by Stacia Kane
“Don’t matter, Chess, ain’t like—”
“It matters.” Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Of course. Lex knew Terrible. Lex knew exactly what Terrible would and wouldn’t do, and what he would and wouldn’t do when she was there. Knew that the only time Terrible was vulnerable was when he was with her.
The bathroom around her started to spin. Where the fuck was her fucking bag?
She slumped on the edge of the tub and grabbed it with hands that didn’t want to work. Too damn bad, she’d make them. That conversation could not continue until she’d gotten her pills. She couldn’t even let herself think about it anymore until she’d gotten her pills.
Terrible kept undressing while she gave four Cepts a nasty, bitter crunch between her teeth and washed them down with a grimace. Her eyes closed. Only a minute now. Just having that taste in her mouth made her feel better, just knowing they’d start working in a few minutes made her feel lighter, easier.
It didn’t change the fact that this was all her fucking fault, of course, but then what would?
“Oh, hey.” Duh. She offered the box up. “Do you want one, does it hurt?”
He shook his head. Right.
He kept a first-aid kit under his sink, as she did; it was open on the floor, and she dug around in it to give herself something else to look at. Not that she didn’t want to see his bare chest, of course she did, but having to see those wounds and knowing they existed because she’d been there, knowing that had he not needed to protect her, he either wouldn’t have been injured or would have caught the motherfucker … that really wasn’t something she wanted to do.
But she had to. So she closed her eyes for another second, sighed, and stood up, setting the kit on the edge of the sink.
His breath hissed when she dabbed a warm, wet cloth over the cuts. She looked up. “Sorry.”
Another nonreaction, a shrug of his eyebrows while everything else stayed still.
It only took a few minutes to wipe away the drying blood and pat the scratches dry. Four of them, thin horizontal slices across the bottom of his rib cage. Not deep, but not shallow either. Not shallow enough to make her breath come easier. “Maybe we should go to the—”
“No.”
“These could probably use stitch—”
“No.” His glare left no room for further argument, and honestly she didn’t want to argue anyway.
Okay, then. No stitches. In the kit were some of those butterfly-bandage things. They’d have to do. Should they go on before the— No, that was dumb, the ointment went on first, then the bandages. What the fuck was wrong with her? She’d done this shit for herself dozens of times—Debunkers got injured fairly often, crawling around in attics and reaching into crevices and whatever else—and she’d never had this much trouble, never found her hands shaking as she smeared antibacterial goo over her wounds.
But then, she’d never done it with the expectation that there would be more. She’d never done it knowing it was because someone had been hired to cause the wounds.
And shit, she just didn’t fucking care that much about herself. But this wasn’t her, this was Terrible, and someone was out there with cash riding on his death, someone who knew what they were doing.
So her hands shook, and even as the first swirls of tingly relief started in her stomach she knew they weren’t going to stop.
“Can see right down yon dress, Chessiebomb.”
Her gasp of laughter echoed in the room. More relief. Relief and something else, too, because all that furious energy in the room was changing in a very familiar way, one she’d half expected. She wasn’t the only one who looked for ways to distract herself from things she didn’t want to think about. “Oh?”
“Aye.”
That tone in his voice didn’t help calm her down. Nor did the fact that as she smeared the wound with ointment his hand rested on her hip.
She ignored it. Ignored it while she closed the scratches as best as she could, while she placed a clean gauze pad over them, and while his hand moved, sliding under her skirt to skim the back of her thigh.
When his fingertips slipped under the edge of her panties, she spoke. “Stop it. I need to get this taped on.”
“Thinkin it’s on there all right up. Whyn’t you come with me, we finish cleanin up later.”
“No, I’m almost— You shouldn’t be moving around a lot, anyway.”
“You do all the work, then, aye? C’mon. Look, you got me all fixed up.” The dress’s bodice loosened around her ribs; he’d pulled the zipper down, and his fingers found the hooks of her strapless bra.
“Just let me take these shoes off.”
The bra opened. He stood up, a smile she knew very well crossing his face, and grabbed her hips to start urging her out of the room. “Naw, naw, leave em on.”
His mouth broke her laugh, broke her feeble attempts to protest. Feeble because she didn’t want to protest, especially not when his hands spread heat over her bare back, down over her bottom and thighs.
There was still stuff to talk about. He knew it; she knew it. But as her dress fell to the floor she stopped protesting, took his face in her hands and let him walk her out of the bathroom and across the wide cement floor of his apartment to the big gray bed. Those subjects weren’t going away because they got distracted for half an hour or so. And even if she hadn’t needed him she would have needed him, because those images of what could have happened refused to leave her alone and somewhere inside her, down where all of the other filth hid, she knew just how possible it was for them to become reality.
What she would do if that happened she couldn’t even imagine; of all the thoughts and fears she locked away, that was the one she didn’t think she could handle.
So she didn’t. Instead she fell back on the bed shoes and all, and let him make her forget.
* * *
She was still trying to forget those things the next morning, as she trudged across the Church grounds to Elder Griffin’s house. Unfortunately, when she did manage to push those thoughts away, they were immediately replaced by thoughts of the woman and the three men from the night before, whom she was going to see when she left the Church grounds.
