unable to keep herself from grinning. “I might have a few more bruises, too.”
His eyebrows rose, his own smile transforming his face the way she loved so much. “Aye? Where?”
“Oh, all over. It’s really bad. There are tons of them.”
He shook his head. “Damn. Thinkin you oughta show me, aye? So’s I can be all certain you ain’t hurt much.”
“I think you’re right.” She grabbed the hem of her T-shirt and lifted it off, shivering harder when his warm hands found her bare skin, reached behind her to unfasten her bra and slip that off, too. “I definitely need your help.”
Love wasn’t one emotion, she didn’t think. It was a combination of a whole bunch of them, and each one had a slightly different formula. Like how if she mixed black powder with an equal amount of blood salt and powdered cat’s skull, she’d have a nice little hex-shield that would bounce curses back to the caster, but the same ingredients in different proportions would induce people to admit the truth if it got on their skin.
Love was like that, and the formulas were always changing. It never sat still and let her get used to it; she didn’t feel as if she ever quite had her balance.
And there was the formula changing again, going from light and warm to tingly and hot. Hot and getting hotter when his mouth took hers, his fingertips on her jaw and then sliding into her hair. His body urged hers back, so she lay on the couch with his warm solid weight above her and her hands already finding bare skin under his shirt, spreading her fingers apart as wide as she could so she could feel more of him at once.
He took his time, inching his palm up her rib cage to barely skim her breast, sliding it down over the curve of her hip and thigh. His teeth caught her tongue and held it for a second, just long enough to send a flash of heat through her entire body. Still he didn’t speed up, but that heat did, racing through her, screaming it was going so fast, and she felt as if she glowed in the ever-darker room as the sun set over Downside.
Then Terrible stopped, and she realized it wasn’t her body screaming—well, her body was screaming, like it always did when he touched her, but the sound she heard wasn’t her body. Wasn’t her voice. It was a voice of terror, a voice of pain and despair, and it sent a shiver that had nothing to do with sex or love or anything even remotely pleasant up her spine.
It was coming from the street outside, and more voices joined it every second.
Chapter Three
You must always be ready.
—Debunking: A Practical Guide, by Elder Morgenstern
Quite a crowd had gathered by the time Chess and Terrible burst through the tall, heavy wooden doors of her building, down the steps and across the patch of scrub grass and pebbles to the street, where dozens of backs obscured her view of whatever was happening.
Too bad they didn’t obscure the screams, those awful wails. Why were people standing there watching if they were so scared—
“Fuck!” Terrible was gone before the word even registered in her head, shoving his way through the crowd. Of course, he could see over them. He knew what was happening.
So whatever it was probably wasn’t a good thing. But then she hadn’t imagined it would be.
And what the hell was she doing, standing there in the back while Terrible did whatever it was he was doing in the center? Fuck that.
People didn’t move as fast for her as they had for him, but the ink on her shoulders, arms, and chest carried enough weight to get them going. Most people thought witches had a lot more power than they actually did, and Chess didn’t do anything to disabuse them of that notion. It had kept her safer in Downside than she had any right to be for almost four years, especially since everyone learned that Downside’s Churchwitch worked for Bump.
They might have taken their chances with the Church, but no way would they do that with Bump. Fucking with Bump meant fucking with Terrible, and the only people who did that had death wishes even more serious than Chess’s. If that were possible.
Through the tiny spaces between people, she caught glimpses of … something … what the fuck? The street red with blood, a shoe lying in a glistening puddle of it …
She reached the center just as Terrible pulled back his fist and slammed it into the face of a man in the circle. That man stood over another man—a dead body—and was swinging the corpse’s disembodied left arm like a bat.
The man stumbled and fell onto the bloody cement, the arm in his hand waving as he went down. Chess automatically glanced at Terrible, only to see his eyes close, see him waver on his feet for a second before shaking his head and straightening up.
Her tattoos tingled and burned. A ghost. A ghost and magic and—oh shit. Dark magic, and just punching that man was enough to cause a reaction in Terrible. She had to find a solution to that. No more fucking around. Nothing had worked so far, and she hated being reminded of her failures, but seriously.
Bad enough that Lex knew about it. If the rest of Downside found out … she couldn’t even imagine how awful that would be.
This wasn’t the time to picture it, either, because the killer—she assumed he was the killer—started to stand up. His buzz-cut hair and the back of his dirty white shirt dripped with blood, vibrant and horrible in the darkening air.
Terrible knocked him down again with a savage kick to the throat, using the sole of his boot to shove him to the pavement.
Chess tensed. If the magic affected him that badly from a momentary touch …
Nothing. Her sigh was so deep it made her weak. The sole of Terrible’s boot—what was it made of? Did it matter, or was it simply having a barrier that made the difference?
Whatever it was, the killer didn’t like it very much. He writhed on the cement, grunting, his fingers slipping uselessly off Terrible’s boot and his other hand slapping the arm against Terrible’s leg. Gross. The sight of that limp hand flapping, as if it was trying to grab back the life that had been stolen from it, made her stomach lurch.
Someone else came out of the crowd and grabbed the killer’s legs, holding them down. And still that awful, sly sensation crawled up and down her arms, across her chest and shoulders. Still the black fog of magic intended to hurt and kill oozed into her chest, into her soul, to connect to the filth already there. It countered her high, stole it from her, made sadness and misery and hatred fall on her in a hellish downpour of pain.
At least she could do something about that. She started to turn, intending to run back to her apartment and get her bag, when something struck her.
The killer still lay on the cement. Still fighting against Terrible, still waving that gruesome appendage around like a Church flag at Festival time, still struggling against the other man—Burnjack, Chess thought his name was, one of Bump’s lieutenants—holding down his legs.
How long had he been like that? Why hadn’t he passed out yet, with Terrible’s foot crushing his windpipe?
Terrible wasn’t holding back, either. He was putting weight on that foot, and his weight was considerable, considering he was about six foot four and packed with muscle. She’d estimated it at two-seventy once, and while that had been a bit too heavy, he wasn’t exactly light.
So how was the killer still moving, still breathing?
Terrible must have had the same thought. His eyes searched the crowd for her; when they caught hers he raised his eyebrows, gave her a small tip of his head she understood. She nodded in reply. Yes, something magic-related was going on, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
She jerked her own head back toward her building, letting him know where she was going, and he nodded.
She’d run that fast before, but not very often. Her chest ached by the time she reached her bedroom and grabbed the stack of hardcover books she used as a step stool when she needed one. Usually she didn’t anymore, because Terrible got things down for her, but she figured he was pretty well occupied in keeping down a homicidal maniac who seemingly refused to die and radiated black magic and ghost energy like blood spreading through clear water.
She kept all the standard stuff in her bag—iron filings, graveyard dirt, asafetida, iron-ring water, and blood salt; the sort of all-purpose things she used a lot. The box on the top shelf of her closet was where the other stuff was, supplies she’d bought just because, or in case she ever needed them. Always good to be prepared, and almost everything in that box would be helpful in breaking curses or hexes, weakening dark magics, crossing the Evil Eye.
Okay. Powdered crow’s bone, of course. She had some dried chunks of snake, some goat’s blood, tormentil, ground rat tails, a handful of lizard eyes and cat claws. Hell, she should just take the whole box, except someone would steal it.
Her hands shook as she tossed everything she thought might be useful into her bag, catching the silver glint of her pillbox in its pocket. If only … Too bad all the adrenaline in her system made it totally useless to even think about taking more. Maybe after all of it was done she’d take an Oozer or two. If she could; if she was still alive to do so.
Maybe that was being dramatic, but if there was one thing her life had taught her—one lesson it had rammed down her throat until she choked on it—it was that nothing was ever safe. Positive expectations were for idiots.
The crowd had grown in the short time she’d been upstairs. It spread out into the yard of the building across the street, into the corner itself. Some people had brought chairs to stand on or rickety ladders; others sat on the walls edging the staircase to her front door. It was a hell of a show, after all. Nobody wanted to miss it.
Nobody except her, anyway. Too bad she didn’t have a choice. She fought her way through the forest of bodies, pushing as hard as she could. What were they going to do, attack her? Fuck them. They needed to get the hell out of her way, and they needed to do it immediately.
With every step—with every person she shoved to the side—the buzzing of her tattoos, the creeping sensation through her body, the cloud of despair and horror, grew, until she wondered how she managed to stay upright.
Luckily she did, and so did Terrible, although he definitely looked paler than he should. Whatever that was, it was clearly starting to get to him, to infect him, and she didn’t have much time.
The killer still struggled to get up, still waved that arm around like a fucking winning lottery ticket. No way was that guy alive by normal means; she could see his throat almost crushed under Terrible’s foot.
So how was he alive at all?
First things first. She grabbed the iron-ring water—clean water with iron rings in the bottle, left to purify under a full moon—and watched Terrible take a swig. Some of his color returned. At least that was some weight off. For the moment, anyway.
More of that heaviness lightened when she took a drink herself. Excellent. Start with the iron filings, then; clearly iron had some power over whatever the spell was—it usually did—and what she needed most was to neutralize it enough to think.
“Arkrandia bellarum dishager.” Her hand swung in an arc over the supine killer, spreading a fine dust of iron. The power lessened again.
But the killer hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t blinked and he hadn’t choked. Chess bent down, trying not to get too close but needing to see it anyway.
Holy shit. Either she was in the presence of some unbelievably fucked-up magic or this guy was out of his mind on Burn—a drug even she wouldn’t go near—or both, because he hadn’t blinked, and tiny shards of iron dug into his eyeballs. As she watched, blood welled around one of the largest pieces, started trickling down to the outer corner.
He could certainly see, though. His free hand—the one not clutching its grisly souvenir—shot out and grabbed for her, caught her ankle in a grip so strong she cried out. Horrible cold magic, death magic, ghost magic, flew up her leg, spread through her body and darkened her vision.
Terrible’s foot smashed into the killer’s head; blood sprayed from his nose and mouth. Still the killer’s hand clutched her ankle; still he pulled harder than she would have imagined he could.
Chess went down. Lukewarm blood soaked into her clothes, her hair. Her stomach lurched. She was covered with it, it was all over her, on her skin. …
Terrible’s foot slammed down again, and again. The killer’s face broke. He still didn’t let go, started yanking her closer. What the fuck was going on? He couldn’t be alive, no way could he be alive.
One more heavy stomp. The killer’s head … “exploded” was the only word that seemed to fit, although it wasn’t quite as dramatic as that. It looked like … like a smashed M&M, oozing blood and spilling pulpy tissue from its hard candy shell.
His grip didn’t loosen.
She shoved her blood-slick hand into her pocket to pull out the switchblade Terrible had given her a couple of months before, but Terrible was faster. He crouched down, dug the point of his own knife down into the killer’s arm, hard enough that it scraped the pavement beneath.
The killer started to babble, syllables falling from his misshapen mouth dying-fish-like against the pool of blood.
Terrible dragged his knife to the left, slicing through the killer’s arm; Chess did the same on the other side. Oh, that was so fucking gross, and the magic kept spreading through her body, thicker and heavier every minute like cold crawling slime, making her vision blur further and her head buzz.
