Chasing Magic

by Stacia Kane

  “You can control ghosts with it.”

  He shrugged. “You got that knowledge better’n me, baby. Got me some knowin on them dark magics an all, but not the ghosts. You Church teaching you all it, aye?”

  She barely heard him. A key that could be used to control ghosts or have power over them. Could the key open the City of Eternity somehow? It shouldn’t be able to, but who the fuck knew for sure what something like that could do, something that wasn’t supposed to exist?

  Or … well, damn, she knew of at least one person out there who liked to mix ectoplasm with other shit and bespell it. Did the key have something to do with that?

  Yep. Of course it fucking did. When she closed her eyes and focused for a second, she could feel the energy, that same miserable energy as from the walnut—at least she was pretty sure that was it. It was definitely familiar.

  So how the hell did the key fit in to that?

  Man, people were shit, with their games and plans and endless quest to hurt and control.

  She held the key horizontal in front of her eyes, seeing if there were any markings on it. “Are … are those initials?”

  “Thought em were, aye. Lookin like ‘R’ an ‘A’ to myself, how bout you?”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right.” Was it an “R” or a “K”? A “P,” maybe? It must have been scratched into the key before the key was painted. Well, duh, of course it was, since the scratches weren’t in the paint itself. If they were, they would have been easier to read. “Where did you find this?”

  “Ain’t were me on the find. Sharp-eye Ben—be a cut-purse, speed-banger too—brung it on me, thinkin maybe I hand over some lashers for it.”

  “Did you?” She was already reaching into the cash pocket in her bag. Yeah, if Sharp-eye Ben was into the speed-needle, she bet he could use as much cash as he could get. The needle was always the end, she knew. The needle meant giving up, not even trying to live the lie anymore. She hoped to fuck she never found herself there.

  “Aye, gave he five. Only to make he happy, dig.”

  She handed him a twenty. At least that was something she could do; Edsel wouldn’t take money from her unless she was actually buying something, but this way she could pay him back and add a bit of a reward, and that let him keep his dignity, too.

  He dipped his head toward her iron sack. “Be included, aye?”

  “That’s at least ten bucks’ worth.”

  “Aye. An ten an five, still fits under.”

  Pride was such a funny thing. People would starve for it; they’d kill to keep it or kill because it had been injured.

  Pride wasn’t something she’d ever had a lot of. Her pride came from things beyond her control. She was proud of her magical abilities, but those had just happened, an accident of birth. She was proud of Terrible, proud to be with him, but that was because he was who he was.

  She’d been proud knowing that Elder Griffin liked her best, considered her the best Debunker he had.… Shit, she needed to get to Bump’s.

  First, she scrawled “Sharp-eye Ben” in her notebook. She could ask Terrible about him. She could ask Bump about him, but Terrible was more likely to know. Bump didn’t give personal attention to many of his customers.

  “Anything on with that bad speed been hearin on? Galena brother gave me the tell last night, had a batch of em outside Trickster’s. An more all over, actin off.”

  More? How many more? “Off how?”

  “Just … like they ain’t got a hearin on when them talked to. Like them got somethin else them hearing. An like what them hearin ain’t good.”

  “And Galena’s brother said it’s affecting a lot of people?”

  “What he say, aye.” Edsel looked past her, nodded to someone passing by. “Livin by the slaughterhouse like him do, guessin him see all sorts.”

  She didn’t doubt that. All of Downside was too close to the newly rebuilt slaughterhouse; when the wind blew right the stench of fear, raw meat, and rancid blood floated across the empty remnants of offices and homes, over broken streets, hanging there like a warning. But the area directly around the death-house always carried that smell; the building marked its territory.

  It wasn’t as bad a neighborhood as the docks, no, but those living around the slaughterhouse generally weren’t the most upwardly mobile people in the world.

  As if she could talk. As if anyone in Downside could talk, but especially her, now that her superior at work knew she was a selfish criminal, that she’d betrayed him and the Church and everyone else.

