by Stacia Kane
So her bag had to come first. She started to duck around Eliza only to be caught by her fist on the backswing. Fuck, ow! Spots exploded before her eyes. Just what she needed: compromised vision.
Terrible managed to escape from Vincent. She saw him scan the floor for another weapon, but she didn’t see much of use and apparently neither did he. At least not much, because he bent down—taking a hit on the shoulder from Vincent’s statue-clutching hand—and yanked loose one of Vincent’s bones. Ugh. Not that she could blame him, but still ugh. He went for Eliza’s hand with it, a few good solid blows before Eliza jerked away and the Christmas tree slammed over Terrible’s back.
Vincent had dropped the statue and picked up the fucking Christmas tree. Ornaments jangled and shattered, lights blinked on and off, as he swung it like a baseball bat again and again. Terrible swatted at it with the bone. Pine needles and pieces of colored glass flew everywhere.
Chess ran from the room and into the hall. Her bag, where would her bag be? It wasn’t in the living room, and it hadn’t been in the bedroom or the yard—at least she didn’t think it had been, it was so foggy she couldn’t know for sure. If Eliza had dragged her and Terrible in through the front door, maybe she’d left it in there?
The kitchen looked even worse than it had, full of murky shadows and, probably, bold-in-the-dark rats waiting to jump out of them and onto Chess’s head. Well, let them jump, she guessed, despite the way her skin crawled at the thought of it. She waded forward, knocking over stacks of papers and empty food containers. A pile of clothing fell into her path. Her bag, where was her bag? She forced herself to open cabinets and stick her hand into the darkness beyond. Her hand touched dusty things, too-soft things, things that squished against her fingers and made her gorge rise in her throat.
But no bag.
Back into the hall, peering into the rooms. Nothing. Fuck, fuck, Terrible was alone in there with two ghosts and he needed her and she couldn’t help him without her bag, and she had to find it. Had the bitch really left it outside?
Fine. Out the front door, down the porch steps, to stumble around in the fog looking for a bag practically the same color as the ground at her feet. No flashlight, no lighter, not even a match to help her see; just the intermittent glow from the living room window and the sound of “Close to You” to orient her, and the pounding of her heart worse by the second and the fear rising in her chest.
Her foot hit something. Something that gave with a clunking rustle, and she knew it was her bag. Thank fuck, she’d found it. It had been opened, and her skin crawled at the thought of Eliza’s bony hands rummaging around in her belongings, but at least she’d found it. Even better, a quick shuffle told her everything was in there; two seconds to find the pouch that held graveyard dirt and dip her fist into it, and she was ready. Or not quite ready, because she really needed her pills, but she couldn’t let Terrible stay in there a second longer than she had to. Dirt first, then pills.
The scene that confronted her through the window was like something from the world’s sickest educational holiday re-enactment. Terrible stood in the corner, fighting off Vincent and the Christmas tree with Vincent’s bone, while Eliza threw framed pictures and Yuletide bric-a-brac at Terrible’s head. Blood ran down the side of his face; his shirt was torn. And “Close to You” still played, making the whole thing even more bizarre.
First thing Chess was going to do when the ghosts were locked down was break that fucking record.
Which she did. Despite the way her body screamed for her pills, when she ran through the window and threw the dirt, her power flew along with it in a clean arc, and her voice rang clear. “Dallirium espirantia!”
It wasn’t as strong as it would have been if she’d been feeling better, but it worked. Vincent and Eliza froze in place. The Christmas tree thudded to the floor. Terrible climbed around and dragged it out of the way as she salted a circle around them, moving as fast as she could to get it done before they became mobile again. She could feel their furious gazes on her back as she worked.