Terrible’s eyelids fluttered again. His hand had come in contact with the killer’s wrist as he finished cutting through the skin. Chess reached out to grab him, pushing as much energy as she could into him. Please, please let it work. If he passed out that man-thing was going to get up, she knew it, and no one else would have a hope of defeating it.
Not to mention what it would do to Terrible to pass out in front of everyone, how that would affect him. She couldn’t even think of that.
His head dipped for a second, his face paling further. He started to fall forward. No, no damn it, that couldn’t— She gripped his arm harder, dug her nails in and shoved everything she had into it, as much energy as she could summon.
That, at least, worked. Too bad when he slipped, his foot left the killer’s head, and the killer was moving again. Would that thing never die— No. No, it wouldn’t, would it? It snapped together in her head, a disgusting idea, but the only one she could think of.
The man was possessed by a ghost. Or worse, it was a corpse re-animated by a ghost.
Okay. It was a ghost, and she could Banish it. She just had to disconnect it from that body first, and while that wouldn’t be easy, it was something she knew how to do.
Terrible straightened, kicking out at the killer and shoving it back to the ground, while Chess threw a handful of graveyard dirt and asafetida at it.
It froze.
Her shoulders had started to sag in relief when it moved again. Shit! It must be getting some sort of extra protection from the body it was in, either the body or the magic or both.
Okay. Try something else. She popped the cap of her salt canister and started walking a circle, focusing on the energy. People stepped out of her way and stayed outside the circle, something she hadn’t expected but was grateful for.
But, then, of course they stayed outside it; Downsiders weren’t quite as afraid of magic as they were of Terrible, but probably close. At least of this kind of magic.
She reached the end. Fuck. She needed to use her blood to set the circle, but her knife had just been buried in a dead man’s muscles. The thought of cutting her own flesh with it was just … No.
Oh, this sucked. It fucking sucked. She wiped her knife on her jeans, set down the salt canister, and gritted her teeth. The second this was done, she was going to soak her hand in antiseptic.
“With blood I bind.” The stinging pain of the cut in her left pinkie faded when the circle set in place, strong and pure, giving her that little rush of energy that never grew old.
That was all well and good, but whether or not the circle would hold a ghost possessing a corpse was another question entirely.
Terrible glanced at her, his expression a question. She nodded and he turned to Burnjack, still holding down the killer’s legs inside the circle. “Go on, now, only don’t step on that salt, aye? Don’t fuck it up.”
Burnjack nodded. The second he let go of the killer’s legs they started moving again, kicking and jerking like a toddler having a fit. At almost the same moment Terrible crossed the salt line himself and stood near Chess.
Not too near, of course, but at moments like this she almost didn’t give a shit that they’d decided to keep their relationship secret, that Terrible thought it would keep her safer if people didn’t know they could get to him through her. It made sense, and she agreed most of the time, but right then … right then she was freaked out and covered with cold blood, and she wanted nothing more than to have him wrap those strong arms around her and make her feel safe.
But he couldn’t, so she focused on the killer dragging himself to his feet, his upper body wavering, his flattened head sagging forward praying-mantis-like, too much for the crushed neck to support. She didn’t know how she managed to keep from throwing up; blood drooled from the sick ruin of his face, dripped on his shirt, flew through the air in a vile rain when he shook his deflated head.
He stumbled toward her, arms outstretched. Did he see her—could he see anything through those eyes anymore? Or, no, he probably felt her, felt the power in her blood. Ghosts always did.
She held her breath when he reached the circle. The entire crowd held its breath when he reached the circle, all of them waiting to see what would happen. He reached out—
The energy of the spell on him, of the ghost and the practitioner, slammed into her and knocked the air out of her chest. So cold, so fucking cold, and so dark. The circle was connected to her and the magic probed the circle, finding her, sticking sneaky inquisitive fingers into her, poking and prodding to see where it hurt the most, finding the weak spots. There were so many for it to find.
She tried to push back against it but she didn’t have the strength, not if she wanted to keep the circle in place. It was holding; she would call it a miracle if she didn’t know those didn’t exist, didn’t know it was the Church—the magic the Church had taught her to use—keeping that barrier in place.
How long it would stay in place, she didn’t know. The spell on the corpse was so fucking strong.
She clenched her fists and struggled. Not the time to think about it. Thinking wasn’t going to help anything. What she needed to do was find a way to separate ghost and body.
She could do it with her psychopomp, but there was no way she could get into that circle to summon it, not without Terrible, and she couldn’t take the chance of him collapsing again. No, she’d need to break or weaken the spell first, and that wasn’t going to be easy.
What else was new?
Chapter Four
Murder is a crime. Murder by psychopomp is an evil.
—Psychopomps: The Key to Church Ritual and Mystery, by Elder Brisson
No point in setting up a firedish inside the circle; that thing would either kick it over or smash it. But she could set one up just outside, and the smoke would drift into it. The faint breeze came from the west, so that’s where she set up, on the broken curb by the sewer grate.
Asafetida and ajenjible went in first, followed by corrideira—all she had—and some melidia. Whatever the hell that thing inside the body had once been, it was now a murderer, and sending it to one of the spirit prisons would be one of the best things—no, would be the best thing—that had happened to her that day.
Thick smoke started drifting from the dish, barely visible in the darkness settling over the street. The smell of it filled the air, filled Chess, and chased some of her fear away. That was the smell of Church, the smell of magic, the smell of things she knew how to do. Things she could do, and do well. She might not be worth much as a person, but she was a fucking good witch, and she could do this.
Iron had lessened the spell’s power before, so that was the first thing she grabbed, gritting her teeth against the sensation of alien hands scrambling her innards. Iron had lessened it and salt had held it, and the two of them together were pretty fucking strong. Stronger than the spell, she hoped.
She filled her palm with them, held them over the hot, fragrant smoke. “Power to power, these powers bind.”
Energy warmed her skin; she could practically see it glowing. Good. She took a deep breath and threw the iron and salt at the animated body still fighting against her circle.
“Cadeskia regontu balaktor!”
Blowback like a brick flung at her chest knocked her over. Her head hit the sidewalk with a thud she barely felt. The power was too strong, too dark, for her to feel anything else. It surged over her, buried her beneath it. She struggled for air.
Through her slitted eyelids she saw the body in the circle wavering, saw the ethereal glow of the ghost emanating from it. She’d done something, she’d managed to start separating them somehow, but not enough. Fuck.
Okay. Crow’s bone and wolfsbane, some black powder and blood salt. Ignore the throbbing pain in her head and get to work. Again she placed her hand in the smoke; again she said the words of power and flung the charged herbs.
This time she was ready for the backlash. It hit her, but not as hard, and she was able to keep watching.
The body—the killer, the ghost, the animated corpse, whatever she should call it—started to weave, its movements slow and staggering like a drunk looking for a place to vomit. What the fuck did it take to separate that thing? Usually the corrideira and ajenjible were enough, more than enough.
She tossed a chunk of snake onto the fire in the dish, gathered more salt in her hand, and scooped up some cobwebs to go with it. The cobwebs might trap the spell; that worked with some hexes, so why not try it here.
Without much real hope, she powered it over the smoke—purplish now from the burning snake flesh—and threw it. No. Just as she’d thought. This was bullshit. Anger rose higher in her chest every second, anger and a kind of frustrated determination. She should be upstairs with Terrible, warm and safe and high from Cepts and his body. Instead, she was on the street, looking more stupid every minute that she failed to break that spell.
Should she go ahead and summon her psychopomp? Yeah, the ghost-thing would probably hit her while she did the summoning, but it wasn’t as if she’d never been hit before. And her psychopomp could tear the ghost from the body—if she could get a passport on it.
The thought of touching that stump of an arm, ragged from where she and Terrible had sliced it in two and still dripping dark blood, made her want to be sick. But if she couldn’t separate them any other way … what else could she do?
Nothing she could think of, unless she wanted to be there all night. Which she didn’t.
Right, then. She dug into her bag, pulled out the silk-shrouded dog’s skull, and unwrapped it. Her psychopomp. In her right hand she grabbed her Ectoplasmarker and tugged the cap off with her teeth. She had no idea who that ghost was, so no way to design a proper passport for it even if she had time, but whatever. If she marked it the psychopomp would sense the marking, and hopefully take it instead of her.
She tucked more wolfsbane into her pocket to help hide the scent of asafetida on her skin from the psychopomp, and stepped into the circle.
It felt so awful in there, so awful, like stepping into a pool of cold murky water. A pool brimming with dead things, with sea beasts full of teeth.
The body sensed her, or heard her, or something. She didn’t know. What she did know was that it turned and walked toward her, waving that fucking disembodied arm—what the fuck, was it some kind of security blanket or something?—and making horrible grunting noises.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Terrible move. She shook her head, held up her hand. No. As much as she wanted him to, no. Too risky.
She braced herself and waited for it to come. Once it got close enough, she could scrawl something on it and duck away. At some point she’d have to fight the thing off her; she didn’t have a choice. But not yet.
It lunged. She managed to grab its arm above the wrist, avoiding the gruesome prize it brandished but not able to avoid touching it at all. Under her palm its flesh was warm and solid, as if it were alive. What the fuck did that mean, then? Because the thing felt like a ghost and she couldn’t imagine a living person was in there, so how the hell did its body still feel normal?
She guessed she’d find out later. She hoped she’d be alive to find out later, anyway.
Three circles would do for a passport. She scrawled them on quickly, tossed the Ectoplasmarker toward Terrible, who caught it, just as she knew he would.
Okay. Time for the psychopomp.
She let go of the body, ducked around it, and set the skull on the ground. Her left pinkie had stopped bleeding from setting the salt circle; she squeezed it hard to get the blood flowing again. Kept squeezing until her blood fell on the skull.
This wasn’t the ideal place or situation for a ritual—she didn’t have her stang, didn’t have her cauldron, didn’t have candles—but oh fucking well. “I call on the escorts of the land of the dead. I offer an appeasement for their aid.”
The skull started to rock. Something hard slapped into the side of her head, knocked her over. Her arm scraped the sidewalk. What the—shit, eeww. It had slapped her with the dead hand; her cheek felt as if someone had thrown an ice pack at it.
Ignore it. She lifted her right hand, pressed it against the body’s stomach to keep it away.
Then had to swallow, hard, three or four times, before she could speak without gagging. “I call on the escorts. Take this spirit back to its place of silence.”
The skull erupted into life, rising from the cement as blue light sparked in its eyes. Bones formed behind it, the dog’s skeleton flowing into being, skin and shaggy black hair growing over it. Her psychopomp. It would take the soul back to the City of Eternity under the earth—the hole had already formed, blurry shapes behind a thin place in the air—and it would stay there. Forever.
The psychopomp lunged. Chess ducked.
The killer beat at the dog with the arm in its hand, its grunts turning to howls. No. No fucking way was it going to defeat her psychopomp, no way. Psychopomps were— They always won; it was their job to win.
She had to get that arm out of its hand, and she had to do it without getting in front of the psychopomp, because it would give up on the embodied ghost any second and hunt for a soul it could catch. Like hers. The only other soul in the circle.
Hers might have been worthless—well, no “might have” about it, her soul wasn’t worth shit—but she still wanted to hold on to it for a while longer.
She needed something that would distract the killer, make it drop the arm, but not hurt the psychopomp.
Fire. She needed fire.