  She chatted with Edsel for another minute or two, but her head was already at Bump’s place, in that awful red nightmare of a living room, cutting lines on the table, making herself feel like a person and not something slithering in the mud.

  She made that a reality a few minutes later. One of Bump’s interchangeable blondes answered the door in response to her knock; this one wore a black leather dominatrix outfit complete with thigh-high boots, and had hot-pink eye shadow up to her eyebrows. She looked like some sort of kinky child experimenting with makeup.

  “What you wanting?” she asked finally, after giving Chess a good long up-and-down look.

  Chess pushed past her. “I need to talk to Bump. He in the living room?”

  No reply. Chess glanced back; the girl stood there gaping at her. Well, whatever. Brains had never been high on Bump’s list of desirable attributes in women, at least not that Chess had seen.

  Bump’s place never changed, and never failed to make her eyes dilate in shock when she entered it. Clashing reds screamed at her from the walls, reds and Bump’s collection of “art,” which consisted either of paintings or photographs of weapons or paintings or photographs of female genitalia. Or both. Walking down the hall was like walking through said genitalia, emerging into a crimson womb that made her claustrophobic.

  He’d added some new porn and some gold-painted crown moldings. Like a bordello decorated by a blind man.

  Bump wasn’t blind, though. He sat on the red couch, his bare feet on the glass top of the low red steel coffee table, his gold toe ring catching the light from the gold-and-crystal chandelier. His gold-tipped cane rested against the arm of the couch. In his be-ringed hand was a financial magazine.

  It would have surprised her if she hadn’t already known him. Or hell, if she hadn’t known how things worked. Bump hadn’t gotten to be lord of the streets west of Forty-third by being stupid.

  “Ladybird,” he said. His gaze drifted past her. “Terrible ain’t come on with you?”

  She shook her head. Shit. She’d been so focused on getting there, she hadn’t thought of how to ask for it. Bump wasn’t a street dealer; she couldn’t just walk up and ask. She wanted him to give her some of his personal supply, too, and that was tricky.

  So she said, “I wondered if you had any news about that bad speed. Did you get it analyzed or whatever, and find out how much of it is speed and how much is ectoplasm?”

  He closed the magazine and tilted his head, not speaking for a long moment. “Why come you ain’t fuckin bring Terrible on the alongs?”

  “I came from work, that’s all. I was in the Market and thought I’d come by and ask about it.” All at once she realized she was still standing, and felt stupid for it. The urge to lay down a cloth or something on the couch before she sat on it never went away, but she ignored it—as she had all of the other times—and plunked herself down.

  “Got you a special fuckin interest, then, yay?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I can go if you want.”

  If he made her leave, she’d just ask. That’s what she should do, anyway. So why didn’t she? Because of Terrible. Because for some reason she didn’t want to tell Bump that Terrible made her promise not to cop anywhere else.

  Bump waved a lazy hand. “You got you fuckin here now, yay, might as well havin yourself a stay. I give you some fuckin knowledge, you give me some. How’s that for dealins?”

  “I don’t know much, really. How are t
hose people from last night, the people from outside Trickster’s?”

  “Them fuckers hangin on, yay. Bad shape, you dig me, specially the fuckin dame. An what her deserves, playin fuckin dealer onna streets here.”

  “So you know she was dealing?” All those packets the woman had—yeah, they’d suspected, but it was good to have confirmation. Would be good to have it, at least.

  “Hear on it. One a them fuckin dudes gave the tell, gots another, a fuckin onlooker, yay, saw her onna corner.”

  “She didn’t work for you, then.”

  He gave her a disgusted look, his thin reddish brows gathering together over his eyes. “The fuck you thinkin on, workin for Bump? No fuckin way her gettin the work from me, sellin that spooked-up shit her all bagged with.”

  She ignored the insulting tone. As usual. “You found out what else it was cut with? Was it cut with anything but ectoplasm?”

  “Nay, Ladybird, pure fuckin snow mix in the spook juice. Some fuckin dollars behind it, you dig, causen the fuckin pure ain’t so cheap. Like mine.”

