Chasing Magic

by Stacia Kane

  Movement behind them; some of Bump’s men picking up the unconscious bodies and putting them in the rusty bed of a pickup splotched with Bondo. They watched Chess and Terrible, obviously waiting to take the girl if necessary, waiting to be told what to do next.

  Good. The sobs were starting to grate on her, aural sandpaper scraping at the filth inside her.

  “I’m going to look for them, okay?”

  Was that a nod? She thought it was a nod. She hoped it was a nod, because either way she was going to find those drugs. It occurred to her that she was stealing drugs off someone too high to notice what she was doing; sure, it was because she was helping, but still. It didn’t make her feel good.

  Nor did the girl’s reaction when Chess slipped her hand into the girl’s jeans pocket. She screamed and lashed out, her hand bent like a claw aiming at Chess’s face.

  Chess started to duck, her own arm rising instinctively, but Terrible was faster. The girl’s hand fell just short of its target; the girl’s torso fell back onto Terrible’s left arm. He’d knocked her out.

  Well, what else was he supposed to do, she guessed. She shot him a quick glance of thanks and started checking pockets.

  Mother lode. Four packets hid in the girl’s front pocket, and when Chess held her hand a few inches over the girl’s legs she felt more. Ten in each of her socks. No way was this girl just a user. Who the hell could even afford that much at one time? Even crap speed was twenty a gram; Chess only paid twenty for the good stuff, but she got it wholesale, as it were. This girl was—had been—walking around with at least five hundred bucks’ worth of speed on her.

  Hell, not even Chess could do that much in such a short time that she’d need to carry it with her.

  Of course, the girl might not have a home, but … No. She didn’t look particularly dirty—not under all the blood, at least—and she didn’t smell. Her clothes were clean, too, and didn’t appear worn out; not secondhand, at least not that Chess could see. She didn’t know much about fashion, but she’d sure as fuck seen and worn a lot of thrift-store and free charity clothing in her life.

  Terrible gave her one last glance, then said something to the men standing there, Chess didn’t hear exactly what. The crowd had begun to dissipate, bored now that the spectacle was over. Music broke over their heads as the sound system started back up inside Trickster’s.

  Two of the men picked up the girl and carried her to the truck; Chess picked up all of the packets, grabbed the three from her bag. Twenty-four full grams, not counting the tiny bits left in the men’s bags. All that speed—could she despell it somehow, or …?

  No. And even if she could, she couldn’t remove the ectoplasm. Damn. That sucked. But not as much as doing a line of it probably did.

  She kept holding as many packets as she could while she peeled off the glove, so they ended up caught inside it like a latex bag, and stuffed the others in after. Not great; she could still feel them. But not as much, and when she tied the glove shut at the open end it lessened a bit more.

  Light flared across the pavement; Terrible’s lighter snapped shut and he held a cigarette out to her. He hadn’t lit it for her—not in public—but she still appreciated it.

  He glanced at the bar, which was rapidly filling back up. “Get a beer?”

  Well, they could talk just as easily in there, couldn’t they?

  Looked like everyone else had had the same idea. Trickster’s might have been empty while everyone watched the show, but when Chess and Terrible walked through the door, it was crowded and hot like the inside of a sauna in the spirit prisons; red gels over the black lights furthered the impression.

  And of course there were the people, shouting at one another over Blitz’s “Someone’s Gonna Die Tonight,” lurching around the floor or slouching against the walls in a stupor. Something inside her relaxed. It might be pitiful, it might be gross, but it was where she belonged.

  Of course, what that said about her … yeah.

  Terrible got them both beers—Trickster’s didn’t serve anything else, which kind of sucked because she was thirsty—and led her to a table near the back. Three people sat around it on cracked leather chairs tiger-striped with gouges and scratches in the dark wood. They glanced up when Terrible reached them.

  He waited.

  He didn’t wait long. They gave him kind of dirty looks—at least it seemed like that to her—but didn’t argue. Of course they didn’t. And there was that wrong but undeniable pride again, followed inevitably by the knowledge that she didn’t deserve any of it. That was followed by the expression on Elder Griffin’s face, and she needed to forget it all as soon as possible.