“With blood I seal the circle.” Her knife slid through the pad of her left pinkie. Blood welled from the cut to drip onto the salt. The circle snapped shut. Done. Her breath escaped in a rush; she dug in her bag for her pillbox and grabbed three Cepts. Pills, then rest for a minute, and then she’d banish them herself. It was too cold to sit waiting for the Squad. And if she was honest with herself, well, the Squad would send Vincent and Eliza straight to the spirit prisons, wouldn’t they? Chess could do the same—she had melidia in her bag—but…
Despite what Eliza had done to her, to Terrible, she just couldn’t quite bring herself to condemn her to an eternity of torture for it. Eliza’s words from earlier echoed in her head again, about it being just the two of them, no children, no one else. Eliza had spent the last twenty-five years alone waiting for him to come back, trying to bring him back. Suffering. It was a little too close for comfort, really, and Chess knew all too well about committing crimes in order to be with the person she loved—the person she needed. Was Eliza’s crime really worse than her own?
Maybe she was just going soft from withdrawals.
She’d just finished crunching the pills into a bitter mess and washing it down when the sound of scratching vinyl interrupted the Carpenters, and silence fell. Beautiful, wonderful silence. Terrible handed her a lit cigarette.
“Damn,” he said, looking around the room at the dark remains of the Christmas tree, at the destroyed ornaments, at the tattered wall hangings and smashed picture frames. “Christmas always such a fucked-up holiday?”
She smiled. “I’m pretty sure it was just this one.”
“Know how to make it all better, though.” His arms slipped around her waist. “Seem to me you still got some owes with me, if you dig. Supposed to be a prize I’m getting.”
She glanced at the ghosts, pacing the circle and glaring at her with furious intensity. She looked at the room. She thought about what Eliza had wanted and why she’d summoned her husband’s ghost, and how they’d be together in the City of Eternity forever. And how she and Terrible would be, too.
Then she looked up at his face, blood dried down his cheek but still smiling at her. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I do.”
THE END
This was originally supposed to be the capper (so to speak) of this anthology and a Christmas present for all of you last year. But, me being me, I didn’t manage to get anything together in time. So I published this in segments on my blog, which turned out to be a lot of fun (so much so that I may do another like it at some point). What I failed to mention at the time was, this wasn’t actually completely finished when I started posting it, so some of it was a literal first draft when it appeared on my blog.
Because of that, you may notice that this one has changed a bit from its original publication (although if you asked for the complete ebook file, the changes were in there, too, I believe). I went through and did a little editing and expanding, just a sentence or two here and there to hopefully clarify it and clean it up.
Ever since UNHOLY MAGIC I’d wanted to do something more with the “ghost of a murder victim” idea, since I didn’t really get to use it then. This gave me a chance to do that, and to make the ghost an actual clue, which pleased me. I was also quite pleased to expand on the sort of impression Terrible had made on Chess’s co-workers, and on the fact that the injuries she picks up doing her off-the-books work for Bump don’t go entirely unnoticed.
Your responses to this story really made my holiday last year, and I’m still so grateful to each and every one of you.
1.
ELDER GRIFFIN PULLED A SLIM, pale blue folder from his drawer and set it on the edge of the desk. “This came in four days ago.”
Chess guessed that meant he was giving it to her. She reached for it carefully, waiting for him to stop her. She almost wished he would stop her. Wished he would say something, do something, so she could challenge him on it. If she could just mak
e him talk to her…
What difference would it make? If she got him talking he’d just tell her things she didn’t want to hear, and there was no point in that. She knew what he’d say: That he was disappointed in her, that he no longer trusted her, that the only reason she still had a job was because to report what she’d done would be to implicate himself—and to sentence her to death in the bargain.
Every time he spoke she heard that, anyway. It was clear in the impersonal tone of his voice. It was obvious from the way he didn’t look her in the eyes and the falseness of the smiles he gave her only when other people were around.
And it hurt. Fuck, it hurt, just as much as it had the day three weeks before when she’d confessed everything and lost him forever.
She picked up the file and skimmed the first page, the form filled out by the homeowners themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Mike and Sue Randall, of Cross Town. No actual ghost seen yet, but they had—they said they had—several of the markers that indicated one was trying to materialize. Cold spots. Objects being moved. Sounds like chains being rattled or someone crying in another room. Smears of ectoplasm on the walls.