  There was her opening. “Oh, right. Can I get some of that? I’m running low.”

  He watched her for a second too long; she kept her eyes wide, innocent—as innocent as she could be in that position—as if there was nothing unusual at all in her request.

  Which there kind of wasn’t, because he usually gave her some when she was there, but that was because she was giving him information instead of getting it.

  And Terrible was usually there. In fact … had she ever been alone in a room with Bump? No. Weird.

  He stood up, the faint curl of his lip letting her know exactly what he thought of her request. She ignored it, instead examining the cover of the magazine he’d been reading: some smug rich asshole leering at her over a headline about real estate moguls.

  He pulled out the little black-lacquered wood box and set it down on the table before her. When he passed her on his way back to his seat she caught a nose-itching waft of whatever shitty cologne he was wearing. “Have you a fuckin time, there, ain’t worry on where Bump get his after you fuckin do it all up.”

  As if she would.

  As if she even cared what he said. The box had barely hit the table before she reached for it, her thumb catching the clasp and opening it up. There had to be at least three or four grams in there, all packed into one bag. Fuck yes. She scooped some out onto the mirror set in the box, chopped herself a nice solid line. “So you think she was working for Lex? Trying to grab some territory?”

  She’d just thrown the question out there to make it seem as if she was still invested in the conversation, so his answer surprised her enough that she almost dropped the short gold straw. “Ain’t thinkin Lex use the fuckin dames do he street deals, yay. Him ain’t can keeping he nose out the fuckin panties, dig.”

  He shrugged; as with everything Bump did, it took a long time, was dramatic, and made it seem as if he had ball bearings instead of joints. “Had me the fuckin thought back on the when we get you out there, fuckin hook you up with he, maybe fuckin get us some knowledge. Only you fuckin took on up with Terrible steadaways.”

  He sounded disappointed. But then he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, rocking his head back and forth in an either-or sort of movement. “Lessin maybe you wanna fuckin change-up, have a go? Bettin Terrible ain’t fuckin mind, be for the positive on we all, yay?”

  Just when she’d started to think maybe somewhere under the sleazy exterior lurked a real human being, he pulled some shit like that.

  And the idea that Terrible wouldn’t mind if she headed on over to the other side of Downside to get into bed with Lex? Yeah. So wrong she didn’t even know how to describe it.

  So she didn’t. Instead, she bent over and sucked up that line, let the delicious numbness spread from her nostril to her sinuses and the back of her throat to her brain, let her heart give a cheerful jump and start beating faster, pumping light and happiness through her veins. Shit, she’d needed that so bad.

  “So she wasn’t working for Lex.”

  “Bettin he gots he some fuckin knowledge on it, though. Ain’t buyin the fuckin thought he all fuckin innocent or whatany shit, yay. Scum all the way through, him fuckin is.”

  That wasn’t right—well, she didn’t agree with the bit about Lex being scum all the way through—but she wasn’t going to argue that with Bump. No, the part about him knowing what was happening wasn’t right. Couldn’t be, because Blue had called about more deaths, and Lex had brought the shit over for her to— Right. Blue, who didn’t know the business, and Lex, who was trying to kill the most important—the only important—person in her life.

  Lex would totally bring it over to throw her off. Lex would totally pull any kind of sneaky shit to get one over on Bump, and especially to get one over on Terrible.

  She didn’t want to believe it. But she’d learned very young that the thing that sounded the worst was probably the way things would end up being; she’d learned that the thing she didn’t want to believe was always the one she should, because it would come true.

  Speaking of worst things … Bump spoke again. “You got him hired he fuckin self a man kill Terrible, yay? Been fuckin told on it, dig, dude came out fuckin nowheres. Devil, he fuckin name, dig, only ain’t even fuckin named in English. Devil in them fuckin language, yay, what the meaning is.”

  He snorted. “Thinkin he make Terrible dead. Fuckin dumb.”

  Devil. That was his name. She couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that she at least had a name to give him; probably worse, really, because now he wasn’t just a phantom, a shadow in the night. He was an actual person.