  Bleh. She sat down next to Terrible, wishing she could touch him. Instead she played with the label on her beer, which was already peeling as condensation built up on the bottle.

  He lit her smoke and leaned closer. Not too close, but close enough that he didn’t have to shout. “She ain’t work for Bump. Not what I know, leastaways.”

  “I don’t think she works for Lex, either. She wasn’t marked.” She lifted her left hand and showed him the back of it to illustrate her words. Slobag’s—oops, Lex’s, since his father, Slobag, was dead—men were all marked, a Chinese character inked onto the backs of their left hands.

  “Them ain’t all inked, always.”

  “True, yeah, but … if she worked for him, why would she be over here?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’ll ask him, if you want. I just still can’t see Lex involved in this. But … if she wasn’t working for Bump or Lex, who’s she working for?”

  He smiled, holding her gaze for a second longer than he normally did in public. Warmth started to spread slowly through her veins. “Aye. Wonderin that one myself.”

  “Where did they take them?”

  “One of Bump’s houses. Let em sleep it off, dig, see iffen we get some knowledge from em on the morrow. Be good we do, aye. Ain’t likin this shit.”

  “Me either.”

  Under the table his hand reached over to touch her thigh. Just the faintest, fastest touch; nothing anyone would see or notice. Nothing that looked deliberate. But she felt it, and it spread through her entire body anyway.

  “Gimme a favor, aye?”

  “Sure, what?”

  His eyes met hers again, but this time he didn’t smile. This time something serious rested in them, something that looked a lot like the kind of concern that set her teeth on edge. “Know you don’t buy offen the street much, but … don’t buy off nobody, aye? Off any else.”

  Wow. She had not expected that. “I don’t buy off the street, no, I—Lex brings me most—”

  “Aye.” He averted his eyes from her, scanning the crowd. Was he wondering if someone was out there planning to kill him, too? “Don’t— Let me bring it you, dig. Don’t want chances.”

  No. Fuck. She didn’t want that; she’d never wanted that. Never wanted any connection between the two things she needed. She’d done that before, and unfortunately, no matter what the intent was, sleeping with someone who brought her drugs looked and felt too much like sleeping with someone for drugs. “No, you don’t have to—”

  “Know I ain’t. Gonna, though.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head, slowly but emphatically. “Ain’t chatterin on this one.”

  “I can feel whatever it is they’ve done to that speed, you know, the ectoplasm and the magic, so—”

  “Aye. But some out there spreadin bad shit could put all kinds in it, dig. Not just magic. Could be any else in there, an iffen we got our ones handin it out too … No chances on it, Chess. Mean it. From me, or straight offen Bump. Aye?”

  Shit. He did have a point there. She nodded.

  His shoulders relaxed; she hadn’t realized he’d been tensing them. “Right, then. Got any thoughts who them is doin it? Ain’t see no touch-back between that dame and him yesterday down the docks, or Samms or Rickride neither. Just random.”

  “No. I
wish I did, but no.”

  “Got any thoughts on who? From the energy, meaning.”

  She thought about it for a second, taking a slow, contemplative sip of her beer. “I’m not sure if it’s the same caster for the speed and the walnuts, but it’s similar. Both men. And—” She stopped.

  “Aye? And what?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I thought there was something else about it, but it slipped out of my head before I could pin it down. You know what I mean?”

  “On the feeling? Aye. Maybe got to do with feelin like you Church? Or like with them hookers afore, the sex magic.”

  It shouldn’t have—it was totally wrong—but just hearing the word “sex” come out of his mouth sent a little thrill up her spine. “No. It definitely wasn’t sex magic.”

  His lips curved the faintest bit, so subtle she doubted anyone else would be able to see it. “Aye? You certain? Maybe you ain’t recognize it, is all, needs you a reminder.”