The killer’s grunts had turned into wails, loud angry moans in the silence as it beat the dog with its gruesome weapon. The crowd had stepped back. Everyone stood there watching, with their arms wrapped around themselves and fear in their eyes. Ha. They could join the fucking club.
She held out her hand to Terrible. “Lighter.”
He set it in her palm a second later, the black steel warm from being in his breast pocket, warm from his energy. She clutched it for a second, wishing she could do the same to him, then opened it and spun the wheel.
Flame burst from the top, six inches high and pale at the base, just like always. Good. How flammable the body would be she didn’t know, but maybe at least that shirt would catch fire. She only needed a distraction, not a full-on cremation.
The psychopomp appeared on the verge of giving up; its tail had ducked between its legs. It turned to look at her. Fuck.
No time like the present. Especially not if she had any chance of surviving. She jumped forward, fisted the shirt, and touched it with the flame.
As she did, the killer swung that arm at her again, hitting her in the back of the head. She ignored it, fought through it.
Thank fuck, the shirt burst into flame, and she scrambled away as the killer roared again and started to beat at its chest with the arm.
Chess gathered her breath. “Take this spirit back to its place of silence!”
The psychopomp obeyed. The killer still waved the arm around, but its eyes—what was left of them—focused on the fire eating its clothing. It didn’t see the psychopomp lunge.
One last howl from the killer, which turned into a squeal as the psychopomp grabbed its soul. The hole in the world behind it rippled again, like water running over glass; the psychopomp leapt through it, dragging the soul in its teeth.
The hole snapped shut, the skull hit the ground and shattered as the body fell on top of it, and Chess sank to her knees in the now-empty circle, wondering what the fuck was going on this time.
The corpse’s ruined head didn’t look any better under the dull glow of the refrigerated warehouse’s fluorescent lights. Its blood had dried a sticky brownish-red; the skin was pale, marked with the tread of Terrible’s boot and various scrapes from hitting the pavement. Even the six Cepts in her system didn’t help it look any better.
Chess held her hand over it for a second. She hadn’t touched the body at all since drawing the passport on it back in the circle. She didn’t particularly want to touch it now, but she had a feeling she was going to have to.
This time she wouldn’t forget her gloves.
Energy slammed into her palm, anyway, thick dark energy that set off a horrible ringing sound in her head, as if her ears had been boxed. Whatever the spell on the body was, it wasn’t pleasant.
But, then, she hadn’t expected it would be.
“What you think, Ladybird?” Bump drawled from behind a fur scarf. “What kinda fuckin witchy shit be this time?”
She hated to admit it in front of him. “I don’t know.”
Silence.
“I can feel the spell, whatever spell it is, and I can feel that it’s male—the spell caster is male, I mean—but I have no idea what the spell is. It feels like ghosts, too.”
“Be him soul inside him fuckin body do the magic, yay? Like him gone an died, then give a fuckin try to coming back.”
“Ghosts can’t cast spells,” she said, only half paying attention. “Do you know who he is? Who the body is, I mean.”
Bump dug something out of one of the pockets in his floor-length white fur coat. “Got us him fuckin wallet here, dig. Be Gordon Samms, it tell. Ain’t knowing him, I ain’t.”
“Had some owes,” Terrible said. He stood at her side with his arm around her shoulders, helping to keep her warm. “Lost he some lashers on the card games, were payin slow.”
Bump’s thin reddish eyebrows rose. “Yay? How much?”
“Six hundred, now. Won heself a game on the other night, paid he a hundred then. At the tables all the time, dig, ain’t could stay away.”
Gambling. That was one thing she’d never seen the point of, one addiction she’d never picked up. Good thing, too. She’d really be broke if she had.
Terrible glanced at her, then back at Bump. “Burnjack say him were yellin when him come onto the street, just jumped him on Yellow Pete, started beatin him.”
“Yellow Pete was the dead guy? The dead guy killed by this one, I mean.”
He nodded. “Were a street dealer, dig, down Seventieth.”
“So why was he near my apartment?”
“Ain’t knowing on that one. Could be him live there, maybe gotta dame there, family, ain’t know.”
Right. It didn’t matter anyway, did it? “Does Burnjack know what the ghost was saying? Did he catch any of it?”
“Asked he on that one, too. Said him only caught a word or two, thinkin be a name. Agneta. Agneta Katina. Be a dame, he said.”
Hmm. “Girlfriend? Wife? Daughter?”
“Naw. Ain’t married. Ain’t sure he likes the dames, dig. Never seen him with any.”
“Oughta give Berta the fuckin ask, yay.” Bump poked at the body with the tip of his cane, for no good reason Chess could fathom. “Do her got one onna street that fuckin name? Maybe her got some fuckin knowledge on it.”
Terrible nodded.
Okay, this wasn’t getting them anywhere. She hated to do it, didn’t want to do it, but she didn’t think she had a choice, either. “I need to get his clothes off.”
Bump snorted. “Ain’t had the thinking you into the fuckin dead ones, Ladybird.”
Chess gave that remark the response it deserved—which was none—and reached for the tattered, singed remnants of the shirt on the body.
Terrible was faster. He always was. “Ain’t you do it, Chess. Lemme, aye?”
His eyes caught hers. Warmth rose in her chest, spread through her whole body. Looking into his eyes—into him—was a high she could never get tired of. Bump disappeared, the mutilated corpse on the table before them disappeared, the icy air around them disappeared. It was just the two of them, standing so close the warmth of his body caressed hers.
She reached up to touch his face, meaning to pull it down to hers so she could kiss him, when Bump cleared his throat. Loudly. The moment ended.
“Thinkin we fuckin get on the move this fuckin night? Maybe you quit on the cuddle-ups, get some attention on the fuckin job, yay?”
Asshole.
Terrible reached out for the buttons on the shirt. And fell.
Chess was already moving when his eyes started to roll back in his head, thrusting her arm in front of him over the body. She couldn’t catch him, couldn’t stop him from falling, but she could at least keep him from face-planting into a corpse.
Or she could quit fucking playing around and figure out a way to make it stop happening. Another good idea might be to get her damn head together; she’d felt the magic, she should have known it would affect him. She’d been so busy getting mushy she hadn’t been focusing, and that was a Bad Thing.
He was out for only a second. That was usually the case when he touched something— Wait. What the fuck?
The body on the table—Gordon Samms’s—was empty. The soul inside it was gone. So there shouldn’t be much for the magic to work on, it shouldn’t still feel as strong as it did. Yes, she should feel it, of course, but not that much. And it shouldn’t be strong enough to do that to Terrible.
Nobody spoke as Terrible stood up. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t need him to. The color rising up his neck, the stiffness of his movements, spoke clearly enough, even if she didn’t already have a pretty good idea what he would say.
“Okay,” she said finally, tossing the word into the silence as if it didn’t matter. “So I’m not just feeling residual magic, I guess. Whatever the spell is, it’s still—there’s still a bag on him or something, there’ll be something there. Bump, you have his wallet, did anyone search his other pockets?”
Bump shook his head. “Figured on letting you have the fuckin job, dig, you the one got the handle on it.”
It was so cool the way he was always thinking of her. She suppressed the eye-roll and dug around in Gordon’s front pockets, stopping at the left one when she pulled out a spell bag about the size of a walnut. Darkness rolled up her arm in waves. Not good; of course it wasn’t, what did she expect?
She set the bag on the table near his feet, to check when they were done, and kept searching. Nothing else. Just the spell.
So why did his body still radiate magic, why did it still make her tattoos itch and sting the way ghosts did?
Terrible started to reach for Gordon’s shirt buttons again, then stopped. “All cool now?”
“No.” Her first instinct was to grab his hand and pull it back, but not only would he really not like that one bit—how childish did she want to make him look? She didn’t see it that way, but she knew he would—but she didn’t want to touch his skin with anything that had touched that spell. Like her gloves. “There’s something in the body, still.”
His face darkened; he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, still not meeting her eyes.
For a second she considered asking Bump to help her, but … yeah, like that was going to happen. No, lucky Chess got to strip the corpse all by herself.
Naked, it was even more pitiful—and gross, but she’d expected that.
What she hadn’t expected was the faint teeth marks—dog teeth marks, psychopomp teeth marks—on Gordon’s upper thigh. What she hadn’t expected was the familiar milky-blue cast on his skin, the coloring she hadn’t seen on his face and hands because they were mutilated or dirty.
“Oh fuck.” She jerked back, her hand automatically going to cover her mouth; she caught it just in time. “Shit.”
“What?”
Her stomach roiled and shifted. It didn’t matter, she tried to tell herself. Gordon Samms had to die, she’d had no choice, there’d been nothing else she could do. …
That was Fact, and Truth, and she knew it. But her throat still ached as she forced herself to speak. “He was alive. He— I thought it was a ghost stuffed into his body, that he was dead before he attacked Pete, even, but he wasn’t. He was alive. He was still alive.”
Bump and Terrible watched her: Bump with impatience, Terrible with concern, but neither with understanding. Right, of course they wouldn’t know.
“I killed him,” she said. “My psychopomp killed him. He was alive, and my psychopomp ripped out his soul and killed him.”
She would not throw up. She would not cry, either. She hadn’t had a choice. And, as she recovered from her initial panic, she realized that she really hadn’t had a choice. If he was still alive and moving—or at least, if his soul was still in his body and he was moving, what the fuck—after Terrible crushed his throat and head, then there hadn’t been any other way to kill him, and there hadn’t been any way to subdue him, and she’d done the only thing that could be done save for literally chopping him into pieces while he watched.
That made her feel better. Some. But still … she’d used magic to kill someone. She’d used her psychopomp to kill someone, and that was different from using a real weapon to save her life when she was being attacked. Using magic to commit a murder … that was an automatic death sentence.
Of course, so was killing a psychopomp and carving an illegal sigil into someone’s chest to prevent them from dying, and she’d already done those, so what the hell.
The thought almost made her smile—not quite, but almost. At least it loosened her chest enough for her to take a deep breath.
“You right, Chess?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Um, yeah, I’m okay. Come on, let’s see if we can figure out what’s inside him or whatever.”
Bump raised his eyebrows. “Any fuckin place I gots the thinking of where some shit maybe got stuffed into, I ain’t for fuck wanting get my fuckin look-see in.”
Eeww. She hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, I’m not really, either.”
Terrible shifted his weight beside her, his arm touching hers. “I cut he all open, aye? Straight down, we get a look inside.”
“I’ll check his mouth first,” she said, moving to do exactly that. What there was of his mouth; his teeth wobbled at odd angles—the few still remaining did, though she had no idea how many of them he’d had before Terrible used his skull as a footrest—and beneath the skin his jaw felt like gravel in a sack.
It made her job easier. His lips stretched open wide enough for her to fit her latex-covered hand inside; she wiggled her fingers in his throat, swallowing the sympathy gag threatening to rise in her own. The man was dead, after all. She could shove her hand all the way down into his stomach and he wouldn’t feel it or care.
“I don’t feel anything.” Except tonsils. Ugh.
Terrible pulled out his knife. “Straight down, aye?”
“I guess so.”
The point of the blade slid into Gordon’s flesh and disappeared, moving like a zipper’s tongue from the base of his throat to his groin. Terrible glanced at her. She shook her head.