  Terrible could beat him. She knew he could. But … shit. Time for another line, because she didn’t even want to consider letting her thoughts go down that road. Maybe Terrible couldn’t die with the sigil on him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be injured. Maimed. Put into a coma for life. Severely brain damaged.

  No. No more of that, no more of those thoughts. Her hands shook as she chopped out another line, a thicker one, and sucked it up. That was better. And while she was at it …

  She pulled one of her own gram-sized plastic-bag packets from her pillbox and tried to keep her voice steady. “Hey, you don’t mind if I take some of this, right?”

  Bump’s lips went very thin. He didn’t answer. If she hadn’t been so high she might have felt guilty, but as it was, nothing could make her feel guilty. She was awesome, the world was awesome, it sparkled and shone and revolved around her, and none of the bad stuff lurking in her memories had ever happened. That had been a dream. This was reality.

  Besides, fuck Bump. He’d wanted to prostitute her out to Lex as if she was property to trade.

  Whatever. She didn’t want to think about that, either. What she did want to do was knock back three more Cepts, close her eyes, and give herself thirty seconds—or a full minute—of feeling good. Feeling like other people felt. Feeling clean and right.

  When she opened her eyes, Terrible was standing in front of her.

  “Hey, hi!” was all she could think of to say, as her smile widened and her heart gave another leap.

  His hand found the back of her neck, rested there for a second while he bent down to kiss her forehead, and shifted position when he sat down next to her.

  She wrapped her arm around his, rested her head against him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Waited for you, your place.”

  She lifted her head to look him in the eyes. “You— Why didn’t you call or something?”

  “Thought you was meetin with that Elder. Got bored of doin the wait, figured on comin here see iffen we got any new knowledge on them last night.”

  Right. Elder Griffin. Thankfully the speed kept the memory from crashing into her too hard; thankfully it helped her remember that one good thing had come from that meeting—aside from the realization that Terrible was dying, that every time he touched dark magic he died. She swallowed. “I did meet
with him. And we have some stuff to talk about later, okay?”

  He nodded, then turned back to Bump. “So what we got?”

  Bump gave him a quick rundown of the conversation so far—at least that’s what she assumed; her mind drifted a little bit, watching Terrible’s face outlined sharp against the shrieking walls—ending with the idea that Lex knew something and their curiosity over where the girl had come from.

  He did not, she noticed, suggest to Terrible that she climb into Lex’s bed to learn some secrets.

  “Got knowledge that last one, leastaways.” The couch cushion moved beneath Chess as Terrible shifted his weight, reaching into the left back pocket of his jeans and producing what looked like a wallet. It was a wallet, a pink one. Chess fought the urge to giggle.

  At least until she remembered that horrible key in her bag and pulled it out.

  Bump looked from one of them to the other. “What we fuckin got here, you playin a fuckin show-an-tell? I ought should go get me somethin for holding up, an join the fuck in?”

  “No, this—”

  “Naw, taken—”

  They both stopped. When his eyes met hers, she saw amusement in them and let her own show through, too. She pressed her lips together and nodded for him to continue.

  “Aye, well. Taken this off she. Weren’t me taken it, but Clincher Tink got it when they get em all in that house on the last night. She ain’t livin down here at all, dig. Northside.”

  He produced a driver’s license in the name of Marietta Blake. The girl they’d seen the night before.

  “Why come her fuckin down here dealin, got all them ghosted-up speed on she, then?”

  Terrible shrugged. “Maybe we give her the ask, she come on around. Maybe Chess head on to her address, see what knowledge she get?”

  She met his questioning glance and nodded. No one needed to say the obvious: A Northside family or whatever would be a lot more inclined to give her some solid information than they would if Terrible showed up at their door. Or, well, maybe not more inclined, but they wouldn’t run to call the Squad.

  At that particular moment, though, using her authority as a Church employee—misrepresenting her reason for asking questions—appealed to her about as much as de-fleshing her own body did. “Let’s try talking to her first. Did they find a walnut on her?”