Or of course, by fears of what Elder Griffin was going to say to her and what she would say back, and those weren’t pleasant, either, though not quite as worrisome. He at least wasn’t trying to kill her, or Terrible, or anyone else. He was probably just going to offer an opinion, and would hopefully—would most likely—listen to her response and not rescind her permission to live off-grounds.
She’d taken four Cepts in her car, done a little bump for luck. Probably wouldn’t work, but at least it all meant she felt okay instead of terrified and sick, so that was something, anyway.
A black bird-shaped wind chime tinkled at her as she opened the iron porch door and crossed the few feet to the house itself. Flat stacks of cardboard sat outside the door and under the wooden swing seat, empty boxes broken down and waiting to be dumped or recycled or whatever else would be done with them. The wedding had only been the night before, so Elder Griffin and Keith couldn’t have been sleeping there before that, but they’d been moving things in for a few days.
The door opened almost before she finished knocking. Keith, with a broad smile on his face and his feet bare beneath faded jeans and a blue-striped shirt. “Cesaria! Great to see you again, come on in.”
They shared a slightly awkward cheek-kiss and he stepped aside, gesturing with his arm at the open hallway: pale-wood floors and pale-brown walls, the baseboards and moldings painted a bright teal blue. Sunlight poured in through wide-open windows, the white curtains shifting and twisting in the summer-scented breeze.
Summer and magic. They’d done a house dedication that morning, she figured from the lingering fragrance of coal smoke and incense.
Elder Griffin stood off to her right, surrounded by a living room full of modular furniture and bright art prints. Her gaze swept it all as she curtsied and exchang
ed greetings. Funny, she’d never been in his house before, but it was exactly what she would have imagined.
What she hadn’t imagined was the sight of him dressed similarly to Keith, in jeans and a button-down shirt. For a moment she stared; it was almost as bizarre as seeing him naked. Well, maybe not that bizarre, but weird nonetheless.
So weird it took her a minute to realize Keith had spoken. “Sorry, what?”
“Just apologizing for the mess. We’re still trying to get organized. You know, moving.”
“Sure.”
“But next time you come we’ll be all set. And maybe you’ll bring Terrible? We could have dinner.”
“Sure,” she said again. Discomfort wound itself around her, squeezing hard. Why would he be inviting Terrible if Elder Griffin didn’t like him? What was she there to discuss? “That’d be great.”
“Please sit down.” Elder Griffin gestured toward a dark-brown armchair, which faced a matching sofa over a long slim coffee table. “Thank you for coming.”
She nodded, sinking into the chair with her bag in her lap. It didn’t need to be in her lap, no, but the weight comforted her for some odd reason; holding it gave her something to do with her hands.
“Coffee? Tea, soda? Wine? We have plenty of everything.” Keith stood in the open archway of the room.
“No, thanks.”
Elder Griffin and Keith exchanged glances. Keith clapped his hands together. “Well, okay, then. I have some errands to run, so I’m going to go. I’ll be back in a couple of hours or so.”
What the hell was going on?
Saying goodbye to Keith didn’t provide any answers. Nor did watching Elder Griffin get up and close every window on the bottom floor of the house. That discomfort wasn’t just squeezing her anymore; it was choking her, making it harder and harder to breathe, and she was trapped in that cushy chair watching the space around her shrink and grow more silent with every slam of frame into sill.
Finally, Elder Griffin sat down on the couch across from her, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. “Cesaria.”
“Yes?”
“Cesaria, I hardly know … I …” He shook his head. “I have been trying all morning to decide how best to begin this discussion, and I fear I am no closer to an answer than I was when I awoke.”
How was she supposed to reply to that?
He sighed, reached for the wineglass on the coffee table. Did he usually drink during the day, or was he trying to get himself drunk to have this conversation?
What the fuck was going on?
“Let me say this first. I have closed all of the windows. We are the only people in this house. I tell you this because I want you to understand that this is a private conversation. You may speak freely. I hope you will speak freely, as I am about to do.”
He seemed to expect an answer to that, so she gave him one. “Of course, sir.”
“I do not believe it will be a surprise to you—I hope it will not—if I tell you I have always felt … I have always been very fond of you, my dear. I have always felt I perhaps understood you better than the others, and you—well, I cannot speak for you. But I don’t believe I am incorrect to say that you and I have … a good relationship. A closer relationship than others.”
“Of course, sir,” she said again. “I mean, yes. I, I feel that way, too.” The strap of her bag was the same dull olive-green color as the bag itself, military green; she watched it as she twisted it around her fingers then untwisted it, twisted and untwisted, pulling it tight so her fingers turned bluish-red at the tips. The same color she imagined her face was. It was everything she could do not to get up and run.
“I say this not to make you uncomfortable,” he said after a few seconds, “but to make certain you know it before we continue. I care very much for you, Cesaria. And I want to help you.”
Fuck. Time to brace for the storm. “I’m fine. I mean, I don’t know what you’re worried about, but—”
“Oh, dear. No. I fear I’ve said this all wrong. Your young man. Terrible.”