“Yay, let he have the keeping on he fuckin cock.” Bump grinned. “Ain’t fuckin wanna see that come off nowheres.”
Ah, Bump. Polite as ever.
Silence reigned as Terrible made another cut perpendicular to the first across Gordon’s abdomen. He kept his left hand above the skin, making sure not to touch, but Chess wondered how strongly he felt it, how hard he was fighting against that horrible darkness rising like steam from Gordon’s innards.
He stepped back. “Cool?”
“Yeah, I—yeah.” What was she supposed to do, reach in and start pulling stuff out? Shit, what was she doing, why was she doing this? How the hell had she ended up there, in a freezer, about to shove her hand into a corpse like it was a cereal box and she was looking for a prize?
Did it matter? Addiction led to working for Bump, working for Bump led to falling in love with Terrible, and it would take weeks spent pawing around inside dead bodies to even come close to making her wish she didn’t have him. She guessed all things considered, messing around with body parts was a small price to pay.
That didn’t stop her insides from jerking a warning when her fingers closed around something she was pretty certain was Gordon Samms’s stomach.
“How’s it feelin, Chessie?”
“Really fucking gross,” she managed. “And yeah, still powerful. Can you cut this open?”
That was what did it. When Terrible cut the stomach open so she could see what remained of Gordon’s last meal … she barely made it to the wall before throwing up, humiliated to be doing it in front of Bump, humiliated to be doing it at all, but unable to stop herself.
Terrible’s hand in her hair, gathering it behind her and holding it out of the way. His other hand on her back, rubbing it in slow circles until she finally managed to get herself under control. “’Sall cool, baby, aye? No worryin on it, ’sall cool here.”
She started to raise her hands to her streaming eyes and nose but he stopped her, turning her instead to face him while he wiped her face with a rag he’d gotten from somewhere. It was smudged with motor oil on one side but clean elsewhere. Even if it wasn’t, she would have been grateful. “Thanks.”
“Aye.”
Bump nodded when she returned to the table. “Ain’t fuckin put the blame on you, Ladybird. Fuckin sick, yay.”
What? Had Bump—had Bump just been nice to her?
How the hell was she supposed to feel about that? Ugh. Who cared. She had way more important things to worry about.
Like the fact that as the pile of internal organs—ugh, ugh, ugh—grew, she wasn’t finding any other spell bag, no spell ingredients. But everything felt like ghosts and magic, every part of him she touched. As if the spell was part of him. How could that happen?
“Ain’t finding shit, yay, Ladybird?” Bump shook his head. “Got he all fuckin emptied up, what you fuckin do on the now?”
“I don’t know.” She eased the gloves off, trying but failing to keep the blood off her skin. When she got home, she was going to spend an hour or so in a very hot shower, and maybe Terrible could pour bleach over her every couple of minutes. “I don’t know. Let’s see what’s in the spell bag, I guess.”
She slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and jerked the tip of the iron blade she kept in her pick case through the black stitches at the top of the bag.
The rough edges of the fabric fell open, revealing a—well, damn. The spell was about the size of a walnut because it was a walnut—a large one, but a walnut all the same.
She dug the point of her knife into the crack in the shell and pried it open. Blood oozed out. Thick dark blood, so clotted that for a second it looked like some sort of rotted fruit inside the shell.
Her stomach gave another heave, but she ignored it. Not just because she didn’t want to go through that again but because part of her was honestly fascinated. How the hell had he—the same spell caster, the same man—done that? What the hell was that spell?
“Ain’t lookin so fuckin bad.” Bump leaned over the table, peering down. “Fuckin small, yay?”
“But really strong.” Were those clots in the blood, or was something else in there? “Blood … I think it might be corpse blood, like from a murder victim, or maybe menstrual blood. When someone’s using blood like that in a spell, they’re not fucking around.”
Of all the things she could have done without that day, having to say “menstrual” to Bump was—okay, not the biggest or the most important, no, but it was certainly on the list. Not because she was embarrassed; she wasn’t. She just didn’t want to have to discuss anything remotely related to the female reproductive system with him.
Sure enough, he grinned. “Yay, seen me some of that blood fuckin turn dames into—”
“There’s hair in there,” she interrupted, holding one of the hairs up with her gloved index finger and thumb. “See? It’s been tied in knots, too. I wonder if it’s his.”
It probably was. The fingernail clipping she found might have been, too. But the rat’s eye, the three sharply bent pins, the tiny pieces of eggshell and feather, the ball of cobwebs and wax—and were those fish scales?—definitely were not.
By the time she’d finished laying it all out in an orderly if grisly row, her neck ached. As did her head, because she had a pretty good idea what those ingredients were for, what the spell did. “I think that’s it.”
“Aye?” Terrible reached over, offering her a drag off his smoke. She took it. “What’s on with the blood, then?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s clotted, old, you know?”
“Naw, that ain’t it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Too thick, leastaways what I’m thinkin. Old blood don’t get … rough like that, dig? Gets thicker, aye, an darker, but not like that.”
Well, she guessed he would know. Yeah, she’d seen lots of spilled blood in her life, but she probably hadn’t paid as much attention to it, had a chance to observe it as time passed, the way he had. “Yeah? You think something’s mixed into it?”
He shrugged. “Ain’t can say on that one. But that ain’t usual blood.”
“It feels kind of grainy.” She rubbed it between her fingers.
“Ain’t should.”
“Shit. I have no idea how to analyze it or whatever.”
“Ain’t you got you a fuckin lab, up you Church? They got the fuckin skills run it all through, yay?”
She stared at him for a second. “Sure, Bump, how about if I head on in there and ask if they’ll test the blood from a spell I found on the body of a man I killed with my psychopomp? That’ll be no problem at all.”
He hunched his shoulders a little, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Were only giving the fuckin ask, yay, no needing to get all fuckin rumbly-sharp on it.”
She glanced at Terrible, whose features were arranged into the carefully blank look he always had when she bickered with Bump. He’d been wearing that look more and more lately, hadn’t he?
Something to worry about later. “It might be some sort of powdered herb in there, or … well, almost anything can be powdered. Bones, animal parts—I don’t know how to figure it out, really. But whatever it is, this is a fuck of a spell.”
“Know what the purpose is?”
“Yeah, I think so. The hair, the fingernail clippings—it’s a binding spell. A control spell. I don’t know for sure how it works or how magic got inside him like that, but I think the spell is the reason why he killed Yellow Pete and attacked us. The spell made him do it.”
Terrible considered that for a second. “Be why he ain’t died, too?”
She nodded, the realization taking shape in her mind as she spoke. “His soul—if the soul is under that much control, I mean, if it’s been so strongly ordered to carry out a particular task, it’ll force the body to keep going. Like, you know how under hypnosis, people can be injured without feeling it?”
“Aye.”
“That’s kind of like what this is. His soul isn’t his own, it’s powered by someone else, which means his body is powered by someone else. So it doesn’t matter what happens to his body. As long as it can move, it will.”
They were silent for a minute, absorbing that. With every passing second the implications grew worse; with every passing second the blood on her gloves looked darker, more threatening.
Terrible finally spoke. “So whoever made that spell got heself a killer ain’t can be killed, aye? Got heself a weapon can be used anyplace.”
She nodded.
Bump raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. “Damn, then, Ladybird. Lookin like you got some fuckin tough work coming, catchin em all.”
Chapter Five
And they had laws to cover all sorts of unnecessary things, because they did not have Truth to keep the peace.
—A History of the Old Government, Volume V: 1950–1997
She’d just tucked her new psychopomp into her bag and headed through the vast dark-wood hallway when Elder Griffin stepped out of his office and smiled. “Ah, good morrow, Cesaria. I trust you are well?”
She gave him a quick curtsy. “Very well, sir.” Aside from the scrapes and the bump on her head and the fear a decent night’s sleep hadn’t chased away completely, of course, but that wasn’t something she could tell Elder Griffin about. Sure, she liked him a lot, and sure, he liked her, too, but some things were best kept to herself. “And you? Nervous?”
“I confess I am, a bit.” His face colored slightly, almost pinkish beneath his pale hair. “It seems to be coming up awfully fast. You are still— That reminds me. Come in, please?”
Elder Griffin’s office soothed her; it always did. The smell of herbs, the shelves stuffed with books and jars of spell ingredients and skulls and bones … Those shelves were empty today, of course, since he’d be moving to a new position after his wedding, and boxes sat everywhere on the carpet, but it was still his office. His heavy desk before the window, and his antique globe on a stand near the small easy chair. Chess especially loved the globe. Seeing where the countries had divided in the days BT—Before Truth, when people still believed in gods and the dead hadn’t risen to kill so many people—fascinated her.
She sat down in the wooden chair before his desk. “Yes, sir? Is everything okay?”
He smiled, that peaceful smile that made him look so kind. He was kind. He was, in fact, one of the only—no, the only—truly, completely kind person she’d ever met in her life. “Perfectly well, my dear. I simply forgot to have you sign for your bonus yesterday. And I confess I am a bit at loose ends today. So much happening …”
“Of course.” She signed the form he handed her, acknowledgment of receipt for the bonus check attached. Nine grand, the standard amount. And she could use it. Yeah, she’d gotten a pretty good chunk of change back when the whole Maguinness/Baldarel thing had gone down, but after her new car, new couch, and various other expenses—days at the pipes, a couple of nights here and there with Terrible at a hotel in Northside … she was doing okay, but it was always good to have more.
Especially since, if things were heating up between Lex and Bump—which it appeared they were—she wouldn’t be getting her pills at a big discount from Lex anymore.
Paying full price again. Before Chester Airport, before her deal with Lex, she’d been spending a few hundred a week. She somehow suspected it would be more now. She’d been stepping on it some, the last few months: a few extra here or there, two instead of one or three instead of two, or the couple right before bed that she’d learned meant she felt human still when she woke up in the morning … whatever. They cost what they cost, and she needed them, so she’d pay it.
Elder Griffin slipped the form into the Darnell file and set it down. “You are still attending, correct? Along with your—your young man? You are bringing him to the wedding?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss that.” She wouldn’t, either. Every Church employee in Triumph City was invited—that was standard protocol—but he’d made a point of asking her, and of asking her to bring Terrible.
Or, well, he hadn’t exactly said “Terrible,” because he still didn’t know his name. She wasn’t quite sure how to bring that one up.
Of course, she could bring it up as the answer to his question. “What is his name, again?”
Shit.
She kept forgetting to talk to Terrible about it and ask what he thought. He had several forms of ID with different names on them, she knew; they were never used but were there just in case. Did he want to use one of those names? Did he want to be called “Terry,” as his daughter, Katie, called him? No, he hated that—she didn’t blame him. Katie’s mother had started that one.
Elder Griffin watched her, his eyebrows a little higher than usual over his blue eyes. Right. It really shouldn’t take so long to give him a piece of basic information.
Shit again. “Well, see, sir, he … he grew up in Downside, you know, and he never had any family or anything. …”
The eyebrows rose higher. “Indeed? I had no idea.”
Shit, he was right, wasn’t he? Stupid that she hadn’t thought of it before, but she’d never specifically told Elder Griffin that the man she was “seeing” was from Downside. She had no idea if he’d assumed so or what, but his expression—well, his expression and the fact that he’d just fucking said he didn’t know, duh—told her he hadn’t.