  Damn, it was so hard pretending she didn’t really care about him, pretending she didn’t feel as if someone had poured her out of a jug to puddle all over everything, so turned on she could hardly breathe.

  Part of her was absolutely sure it didn’t matter, anyway. Even the drunkest Downside alley rat would see the smile fighting to spread across her face, the way her skin flushed.

  “Why we ain’t go on home,” he went on. He still didn’t look at her, but heat radiated off his body to caress her skin; she imagined if she touched him he’d jump. She knew she’d jump if he touched her. “Thinkin maybe there’s more to chatter on that one.”

  Her nod felt jerky, too eager, but she couldn’t help it. Her muscles didn’t seem to be entirely under her control. “Maybe you’re right. I think—I think I need some help with that.”

  “Been thinkin on givin you the help all night, Chessiebomb. Every minute.”

  Her mouth was too dry to speak. She swallowed the rest of her beer in one hasty gulp and stood up.

  She folded her arms over her chest to keep from reaching for him as they pushed themselves through the crowd. At least, he pushed through the crowd. She followed in his wake, her heart jumping up and down in her chest like a puppy begging to be fed.

  Well, some part of her body was begging, anyway.

  Past a few more stumblers clutching empty bottles and out the door. The stretch of road under the streetlamp was blank, like a hole full of light. The crowd had blocked it, so Terrible had parked partway on the sidewalk, farther down past the edge of the building to the left, almost into the strangled-looking lawn used as a combination parking lot, bathroom, campsite, and dump.

  Music followed them, quieter now because the bar’s door had closed but still in the air around them. The faint breeze smelled of rain, whispering across Chess’s oversensitive skin to make her shudder, and Terrible stopped short.

  Chess knocked into his shoulder. “What?”

  He didn’t reply for a long moment, then shook his head. “Nothin. Come on, let’s us get you in the car.”

  She started to move, but he muscled himself half in front of her, nudging her closer to the street itself and farther from the bar’s wall. That— He didn’t usually do that. That seemed kind of weird.

  He slowed down for a second when they hit the alley on the side of the building, leaning forward and glancing to his left. A spark of fear ignited in her chest.

  “Is—”

  “Naw, no worryin,” he replied, but something in his tone made her eyebrows quirk. That sounded too casual, didn’t it?

  She knew he’d be cautious with the Chevelle where it was—he usually parked under the light for a reason, not because he thought it looked cool—but she hadn’t expected him to be uneasy. He didn’t look uneasy, but she felt it, knew it was there.

  His hand hit her arm, a quick tap telling her to start walking again. Faster. His keys jingled in his left hand as he lifted it to the car door.

  She started to cross around him to get in once he’d opened it, but before she could he pivoted, shoving her back with his left elbow so her hip slammed against the Chevelle’s front quarter panel.

  She managed to bite back a cry of surprise and pain, instinctively ducking farther down, trying to get out of the way as she heard him gasp, heard footsteps. A shadow crossed over her face, fast, moving with the whispering hiss of fabric rubbing against itself.

  Three seconds? Five? She didn’t know. What she knew was that Terrible grabbed her and hauled her off the ground, practically throwing her into the car.

  “Lock it.” He slammed the door behind her and was gone, chasing the shadow into the alley next to Trickster’s.

  She looked at the door, looked around. A smattering of people stood on the street, brushy Mohawks and tattooed bald heads catching the light, but no one paid attention to her.

  She got out of the car and headed up the alley.

  Weeds scratched at her legs. She didn’t think they drew blood but didn’t care enough to check. Couldn’t stop to check, because Terrible’s back had disappeared into the darkness, been swallowed by it.

  She kept going, fighting the uneven ground in her cherry-red peep-toe platforms—damn it—even though she knew it was useless. They were gone by the time she reached the dingy empty space behind the bar, its incompetent fence still vibrating in the back corner around a torn-out hole.

  She paused to grab her knife from her bag and headed for that hole. Too late for her to do anything, yes; it had been too late the second she opened the car door and Terrible was already gone. But she wasn’t going to just stand there waiting, either. Who the hell knew what was happening?