“No, he’s, I know what you’re thinking. I know he might look—but really, Elder Griffin, you don’t have to worry about me. He would never hurt me, never, and—”
“Oh no.” Elder Griffin shook his head. His eyes when they met hers were so full of sadness that she felt it like a hand around her throat. “No. I do not suspect for a moment that he would. That was clear to me. My fear is not for you. It is for him.”
Her hands fell still. “What?”
“My dear …” He leaned forward farther. “What did you do to him?”
Holy fuck.
The world stopped; for a moment she thought her heart was going to follow suit. What had she done? He was going to want an explanation and she couldn’t give him one, how was she supposed to give him one?
I don’t know what you mean was on the tip of her tongue; deny. Deny, deny, deny, deny everything. She even began to say it, her mouth opening to form the words, but when she met his eyes again she couldn’t.
He knew. He’d shaken Terrible’s hand and he’d felt something—those sidelong glances at the wedding, the surprise on his face when his skin touched Terrible’s, made sense now—and if she lied she’d only make it worse.
But how the hell was she supposed to even start to explain? Much less admit to him what she’d done.
She’d killed a psychopomp. She could be executed for that. And there she sat in front of an Elder. An Elder who, no matter how fond of her he might be, had both the authority and the obligation under Church law to report her crime.
Would he believe sex magic? Or maybe that she’d done something, some sort of ritual to make Terrible stronger? Something like that? She couldn’t say that she’d let him come into intimate contact with her blood in an unlicensed marriage; he’d know it was a lie, because her own energy hadn’t changed. What could she tell him, what could she say, what the hell was she going to do?
She’d have to leave the Church. She’d have to go immediately, she’d have to run, assuming Elder Griffin let her leave his house after she confessed. She’d go straight to Terrible’s place and stay there, and he’d help her figure out what to do.
Leave the Church … leave her home. Her palms felt sticky and hot. Her entire body felt sticky and hot, the space behind her eyes tingling and aching.
“Please tell me. He felt … I felt your magic in him.”
Still she said nothing. That was that, then. Time to do what she’d hoped she would never have to do, time to act on the choice she’d already made in her heart—the choice she’d made the second she pulled Terrible’s gun from his waistband that night to shoot the hawk coming for his soul.
“It will stay between us. I ask you to trust me. Let me help you. Let me help him.”
“Why?” It came out in such a dry sort of whisper, she wasn’t even sure at first that it was audible.
He shook his head, a sad kind of shake like a man hearing news of a tragedy in another part of the world. “Because I care. Let me help you because I want to.”
Her cheeks itched; when she raised her hand to rub them she realized they were wet. Great. Crying. It would have pissed her off if she’d been able to feel anything but fear, anything but pain, so strong it pushed right through her high and refused to let her escape.
Elder Griffin sighed. “Cesaria … I know what soul-binding magic feels like.”
A fresh packet of tissues sat in a pocket of her bag; she pulled one out, wiped at her eyes. Not that it mattered. The tears weren’t stopping, weren’t slowing. It was too late to stop them.
And it was too late to lie, or to hide. It was the end. The end, and she could at least face it with some dignity, and with Truth. “You remember the night, that night when I got shot? When Kemp shot me, you remember.”
Elder Griffin nodded. And kept nodding while she told the story, each word scraping at her throat as it came out, making it hurt even more. The ghost whores, the house, the psychopomp birds she�
��d managed to bring under her control. Kemp, naked, his skin covered with magical tattoos, coming out from the darkness with a loaded gun and shooting. All of that, Elder Griffin basically knew.
What he didn’t know …
When she got to the part about killing the psychopomp, he gasped. His face paled, almost as if he still wore the white Church makeup designed to make the Elders look like spirits, to emphasize their dominion over them.
Might as well finish the story. She didn’t think she could stop at that point, anyway, not when the images kept coming, not when she saw Terrible on the pavement with his eyes closed and his blood spreading in a dark pool around him, as if it was all happening again.
Her voice shook, a low dry rasp cracking the still air between them. “I used my knife. The sigil, the one they used to use, the one you told me about. Not the changes Oliver Fletcher made, just the original one, the Church one. I carved it into his chest and I activated it. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let him die, I couldn’t stand it, and, and I can’t even say I’m sorry because I am sorry but I’d do it again. I need him. I can’t … I need him.”
He sat without moving, without speaking, for a long time. Chess didn’t say anything, either; what more was there to say? She’d confessed. They said it was good for the soul, but hers was so covered in shit she didn’t think anything would make a difference, and she sure as fuck didn’t feel any better for having told him.
What she felt was sick, and scared, and what she felt most was the desire to go home, to climb into bed with Terrible and lie there while he kept her safe. Or to visit the pipe room, to claim a section of sofa and smoke Dream until the world faded away, became a not-very-interesting TV show with the volume turned way down.
“I see,” he said finally. “I see.”
Another pause.
“Have there been any … effects from this? Has anything changed about him?”
“No. He’s … well, no, not his personality or anything. But dark magic—if he gets near it, touches something made with it, he passes out.”