But she didn’t want to lie to him, either. She wasn’t going to lie and she wasn’t going to try to hide Terrible or who he was. She loved him and he was hers, and that made her so proud her chest hurt, and if anybody didn’t like it they could go fuck themselves.
“Yeah, I mean, yes. So he never actually—nobody ever named him. But he used to get into fights a lot, and people started to call him Terrible. So that’s what he’s called.”
Pause. “I see.”
Did he? She scanned his face for signs of disapproval or criticism but found none. A weight she hadn’t realized was there lifted from her chest. No, of course Elder Griffin wouldn’t do that; he wasn’t like that.
He nodded. “I shall look forward to meeting him, indeed. I take it things have gone well, since your … disagreement?”
Her face warmed. “Um, yes. And he’s, he’s looking forward to meeting you, too.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Well, I should get back to trying to work, I suppose, while I am still in this position. Have you heard from the Elder Triumvirate, to schedule your interview?”
“Wednesday.” She hesitated. “I’ve never done an interview like this before. Is there anything specific you want me to say, or …?”
“’Tis nothing to be nervous about. They shall only ask about me and how you feel I handle my position here. Please say whatever you feel is best.”
“Do you know yet where they’re going to send you?”
“I do have some suspicions, indeed, but your interview is part of the process, as they want to determine where I will best fit.”
“Should I tell them you’d be a great warden in the spirit prisons?”
His smile widened. “I confess that is not a position I mentioned as one I should like to fill.”
The light from the window behind him faded as a cloud covered the sun, adding to the unexpected solemnity of his next words. “I find myself growing weary of being reminded so often of the depths to which people will sink, Cesaria. Debunking … ’tis so important, but I would like, perhaps, to work in an area where there is more hope. More proof of the good in humanity, rather than the bad. Does that make sense?”
She nodded, trying to smile, trying to look as optimistic as he did. A place, or a job, where the negative aspects of humanity weren’t readily apparent? Where there was goodness and kindness everywhere?
It sounded great, yeah. Too bad it didn’t exist.
Gordon Samms lived—had lived—at Eighty-eighth and Wood, almost in Cross Town. Still Downside, of course—windows devoid of glass, walls and streets thick with graffiti, litter, and grime made that clear—but close enough that a few of the buildings they drove past appeared almost decent.
More than a few, in fact. Chess noticed a sold sign outside one and fresh paint on a few others.
Terrible nodded when she pointed them out. “Some parts here got new ones movin in, fixin em up. Still cheaper’n Cross Town, dig.”
“Gentrification.”
He glanced around. “Aye. Bump gave me the tell on the other day, gots people askin on a few him places. Them all lookin for cheap.”
“But he’d never sell.”
“Fuck, no. Glad on it, too. Don’t even wanna think on living any elsewhere, aye? Be all bored up.”
“Me, too.”
He smiled at her, the kind of smile that made her breath freeze in her chest for a second because happiness had exploded there and squeezed out everything else. “Aye. Know that one.”
He did, too. She remembered him saying it—sizing her up so neatly—in her bathroom one night, only a couple of days after they’d started investigating at Chester Airport. Some of us needs an edge on things make us feel right, he’d said, and she’d blushed and fidgeted and got all weird and uncomfortable, because it sucked to think someone could figure her out so easily, that someone could understand her so quickly.
But he had. He still did. And despite the tiny prickle of nerves in her stomach—if he could figure that out so fast, if he knew so much about her, sooner or later he’d know all the bad stuff, too, and how could he understand then, how could he stay with her?—it made her feel good.
What didn’t make her feel good was thinking of what he’d just said about not wanting to live anywhere else, and thinking about the sigil, and where they were headed at that very moment. Terrible had touched Gordon Samms and passed out. Dark magics did that to him. And if word got out, if news of that spread … how could he stay in Downside, even if someone didn’t take advantage of that weakness and kill him outright?
What would he do if he had to leave Downside? What would he do if he couldn’t fight anymore—if he couldn’t do the one thing he was proud of being able to do.
And she’d stolen that from him.
Well, she’d just have to fucking fix it, then, wouldn’t she? He pulled up against the curb, taking his hand off her thigh to shift into neutral. “Hey, Chess. Maybe—I been thinkin, maybe I ain’t should go along with you. To that wedding, dig. Might be—”
“What? Why?”
“Just—you don’t need me there, aye? Thinkin they all give you the squint-eyes iffen they see me.”
Her first thought was to wonder where this had come from, why he was bringing it up now, but then, she knew, didn’t she? A look at how regular people lived, a bit of thought about the difference between Downside and the rest of Triumph City, between Downside and Church headquarters, and it was clear enough. Or at least why he was talking about it at that moment; he’d probably been thinking it already. Shit. “I don’t care what they think.”
“You oughta, though. ’Speople you workin with, it matters.”
“No.” Damn it. They were out in public, where she couldn’t touch his face or climb into his lap or whatever else to change his mind. She grabbed his hand instead, low, where no one would see. “What they think doesn’t matter. They don’t have any effect on how I do my job or what cases I get or anything else, and even if they did I don’t care. I want you there with me. I want you to meet Elder Griffin.”
“Have he thinkin you lost yon mind.”
“No, he won’t. And you know what, even if he does, I still don’t care.” She squeezed his hand to make him look at her, so she could look in his eyes. Or where his eyes were, because his sunglasses were on. “I care what I think, and I want you there.”
He hesitated. “Don’t wanna fuck things up for you—”
“You won’t. You’re not.” She clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. It wasn’t that big a deal, really, it was just … just that she finally had a chance to be with him in public, to show everyone that she belonged to someone, that she mattered to someone, and that she was proud of that. Because she was. “I want you to be there.”
“Maybe you—”
“It’s—it’s important to me, okay? Please come with me.”
“Don’t think you need—”
“Terrible. You are coming. And if anybody doesn’t like it they can fuck off. That includes you.”
His lips twitched. “You givin me the orders now, aye?”
“Yes. So cut it out.”
Another pause; she could see him trying to come up with another argument and plastered a don’t-even-fucking-try-it look on her face.
Finally he sighed. “Aye, right, then. But iffen you wanna change yon mind, you just say.”
“I won’t.”
They’d parked near the dull industrial-green façade of Gordon’s building, peeling and dusty in the afternoon sunlight. He opened her door and led the way up the semi-intact sidewalk. Hopefully they’d get some information in there.
Or not. The second she picked the lock and Terrible swung open the door to Gordon’s apartment, she knew they wouldn’t find anything of use—or, to be more exact, they wouldn’t find anything magic-related. No energy beckoned them farther into the room, no dark power set her tattoos on fire.
A good thing, yeah, but not helpful.
Searching through Gordon’s things wasn’t much better. Playing cards were everywhere—scattered over the carpet and furniture, decks tidy on shelves and the kitchen counter. Chess stopped counting them when she hit twenty-three.
More signs of Gordon’s habit showed up in other places. Books on poker and blackjack strategy by the bed, in the bathroom, lying with their spines bent on the floor. Racing forms. Sports pages from four different newspapers. Sports magazines. Poker chips made bright circles all over the dirty brown shag carpeting; torn lottery tickets and betting slips covered them, confetti for a loser’s parade.
“Lots of boxes around,” she commented as they entered the dim, stale-smelling bedroom. Gordon hadn’t been too worried about personal cleanliness; a dark sort of coffin-shaped smudge on the right side of the bed indicated both where he slept and that he didn’t change his sheets much. “Was he moving or something?”
“Ain’t got any on that.” Terrible shifted a few of the boxes so he could get to the closet doors, then stopped. “Hold up. Check this.”
She crossed the dirty carpet to take the paper—no, the photograph—from his hand. Two men sitting at a table covered with beer bottles, their arms around each other, drunken grins plastered across their faces. “What? Who’s that?”
“’sGordon there, aye? An Yellow Pete there.”
Gordon and the man he’d killed. The man he’d been magically directed to kill. “They were friends?”
“Guessing so. Never seen em together what I recall, but ain’t like I seen either much, ceptin when Pete checked in, handed over he lashers an whatany else. Pete weren’t a gambler, neither.”
She started to sit on the bed, then reconsidered. “So somebody didn’t just kill Pete, they made his friend kill him?”
“Aye. Guessing they figure makes it easier, dig? Pete ain’t be scared on Gordon, he sees him comin.”
“Did Pete have reason to be scared of someone?”
He shook his head once, a quick twitch. “Aw, Chess. Always reason to, aye? Ain’t can trust on nobody you see.”
Yeah. She knew that.
He opened the closet doors to reveal the emptiness within. “Guessing—”
“Wait.” Okay, that could be something. That might get them somewhere. Right? “Gordon and Pete knew each other. They were friends.”
“Lookin so, aye.”
“So someone—whoever did this—knew that, right? Because it’s too weird to think they just happened to pick Gordon to kill Pete, and they just happened to be friends. The sorcerer knew.”
The approval in his eyes made her feel warm all over. “So the spell maker, he knew em too, aye? Knew em both.”
“Looks like it, huh.”
He nodded. “Maybe be good talkin to some at the card games. Ain’t guessin he neighbors be much for knowledge on him.”
Terrible’s phone rang. Shit. Lately it seemed like it was never good news, and this time didn’t seem to be an exception. He hung up—slammed the phone shut, would be a better term—and rubbed his forehead. “Gotta go. Gots us another man down.”
“What? Another—Lex, you mean. Another street guy dead.”
He nodded, already pulling his keys out of his pocket and heading for the door. “By the docks, this one. Lemme get you home.”
“Why? Why?”
“Gettin late, baby, ain’t wanting you up there—”
“And taking me home is going to cost you at least another twenty minutes or so. No. I’m going with you.”
“Ain’t safe there, an I don’t—”
“But you’ll be there. There are people there, right? I’ll be fine. Come on, take me with you.”
Another dealer killed by Lex—another man killed by Lex or at Lex’s order. At least so Terrible and Bump thought. But maybe it wasn’t him; maybe someone else was doing it. Maybe if Chess saw it, she could find out.
Maybe she just needed to see it. To see that Lex really had done it, that he really was doing his best to fuck up her life.
Whatever the reason, relief blossomed in her chest when Terrible nodded. “Aye, right, then. Only you do what I say, dig? I say get in the car, you do. Aye?”
“Don’t I always do what you say?” She raised her eyebrows, grinning at the little flash of memory—memories—the words invoked and the accompanying heat in her veins.
“Aye, guessin you do.” His hand brushed her behind when he stepped back to let her in the car, and her temperature kicked up another degree or two. Probably not the most appropriate response right after getting news of a murder, but it wasn’t as if they were detouring to her place for a quickie, so what the hell. A second or two of inappropriate thinking was fine.
They were in the Chevelle and speeding up Eightieth before she thought to ask. “By the docks? I thought Bump didn’t put men up there.”
He shook his head. “Naw, gots a few locals do some selling, only in the day, dig. This ain’t one, though. Greenback, he name. Works—worked—round Fiftieth. Only found by the docks.”
“So what was he doing up there?”
He sighed and nosed the Chevelle around the corner. “Guessin we gonna find out.”
Chapter Six
A crowd of wrong people is still wrong; numbers do not make Right.