  Not far off, an engine roared. The street screamed in protest as a car took off; she picked her way across the empty cement lot of the abandoned building behind the bar, holding the knife at the ready and straining her eyes at the space around her.

  It wasn’t that it was so dark, really. She could see the cracked pavement, the fence posts gleaming dully and the various rubbish strewn around.

  The problem was what she couldn’t see. The abandoned building in whose back lot she stood was full of blank windows; shadows shifted and moved in the small spaces, in the little corners and areas overhung with broken roofs. Anything could be in those places. Anyone could be.

  Movement at the corner. She pulled her knife hand back, waiting.

  It was Terrible. Walking slow, rage transmitting itself in his every move, the set of his shoulders. She took an involuntary step back. Fuck.

  What should she say? What could she say, really. Obviously he hadn’t caught their attacker. Or rather, their would-be attacker, since he hadn’t stuck around long enough to actually attack. What the hell had been the point of that, anyway? To jump out and run away? Had he—she assumed their attacker was a he, she thought the figure she’d seen, that moving shadow, was big and solid—planned to attack them but run away when Terrible saw him and started to fight?

  Somehow she didn’t think that was the time to ask Terrible about it.

  He caught her eye, shook his head. “Had he a fuckin car on the wait.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Ain’t matter. Weren’t theirs, guessing. Somethin they took for this one. Told you to gimme the wait.”

  He’d reached her at that point. His fingers brushed her arm as he passed, urging her to follow, which she did again.

  She wasn’t going to comment on the waiting-in-the-car thing. “You want to go back inside? Get another beer or something?”

  “Naw, let’s just get us gone. Back mine, aye?”

  She hesitated. “We wanted to check those spells together—”

  “Can wait on that one.”

  It wasn’t until he’d put her in his car, sat down himself, that she noticed his right leg and his shirt down that side were wet, clinging to his skin. Her fingers hovered over the fabric for a second, not wanting to touch it, not wanting to be sure.

  Stupid. She already knew. But like
an ass she reached out anyway, gritting her teeth, and felt absolutely no surprise at all when the fingertips she lifted off his thigh were red.

  “I don’t get it,” she said again, peeling open his bowling shirt as he sat on the toilet lid. Her voice wanted to crack when she saw the T-shirt beneath, dark with blood already drying at the edges. “What was the point? Jump out, stab, and run away? Why do that?”

  He shrugged the shirt off without answering and let it drop to the cold white tile floor, then started to pull up the hem of the T-shirt; the muscle under his right eye twitched at the movement.

  “Here.” She helped him, her mind whirring. “That’s what he did, right?”

  He didn’t nod, really, just gave her a sort of quick chin-tip that let her know she was right. Anger still filled the austere bathroom and made her shiver.

  “But so why—” Oh.

  Lex. Lex had to be behind this; Lex had threatened to have Terrible killed, and she’d—well, not at that moment outside Trickster’s, her mind had been on other things—been expecting something. But not … not this.

  It didn’t seem like a very effective attempt on someone’s life, did it, to pop out of the shadows, slice a knife across their ribs a few times, and then run away. The wounds weren’t even that serious; the scratches were deep but not fatal. Not a very good assassin, then. Or maybe—oh, shit.

  Her eyes met his; his changed when they saw the knowledge in hers. “Aye. Were givin me the hello. So I got it him out there.”

  “That was only the first time.”

  “Figured on it comin soon. Ain’t thought for sure be this night, but had the knowledge be seein him soon.”

  Cold spread through her body. Where was her bag, where were her pills? The ones she’d taken at the wedding, almost four hours ago—shit, it felt like it had been weeks—might as well have been vitamins for all the effect she was getting from them, and the realizations piggybacking over one another to fill her head made her stomach churn.

  He knew it was coming. He’d been expecting it. They’d gotten the drop on him, and nobody got the drop on him, except … “It was me, right? Because I was there. You had to get me out of the way, and that gave him his opening. You had to get me into the car, and that gave him time to get away.”