The Randalls reported a few other, more unusual things too, things that didn’t bode well. Scratch marks in paint, broken glass and mirrors, locked doors opened and left open. None of that encouraged, just like the admittedly unconfirmed idea that Elder Griffin had deliberately given her a shit case that wouldn’t earn her a bonus didn’t encourage.
But all of those things could be faked, too. Most of them were things the average person didn’t know about or think of, but that didn’t mean the Randalls weren’t just creative with their fake haunting. She’d find out, anyway.
She looked up at Elder Griffin, who had his attention turned to the silent TV mounted on the wall. It was just moving pictures, people mouthing words he couldn’t hear or understand, and he apparently thought it was still more worth paying attention to than she was. “Okay. I guess I’ll get started, then.”
A curt nod. Then, as she tucked the file into her bag and started to stand, he said, “Cesaria.”
“Yeah? I mean, yes, sir?”
Six months ago—one month ago—he would have smiled at that. Now his blue eyes remained impassive, his face blank. “How is Terrible?”
A split second where she thought he was talking to her, maybe starting to think of forgiving her, before she realized what he meant. He didn’t mean “How was Terrible” as in, “How’s that man of yours doing, why don’t we all get together?” or “Why don’t we start talking about things again?” He meant “Has Terrible been passing out in the presence of dark magic or possessed by any ghosts lately?” But of course, he couldn’t outright say that because of where they were, and he wasn’t about to seek her out elsewhere or call her to ask, so he had to be oblique.
“He’s fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
That was Truth, when it came to Terrible. Everything was fine. Better than fine. Despite sitting in Elder Griffin’s office in the middle of one of the awkward, stilted, and cold discussions she hated getting used to having with him, thinking of Terrible made the weight in her chest lighten. Not as much as it would when she managed to get a couple of Cepts down her throat, but almost.
Elder Griffin’s fair hair caught the light as he dipped his head. Even then he wouldn’t give her his eyes for a second. “Good. Let us hope that continues to be the case.”
Well, that sounded optimistic. But she couldn’t exactly argue with it, could she? And she wasn’t about to call him on it. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. He was, essentially, her boss. No, he couldn’t turn her in for her crime—the illegal sigil she’d carved on Terrible’s chest to save his life after he’d been shot, binding his soul to his body, making him more vulnerable to possession—because to do so would be to condemn himself as well. But he could get her fired, or demoted. He could assign her a bunch of shit cases like the one in her bag, and then report to the Elder Triumvirate and the Grand Elder that she was no longer effective in her job.
The thought made her sick. “Thanks,” she said, although she had no idea what she was saying it for, and stood up. “I’ll just, I guess I’ll get started.”
☠
FILING CABINETS STRETCHED ALONG THE entire back wall of the library, filing cabinets full of history and horror and lies. Every address the Church of Real Truth had ever investigated had a file in there, and the Debunkers even remembered to update them most of the time. Well, over half the time.
The Randalls lived at 24751 Harrel Street, in Cross Town. The south end of Cross Town, not too far out of Downside. Not wealthy people, then. Money troubles were likely. If they were close to Downside it was possible they’d have some resentment against the Church, too, which meant this would probably not be a fun initial visit. Well, more not-fun than usual, because they weren’t exactly a laugh riot anyway.
No file on the Randall house. Okay. That was good news, because places where a haunting had been previously confirmed were more vulnerable in future. While she was there she went ahead and checked the other addresses on the street. All clean.
The computer didn’t give her much that wasn’t already in the file Elder Griffin had given her. Mr. Randall was a short-order cook at a Pancake Hut. Mrs. Randall had a spotty employment history but had been a secretary at a printing company for the last five months. Not a lot of financial security in that household, then, which meant they had reason to fake a haunting. The smallest settlement Chess had ever heard of for a confirmed haunting was thirty-five thousand dollars, and thirty-five k could go a long way.