—The Book of Truth, Veraxis Article 1549
She’d never been this close to the docks before. Terrible had refused to take her—not that she was desperate to see them or anything.
But it was still … interesting.
She’d seen a neighborhood like it once before, out by the Nightsedge Market on Lex’s side of town, up near the Crematorium. A neighborhood where the few remaining intact buildings almost seemed ashamed of themselves for being so, where crumbling walls and roofless rooms open to the sky were the norm.
And it smelled, the dank rotten scent of the bay mixed with oil and human waste and filth, a horrible fugue that made her wish she had a surgical mask or something to put on. All those germs in the air, bacteria dancing on dust motes and searching for a nice warm body to invade and set up home in.
Terrible noticed her shudder. “Can wait in the car, if you’re wanting.”
“No.” Whatever the reason she wanted—needed—to see the body, she still did.
“Told you were shitty here.”
“Yeah, but—look, the water is kind of pretty.”
He followed her gaze across the pitted cement to the water, which gleamed with the sunset’s reflection between the looming hulks of boats. Under that glow, she knew, lurked filth and muck and death, but the surface … the surface was beautiful. Just as with so many things.
He shrugged and took the few steps that brought him to the small circle of people in the middle of the intersection. They moved aside for him without speaking; Chess wondered if a few of them were able to speak. They looked barely human, like evolutionary throwbacks to the period when tiny dark creatures discovered fire. Masses of dirty hair tangled from the tops of their heads to midway down their backs; what appeared to be burlap sacks covered their bodies, and their feet were bare. Even Chess had never seen anything like it. Downside was poor, yes, but these people weren’t poor, they had nothing. And people who had nothing developed their own world to compensate, and now she’d walked into it.
They knew Terrible, though, backing away from him without looking into his face.
“Who find him?” he asked, and when he stepped to the side Chess saw the body.
Greenback lay on his stomach in a pool of blood on the tar-streaked concrete, his pale face staring at the street beyond. It took Chess a second to realize what had happened, how that was possible; he should have been facedown, but his neck had been cut with so much force it had almost been severed, and his chin rested on the concrete.
Terrible crouched beside the body. Chess tried not to see his boots making dents in the sticky blood puddle. “Who find him?” he asked again.
Someone stepped forward, a dirty, skinny wraith of a woman with long thin scratches on the outsides of her arms and track marks on the insides. “Were me. Seen it, I done. I done seen it.”
Mutters ran through the crowd at this; a few people edged away from her. She didn’t appear to notice. “Were two mens. Jumped outen a car an cut he. Lay he out like so an drive off.”
“What kinda car, you knowing?”
The nest of hair on her head—it had once been blond—shook, like a leafy branch moving with the breeze. “Black one. All I know.”
“You seen the men, them faces or aught you could know iffen you see em again?”
Another shake. “Black car. Black clothes.”
“You touch he? Got him wallet?”
Yet another shake, faster, so fast Chess knew—even if she hadn’t already—that it was a lie.
Terrible glanced at the body, then back at the woman. “Any lashers in it you keep, dig? Drugs, too. Ain’t give a fuck on it. But needing to see he wallet, iffen you got it.”
She didn’t respond.
Terrible stood up slowly. Chess never could figure out how he managed to make himself look even bigger when he wanted to—a particular furrow of his brow, a slight hunch to his shoulders, his arms held just an inch or so farther out from his body—but he did it then, staring at the woman with a calm intensity Chess felt even from a few feet away.
The woman hiked up her dress in the back and produced a leather wallet. Shit, had she been keeping that thing in her underwear?
Yes, she had. Chess hoped to see some sort of thigh holster or garter, but lifting the excuse for a dress showed the woman’s spindly bruise-covered legs, and they were bare.
Terrible wasn’t coming anywhere near touching Chess with those hands again until they’d been washed. Twice. At least.
He didn’t look any happier about where the wallet had been kept, but he opened it anyway. “Got any else? Needing to see all it, dig?”
Greenback had apparently also had a watch, several small bags of pills and powders, an earring, and a few scraps of paper. That was a lot to keep in a pair of underwear; Chess had to hand it to the woman for that.
Terrible set the items on the ground at his feet and kept digging through the wallet.
He glanced at Chess. “No lashers taken, dig, still all in here. Adds up, too, for what bags there is missing.”
“They didn’t steal anything, then.”
“Naw, ain’t lookin like.” He turned to the woman. “You see him before the car come? Were he standin here?”
The woman licked her lips, her gaze flicking from the wallet in Terrible’s hands to the drugs on the ground and back again in constant restless motion. “Were in the car.”
“What? Greenback were?”
“Greenback dead one?”
“Aye.”
She nodded. “Him get outen car. Other two followed. Killed he.”
Terrible’s expression didn’t change, but Chess could imagine what he was thinking. Probably it was the same as what she was thinking, which was: What was Greenback doing in the car? If those were Lex’s men, why was he in the car with them, and why hadn’t they stolen his money and drugs?
“He look like him wantin get out the car, you see?” Terrible pulled a couple of things out of the wallet—papers, she thought—and tucked them in his pocket before handing the wallet back. “Or like them pushed he out?”
“Said I keep the lashers, you did.”
He shrugged. “An you keeping em. Weren’t lashers I took. Papers, an you don’t need em, dig?”
The woman glared at him. He stared back at her, with that same deadly patience.
The woman gave up. “Look like him got pushed. Them follow right on he, cut him throat. Lay him out. Drive on off.”
Terrible nodded, then scooped up the bags at his feet. “Any else seen? Heard aught? Got any knowledge?”
A hand raised at the back, a skinny pole with fingers jutting above the crowd of matted hair. “Mr. Terrible? Gots trouble. Mine friend, gots him trouble.”
“Aye? What’s on?”
The man pushed through the crowd, his bright orange hair—spray-painted, it looked like—glowing as the last rays of sunlight hit it. Seeing it reminded Chess that the sun had almost set, and with that realization came another, an unpleasant one: The crowd around them had grown, and at the end of the street, mist rolled off the bay and started inching toward them.
The man stopped in front of Terrible. Ribs showed through holes in his thin T-shirt like the bones had cut the fabric, and his ashy ankles protruded from the bottom of tight, gaudy striped pants. He wore mismatched flip-flops on his feet. “Mine friend, him taken the speed. Bangin it. Him gone all fluffcutty, ain’t won’t leave him room, screamin them after he, screamin on ghosts in him head.”
“Aye? Maybe him oughten quit the bangin a day or two, get he some sleepin.”
“Nay, ain’t like it. Ain’t like it. Him …” The man glanced around, took a step closer to Terrible. “Him done gone out on the morn, come back with blood on he. All wet blood. Fucked in crazy, him bein. Talkin to he, ain’t like he, ain’t in he eyes. Then him come back, start screamin. Then go all silent on the again.”
Terrible looked at Chess, then at the street. The mist had advanced another quarter block or so; it had almost reached them, and the streets darkened by the second.
The crowd grew closer by the second, too. Chess took a step closer to Terrible—easy, because he was moving closer to her—before realizing the crowd wasn’t looking at her. They were looking at the body on the street, and she did not want to know what they had planned for it.
“Just keep he locked in, dig? He sobers up, he be right then, aye?”
The man shook his head again, his eyes huge in his dark face. “Been like this three days gone. Please comin have you a see. Be the speed, gotta be. Got he a bad batch, thinkin.”
Another glance at her. Another glance at the mist, at the fading glow of the sun dying behind the buildings. “Come back on morrow, dig? I come down see he—”
The scream, so loud and shrill, so full of darkness and horror that it made Chess cringe, cut Terrible off—cut everything off. For a long minute, all there was in the world was that horrible banshee-like shriek, tinged with madness and death and unholy glee.
They all turned—everyone—to see the figure emerge from one of the intact buildings a few doors down and start running toward them.
He was naked. At least from the waist down. A tattered T-shirt stretched across his chest, stained with ever-darkening sweat-rings of gray, like gathering storm clouds. Black shoes covered his feet. The crowd parted; shit, she was looking at a man even Downside dock-dwellers were afraid of.
He stopped screaming. The silence slapped her, made her body sigh in relief for a split second before he started again.
The closer he got, the weirder he was. Before Terrible stepped in front of her she could see the man’s body crisscrossed with scratches and marks, all up and down his skinny legs and arms. Track marks, some of them, but not all of them.
He kept wailing, his voice cutting in and out as it cracked. He stumbled in a pothole and fell; when he stood, blood ran down his knees.
For a second she thought maybe he’d keep running, that he’d be just another freaky-ass thing to see near the docks, but no such luck. He fell again, with an ugly crack. Had he broken a bone? He didn’t seem to be in any particular pain, but she had a distinct feeling that he wasn’t exactly dealing with reality at that moment.
Terrible’s hand closed over her arm; she could feel him wanting to drag her back to the Chevelle and throw her in. No fucking way. She let him stay in front of her though, so she was partially hidden by his broad frame but still able to see. The man remained on his hands and knees on the street, wretched hoarse sobs coming from his throat.
“Please,” he said. “Please, don’ lettem get me. Don’ lettem get me.”
“Be my friend,” the man with the orange hair murmured. “Told you, he fucked in crazy.”
Terrible glanced down the street from where the man had appeared. Chess did, too. Emptiness. No one chasing him. Hell, no one even followed him, at least not that Chess could see.
But he kept turning back, his eyes wide and terrified. “Look. Look, they coming.”
“Ain’t nobody there.”
“I see em.” He tried to stand up. Oh, fuck, he tried to stand, and he’d snapped his leg. When he stood the bone broke the skin, popping out of his shin like a flipped lever. He tumbled back to the pavement.
Terrible’s hand touched hers in warning, and he took a step forward. “Nobody comin. None there.”
“Be the truth, Creaseman,” said the orange-haired man. “Be me here, be DV. You friend DV, aye? Nobody comin, nobody there, you—”
“They see me.” Creaseman kept dragging himself along the street, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His voice shook; it was barely a whisper. “They see me.”
He moved his hand to pull himself farther along and collapsed.
It took Chess a second to realize what was happening. At first she thought maybe he was crying, but then she realized his entire body was shaking and horrible foam started dripping from his open mouth. A seizure.
She jerked forward. Terrible’s hand stopped her. Right. Nothing she could do, really, and who knew what he might do to her if she got near him. No point in trying to help. She knew that.
It still made her feel sick, though, as he kept seizing. It didn’t last long, she didn’t think; thirty seconds, tops. But long enough for the image to embed itself in her brain and join the other horrible things in there. Another member for the club, something else to taunt her in her dreams.
He stopped. Started again. Stopped. His hands stretched over his head. He flipped onto his back.
And died.
Chapter Seven
You must always look beneath the surface. The real solutions are always hidden. So are the real mysteries.
—The Example Is You, the guidebook for Church employees
Without realizing it, she’d been pressing herself against Terrible, fisting his shirt. His arm slid around her and gave her a quick squeeze before releasing her. Right. She ought to let go, needed to let go, because they weren’t alone on the street, and while she wasn’t the only woman grabbing the nearest man—or vice versa—even by the docks it wouldn’t be a good idea to look too comfortable touching him like that.
