by Stacia Kane
“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.”
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 t
o 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.”