At least, it could go a long way for people who didn’t spend big chunks of their income on drugs. People not her, in other words.
“Chessie! There you are.” A grinning Dana Wright—one of the other Debunkers—was heading for her at a purposeful clip, an eager grin on her face. Speaking of people who didn’t spend big chunks of their income on drugs. Dana’s jewelry caught the overhead lights as she walked; her clothes were so obviously expensive that even Chess could see it, and her freshly colored and styled hair made Chess think of the fact that her own black-dyed hair had reddish-blond roots showing and her Bettie Page bangs needed a trim.
“Elder Griffin said you might be here,” Dana continued once she’d arrived at the table. “I was wondering what you’re doing tonight?”
Chess cast about for something to say. Anything at all. Unfortunately, she had nothing. Terrible was working on something with Bump that had kept him out every evening that week, which meant he had a lot to catch up on that night so probably wouldn’t be home until late. Which meant she’d either be home by herself, or— “I have a new case, so…”
“The Randalls, right? In Cross Town? Elder Griffin said he gave it to you.”
Chess focused on making her smile and nod look natural, on not showing how much the question stabbed. Elder Griffin was telling Dana about her case? He’d barely tolerated Dana before; well, “barely tolerated” was a little harsh, maybe, but she hadn’t been his favorite Debunker or anything.
That had been Chess. Not anymore.
“My parents’ maid knows the Randalls,” Dana said. “So I might have some information that could help you. I thought, maybe you can come over, and we’ll have something to eat and I can tell you about it. Say, seven o’clock?”
Well, that made her feel a little better. It explained why Dana knew about the case, at least, and since it was way, way against policy to assign Debunkers cases where they knew any of the people involved, it explained why neither Dana or Doyle had been given it. Since Doyle and Dana were—much to Chess’s surprise—still together.
She thought for a second. Depending on how her initial visit went, she might be heading for the Randall house to do some middle-of-the-night investigating while they were asleep, but she wouldn’t be doing it at seven. She’d been kind of looking forward to having the apartment to herself for a few hours, but that wasn’t that important. And how long co
uld Dana keep her?
Besides, the more information she got, the faster she could get the case finished and move on to a better one. So she nodded again and forced a smile. “Sure. That sounds great, thanks.”
☠
MRS. RANDALL STARTED CRYING THE second Chess arrived, and ten minutes later she was still sniffling and sobbing. All that misery, on top of the meeting with Elder Griffin and the evening she was going to have to spend with Dana and the sinking, stronger-by-the-second certainty that she was not going to be getting a bonus on this case and, of course, all the other shit that lived in her head… Thank fuck she’d downed a couple of pills right after she left the Church, because if she hadn’t had a few Cepts in her system she would have been clawing the walls to get out of there.
Not that she blamed Mrs. Randall. She didn’t, at all. Everyone joked about how they wished they could have a ghost in their house so they could get a settlement, but nobody actually wanted it to happen, for real. An entity that could walk through walls and wield weapons, whose only desire was to kill as many living things as it could, and which was uninjurable, unkillable, and didn’t feel pain? Not the best houseguest, even if millions of them hadn’t risen from the grave and slaughtered most of the world’s population twenty-three years—almost twenty-four, now—before. Most people were terrified at the idea that a ghost could be trying to set up camp in their homes.
So no, she didn’t blame Mrs. Randall. She just didn’t feel up to dealing with tears, and luckily she had her Cepts so she didn’t have to. She could close herself off to the misery emanating from Mrs. Randall, and focus on work.
She pulled her Church-issued Spectrometer from her bag and switched it on. It came to life with a shrill beep, which didn’t bode well for her bank account; she ignored the sound. Best to pretend that was totally normal. No matter how sinking that feeling in her gut was, this could still be a scam, and her job was still to prove that it was. “Maybe you could show me the rest of the house now?”