Terrible took a few cautious steps forward, his knife still ready. Chess grabbed hers, too. Not so much because she thought she’d need it—although it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility—but because she felt safer with it. That man was dead. She knew he was dead. She knew it because she’d seen him die, and she knew it because when she glanced up she saw the bird swooping overhead, limned in the last rays of sun. The psychopomp taking his soul.
“Somethin in him hand.” Without taking his eyes off the man, Terrible waved her forward. He crouched beside the body, reached out—
And fell.
Thankfully he was only a couple of feet away; she’d already been approaching him. Still it seemed to take forever to reach him. She threw herself to her knees, ignoring the pain streaking up her thighs, and clutched at him. He was so fucking heavy. What had he touched, what the hell was—
A little plastic packet was what he’d touched. It lay on the dead man’s palm, still half in it, with Terrible’s fingers barely making contact.
She grabbed his hand, pulled it away from the packet. Pulled his head into her lap. He’d come around fast, he usually did, shit, people were watching and he’d just—he’d be furious. He’d be furious and he’d be humiliated, and the fear already building inside her grew sharper, colder, when she thought what that might mean. How it was her fault, and how her attempts at fixing it thus far had failed. How if she were Terrible she’d be giving up on the idea that she could fix it. Would have already given up, in fact.
His eyes opened. For a second they scanned her face, the sky, the crumbling buildings edging the street, before consciousness snapped back into them. “Fuck.”
“I don’t—”
“Fuck.” He pulled away from her, his gaze still wandering up and down the street. The crowd around them watched. Double fuck.
She didn’t bother to glare at them. Didn’t dare to react at all. The last thing she wanted to do was make him angrier, more upset. Already his neck and jaw flushed darker every second, color creeping up over his face. He could control his expression, could make himself look like a forbidding statue, but he couldn’t stop that. Never had been able to.
A minute passed. Two. He pulled two cigarettes out of his pocket, lit them and handed her one. He cleared his throat. “Guessing whatever he got there ain’t just drugs, aye?”
“Yeah. It looks like it, anyway.”
His chin jerked. “Oughta call some others out here, have em pick it up, pick him up, too. Ain’t wanna be—”
“Why?”
He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised, but didn’t speak.
“Let me at least have a look at it. I know Bump has all those chemicals and stuff that can analyze it or whatever, but—”
“Ain’t want you touchin it.”
“But I won’t—I mean, I’ll put on some gloves, okay, and now we know something’s there, right, so I’m prepared for it.” Damn it. Of all the fucking things to happen.
He didn’t meet her eyes as he nodded.
Well, shit. The least she could do was get it over with quickly so they could get the fuck out of there. She wanted to go home. She wanted him to go home, and she wanted to go with him. She wanted to forget this whole horrible day.
No chance of that. Forgetting wasn’t as easy as it seemed; life had taught her that, if nothing else. But it had also taught her that where there was a will there was a way, and she had a pillbox full of ways in her bag.
She took four of them and slipped on a pair of latex gloves for the second time in as many days. “Okay. Let’s see what he had.”
It was a little packet, exactly like the one in Chess’s bag at that very moment. Not quite an inch square, with a Ziploc top, filled about a third of the way with whitish powder. Just like any one of dozens, hundreds, she’d held or seen or used in her lifetime.
But none of them had ever sent energy roaring up her arm to explode in her chest, so much of it and so thick that there wasn’t enough room for breath. None of them had made a stinging, screaming screen of red wash over her vision, made her head ring so loud she thought for a second she might have gone deaf. No wonder Terrible had collapsed. What the fuck was in that packet?
For a few seconds she struggled with it, forcing it down into something she could handle, pushing against it with all her might, until it finally started to ease up. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Her vision cleared.
Terrible turned to DV. “Where he buy this?”
DV shrugged. “Offen Rickride, same as always, what I got. Buy he three bags, dig, only one’s left there.”
Terrible’s face darkened. Rickride must be Bump’s dealer, then, the one who lived in the area.
She’d ask him about it later. Discussing it on the street probably wasn’t the best idea. Time to focus, so they could get the fuck out of there.
Up close the body before her looked even worse. His skin hadn’t yet taken on the artificial pallor of death, that sort of waxy flatness, but the scratches and marks on his skin already stood out more sharply, looked angrier and more vivid.
Terrible edged closer to her, grabbed her arm. “Getting you outta here. Now.”
“But—”
“Take you some pictures, iffen you need a better look. That body ain’t gonna be here much longer.”
“What?”
He glanced at the growing crowd, at the mist now tickling their legs, gripping his knife tighter as he did. Chess felt his unease; it didn’t show, wasn’t apparent to any of the people standing a few feet away—at least she hoped not—but she knew it was there. Felt it the same way she felt darkness in that fog like angry whispers, and the power created by the edges of the earth by the jointure of three elements. The mist was hungry; it wasn’t magic in itself but it had its own power, as everything did, and that power made the hairs on her neck tingle and shift.
Was it her imagination, or had the crowd gotten a little closer than it was before?
“C’mon.”
He stared at the crowd while she pulled out her camera and snapped four or five pictures. They probably wouldn’t be important at all; just scratches, not runes or sigils or anything like that, but still. She needed them, and, if she was lucky, enough respect remained for Terrible that the crowd of hungry faces watching her wouldn’t decide to try to take the camera from her. Terrible could handle a lot of things, but the crowd looked too big now even for him.
She’d barely lowered the camera when Terrible started hauling her to her feet. She tucked the little plastic packet into her pocket. When she got home she’d toss it straight into the African Blackwood box she kept for magical items of dubious origin.
Assuming she got home. The crowd stepped closer still.
Terrible didn’t look scared, but she knew he was—or, well, not scared but uneasy. And she knew all that unease was for her, as if she’d heard him say it out loud. He wasn’t worried about protecting himself or being attacked, he was worried about it happening to her, and she knew it not only because she knew him but because he took her hand as they started to walk.
“Push yon sleeves up.”
“Wha—oh.” Of course, dumbass. She did it as quickly as she could, hoping the people staring at them with blood in their eyes knew what the tattoos on her arms meant. Hoping they even knew what the Church was, for that matter.
She couldn’t tell if they saw her ink or not, or if they cared. But a woman with long brown dreads who smelled like a sewer stepped out of their way as they neared her.
Terrible didn’t seem to be moving quickly, but he was, and she tried to keep up without appearing to speed herself.
The hardest part was not looking back. They’d passed the edge of the crowd, into the mouth of the street beyond, into the fog. It should have been a relief, being out of the way of them, but it wasn’t. It made her feel even more naked, made her feel as if at any second someone would hit her over the head or she’d fall before she heard the bullet coming. She tightened her grip on Terrible’s hand.
He squeezed back but didn’t look at her until he had her in the Chevelle, with the doors locked. The crowd outside inched closer to the car; Chess couldn’t see the bodies anymore. All she saw was people, those ramshackle dock-dwellers standing in ragged lines, with the mist moving up behind them.
Terrible started the car and put it in gear. “Told you, ain’t a good place to be.”
“No.” She rubbed the back of her head, trying to brush off the stares she imagined she could still feel. “No, I guess not. And I guess we have to go back tomorrow, huh?”
“Aye. Talk to DV again, try to find Rickride see where that speed come from.”
“Great.” One last glance back at the shadowy shapes in the mist. “I can’t wait.”
Half an hour later they trudged up the stairs to her apartment. Neither of them spoke, just as they hadn’t in the car on the way there, every foot they drove a reminder that they’d have to do it in reverse the next day. Every foot a reminder of what they’d left behind. Chess couldn’t stop seeing bone exploding from skin, couldn’t stop seeing foam in the corners of a dying mouth or Terrible’s head sinking when he touched the speed.
There were too many things to say to pick one, so all of them bottlenecked in her throat, forming a horrible lump that writhed and stung and felt like it was trying to break through her skin. She had no idea if Terrible felt the same.
What she did know was that if there was a worse possible time for Lex to show up, she couldn’t imagine what it could be.
Terrible stiffened. She did the same. Oh fuck, please, no, don’t let him be there to try to push Terrible again about working for him; Terrible was pissed off enough already. And probably pissed off at her; it was her fault he kept passing out, after all.
That the alternative was being dead didn’t seem to matter so much. Didn’t matter, to some degree, because she knew that if he couldn’t do his job he’d probably rather be dead.
Lex watched them walk down the hall, his nose wrinkling. “Been having you two a time in the sewers? Look like you done rolled around in a dust pile, you do.”
At least she had some words for him. “This really isn’t a good time, Lex.”
“Aye, tell me on it,” he replied, shifting himself out of the way so she could unlock her door. “Ain’t a good time for nobody, Tulip. Thinking it be just the opposite, dig. Crazy shit going down my side of town.”
She felt what he carried in his pocket before he pulled it out and gave it to her, before she even knew he carried anything at all.
“Where did you get that?”
He folded his arms, gave the ceiling an exasperated glance. “Ain’t you even gimme the invite in? Got some knowledge for you.”
She pushed the door open. The wards on it stung her skin as they reacted to the energy from the powder in her pocket and in her hand.
Terrible shoved past Lex to follow her into her apartment. The first thing she did was grab the African Blackwood box from its spot on the bottom shelf in her living room, toss both packets into it, and slam the lid. The weight of heavy clotted magic lifted from her shoulders. Much, much better.
Too bad she couldn’t put Lex in there, too. For that matter, too bad she couldn’t put the whole fucking day in there.
Terrible crossed to the fridge, gave her a questioning glance. Beer would be good, wouldn’t it, a cold— No. No, because she wanted to get a couple of Oozers down her throat immediately. No fucking way was she going to process what had happened sober. “Water.”
He grabbed a bottle of that and a beer, and walked to the counter at the edge of the kitchen.
“Could use me a beer, too, I could,” Lex said.
Terrible glared at him. “Fridge’s there.”
A long moment passed before Lex shrugged and crossed the floor. The silence was ugly.
Chess spoke a little too loudly in her haste to break it. “So where did that come from, Lex? What is it, where did you get it?”
“Took it offen some jaxers.” He twisted the cap off the beer. “Always got such cheap beer, you do. Why you ain’t buy better?”
“Because I want to piss you off, that’s why. Who did you take it off of? How did you find it?”
He acknowledged her sarcasm with a twist of his lips. “Four of em, dig, having theyselves a wander down the street on the yesterday. Seemed wrong, they did. Too spaced, like them bodies all stringy-loose. An scared as shit, they was, too, all balled together like tryna hide under theyselves, but having them some freaky-ass laughing. Were mighty fucked up, Tulip. Never seen any so bumberjaxed, I ain’t. Never seen powder like that, neither.”
He’d plunked himself down on the couch, right in the center so if either she or Terrible wanted to sit they’d be cozying up next to him.
She sat on the arm with her feet on the cushion, so she could face Terrible, still standing at the kitchen counter. “Do you know what it is?”
“Nay, but this ain’t the first time we got these, dig. Third time, seen two like it in the last week. So brought it here, aye. Figured on you giving me the help.”
“Why?”
He rolled his eyes. “Like you ain’t gonna.”
“No, I mean, why me? What can I do?”
“Thinkin you know what. ’Sall magic and ghost shit, it is.”
Yeah, she knew that. But how the hell did he know that? Lex had about as much magical ability as a plastic cup.
He must have seen the question in her eyes—well, she wasn’t exactly trying to hide it—because he tipped his head in the direction of the Blackwood box. “Take that box off in the dark, dig, an give it an open. Shit’s all glowing, it is. Damn freaky.”
Glowing? Fuck. That didn’t sound good, not at all.
Terrible followed her into the bathroom—the only room in the apartment without windows. It wasn’t light outside, no, but she wanted utter darkness for this.
She set the box on the toilet lid, hit the light switch, and opened it.
First the wave of dark magic rolled over her; she kept some unpleasant shit in that box, not just the packets but some curse items, a few things she’d found and a few she’d bought for security’s sake.
All of which she could see, because Lex had told the truth. The packets glowed. She shot a quick glance at Terrible. “You okay?”
He nodded. “’Sget he outta here, aye?”
That was probably for the best, huh. But first … “That guy, DV, he said his friend bought the speed off what’s-his-name—”
“Rickride.”
“Right. He’s one of yours, right? One of Bump’s?”
He nodded, his face white in the pale blue light from the open box.
“And now I guess one of Lex’s people sold the same bad speed. Do you guys get your stuff from the same—”
“Naw. Not what I got, anyroad. Don’t deal with the same supply.”
“So how is this happening, then? How—”
“Ain’t knowin that one, neither.” He glanced away from the box, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. “Guessin we got us a connection, though, like the speed and them bespelled dudes—Samms an he just now. The same, aye?”
“I guess so, but I don’t know—well, I don’t know how, or why. The speed doesn’t feel so much like that spell Samms had on him, the nut spell.”
“Be the same ones doin it? You got that from it?”
Damn it. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that. “I don’t know for sure. This feels male, like that did, but … there’s something different about it. I don’t know what it is, but something’s different.”
He nodded. “Dude back there ain’t had a nut on he, though. For bein controlled, like Samms.”
“No, he didn’t have much on him, did he?”
The eerie glow cast by the tainted speed illuminated his faint smile, the little tilt of his head. “Naw, that he ain’t.”
She saw his hand rising to touch her face, saw the look in his eye start to change, and tried to stop herself from saying the words already formed in her head, in her mouth. Too late. They popped out anyway. “I’m sorry. About the speed—about what happened when—I should have—”
“Ain’t yon fault.” She didn’t think he meant it, though. His eyes left hers, his shoulders lifted like a pair of scissor blades snapping the moment-that-might-have-been in half.
“It is my fault. And I should have found a— I’ll visit the church. I’ll do some more research and—”
“Aw, shit. Don’t know why you still botherin on it, ain’t gonna find—”
“I will.” She reached up and pressed her palms to the sides of his face, his thick muttonchops dense and rough-soft against her palms. “I will. I promise. I just—”
“Oughta give it the leave-out, Chessie, ain’t can—”
“No, I can. I will.”
He still didn’t look at her. Shit. She inched forward, raised herself on her tiptoes so she could be closer to him—so her face could be closer to his, so she could put everything into her eyes and force him to see it. “I know you don’t really like talking about—I don’t like it, either. But you have to let me try this stuff, okay? I know it’s not fun. I know that one time it made you sick, but it was only the—”
He pulled away. “Aye, right. Right, then.”
He didn’t mean that, either. She knew that “Right, then.” It meant I’ll agree so we can stop talking about this.
Too bad knowing what it meant didn’t give her any way to counter it. She stood there for a minute, a long uncomfortable one, before finally managing, “It’s important, Terrible. I’m sorry. I’m—but I’m not going to let this keep happening. You have to let me fix it. I know I can fix it.”
Finally he nodded. “Aye. Guessin us might as well keep givin it the try.”
The bathroom wasn’t a big room at all, especially not with him in it, but she still had to reach out to grab him and pull him close enough to press her forehead into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry about this. I’ll fix it. I’ll find a way to fix it, I swear. It’s all my—”
Lex’s voice intruded through the closed door, ruining the moment as effectively as—well, as effectively as he ruined so many other things. “You two forgotting on me?”
Shit.
“Tryin to,” Terrible muttered, but he opened the door and walked into the short hall after her.
Lex twisted his upper body on the couch to watch them return. Chess steeled herself for some kind of dirty joke, but he said, “Ain’t good, aye?”
“No.” She set the now-closed box back down on its shelf. “No, not good at all.”
“Ghosty shit, aye?”
“Yeah, but—” Oh, damn, that was fucked up. She sat down beside Lex, barely noticing she was doing it. She hadn’t made the connection in the bathroom, hadn’t really thought about it because their discussion hadn’t gone that way. But now that she did …
“But?”
“It isn’t ghost magic that glows,” she said, still trying to get her head around it. “Ghosts themselves glow. But the reason they glow, what glows about them … How is that even possible?”
“Wanna spit it out, Tulip? Pretend like some of us ain’t witches got the same knowledge as you.”
That at least snapped her out of her daze, just in time for her to catch Terrible’s eyes narrowing at Lex. She wondered what parts of Lex’s body Terrible was removing in his head. Not that she really wanted to know. “Ectoplasm.”
“What?”
“Ectoplasm.” She looked at both of them, Lex on the couch beside her and Terrible standing against her bookshelves glowering at Lex. “Ectoplasm is what glows. It’s what they’re made of— I mean, ghosts are souls but it’s ectoplasm that’s visible. That’s what enables them to solidify, why they can only solidify around things that are already solid, because of the way it reacts to— Never mind. The point is, the only thing that feels like a ghost and glows is ectoplasm.”
They stared at her for a second. Not as if they were waiting for her to go on—both of their expressions told her they knew very well what she was saying—but as if they were having the same problem she was.
Terrible said it first. “Why the fuck anybody snort a ghost?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll—I can’t see it giving some kind of high. I mean, I’ve never heard of somebody getting high off it.”
Thankfully neither of them mentioned that if it were possible to do so, she probably would have done it.
And now she probably should. A heavy gong struck somewhere in her stomach. “I’ll try it.”
Terrible’s brows lowered farther. Oh, here it came. “No fuckin way.”
“No, listen. I’m the only one who can. Lex wouldn’t feel any magic, so he wouldn’t know what the effect was, and you’d—you’d need to be there in case something went wrong, so—”
“Naw, don’t give a fuck, Chessie. Some else gives it the try. Not you.”
“Aye, thinking he got it right, I do, you ain’t should be giving—”
“Shut up, both of you.” Like it wasn’t bad enough having one person worry about her like that, in that tight way that made her feel obligated, as if something was expected from her. No matter how much she loved Terrible, it still grated, and that was only one person. She didn’t need to have two. “How are we going to know why people are doing it if we don’t know— No, that doesn’t make sense.”
Thinking about it made her reach for her pillbox. “Lex, you didn’t feel anything when you touched it. So you would have done it, right? If you’d bought it. You would have chopped a line like normal.”
“Aye, guessing so. Them two days past were shooting it, too.”
“And it feels like magic, too.” She washed three Cepts down with water from her bottle and grabbed a cigarette. “It’s not just ectoplasm, it’s magic.”
“You get high on that?”
“Not that kind of high, no. And especially not magic like that.” Yes, there was a little high in it: the rush of power, the lifting feeling of magic in the pit of her stomach, and the way it could force a smile onto her face like a drag off the pipes. It was a weak high, usually, not one she chased, but still there.
The men waited for her to continue. “It’s dark magic. Someone who can feel it will know that. It feels … well, it feels bad. It feels unhappy and sick. Nobody who could actually feel the energy coming off that shit would snort it, seriously. But if you can’t feel it when you touch it, I don’t think you’d feel it after you did it, you know?”
Terrible nodded. “So you thinkin it ain’t the ectoplasm they tryna get high from, an not the magic neither. Them buyin it ain’t know—’sall hid in there.”
“Right.”
Lex put his empty beer bottle on the rickety table. “Aye, sounding all on the sensibles, but where the hell it coming from, then? Ain’t thinking we got no troubles in our supplies, iffen you dig. Ain’t can say the same on Bump, but guessing Terrible knows.”
“No trouble, not what I got.”
“Guess you guys need to start asking some questions, then,” Chess said.
Lex lit up a cigarette, leaning back on her couch and propping his feet on the table. “Talkin on questions, when you coming on over, Terrible, start working with me?”
“I ain’t.”
Silence. Lex blew smoke slowly into the air. “Really thinking you wanna have you a mind-change on that one, I do. Ain’t tryna pull no shit with you here.”
Terrible didn’t respond; his face didn’t move, not a blink, not a twitch. Any normal man would have been extremely uncomfortable right about then, with that cold blank look aimed right at him.
Lex wasn’t a normal man. Or, he wasn’t abnormal, he was just … normal with a few extra shots of arrogance, like a cocky blended coffee drink. And Chess knew that Lex didn’t believe deep down that Terrible would seriously injure him. Didn’t believe Terrible would kill him.
Because of her. She’d stopped Terrible from continuing to attack Lex after he’d broken his jaw that night, and she guessed in doing so she’d proven to Lex that she wouldn’t let Terrible kill him and—worse—that Terrible would listen to her and let him live.
She couldn’t feel bad about saving Lex’s life, but damn, she didn’t feel good knowing Lex sat there with confidence wrapped around his shoulders like a king’s ermine because of her. “Making the offer causen of Tulip, dig, but making the offer causen I got a need for my own muscle. Getting that one whether it’s you or some else.”
Terrible shook his head. “Guessin you find some else, then.”
“Aye, I dig it.” Lex stood up and took a few steps toward the kitchen, stopping just beyond where Terrible stood so he could face both of them. “Ain’t can say I ain’t gave it the try, though. You remember that one, aye? On the later. Gave it the try, I did.”
He was talking to Terrible—it seemed as if he was, anyway. But as he finished he looked directly at Chess, right into her eyes, and cold spread through her chest because she knew what he meant. What he was really saying to her, to them both.
He was planning to have Terrible killed.
Chapter Eight
Home décor says so much about a person, after all.
—Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies, by Mrs. Increase
“Here.” She held out her hand, waiting for him to put his arm into it. Was her hand shaking? Not surprising. Despite the fact that her high was kicking in, nerves still jittered up and down her spine. They were probably going to find some of that powder at Rickride’s place, and what she was about to try would probably not work.
Admitting she couldn’t fix a problem she’d caused—yeah. Not really the best start to her day.
Seeing the doubt in Terrible’s eyes while she scrawled the new sigil on his skin didn’t help. Even the tingle of magic sliding through her to him didn’t help. The only thing that would help would be if it worked, and she didn’t think the odds were great. Maybe it would, sure, but … maybe not.
“Okay.” She put the chalk back in her bag. “We’ll see what that does.”
He nodded and got out of the car.
Rickride lived on Eighty-seventh, far enough from the docks that the crooked skyline of ships wasn’t visible but close enough that the sour undercurrent of brine and dead fish clung to the air. A fairly typical Downside street, made grubbier by its proximity to the docks; more boarded windows and garbage on the pockmarked sidewalks, more crumbling walls. And a—was that a sold sign attached to a porch six or seven doors down? How old was that? She didn’t get a good look; Terrible was moving too quickly for her to see. Had to have been fairly old, though. Or maybe stolen and stuck up to repair a hole?
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