by Stacia Kane
Shit, until a few months before—well, nine months or so before—she could easily have been one of them, living her solitary life in her small apartment and never speaking to anyone unless she was scoring.
She needed air; the room had started to rock around her, sliding back and forth, and her face felt hot and sticky. “I’ll be right back.”
Not that it helped much. Night had fallen but it was so hot outside still; it was like stepping out of a sauna into—well, into another sauna. The heat made her feel weak and itchy, made her think of all those people crowded together on the baked, foot-searing concrete, all those people closing their blinds during the day or tacking blankets over their windows to keep out the blazing sun, vain attempts to make it a little cooler inside … all those people invisible to passersby. The insides of all those houses, silent rooms no one could see.
How many of them still felt the heat?
What the hell was going on?
She slipped a few more pills into her mouth while she stood there watching the street, hoping to calm herself down and settle her stomach. Was it her paranoid imagination or were there a lot fewer people out than usual?
Not that she would know, though. This wasn’t her neighborhood. For all she knew, empty streets were the norm. But still.
Terrible walked onto the small crumbling stoop after a couple of minutes. “You right, Chess?”
“It’s just so hot in there,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe that was why she’d gone outside but knowing he’d let it go, at least for now.
Which he did, thankfully. He lit a smoke, offered her one. She shook her head. “So, I was thinking. What Zimmer said. Maybe you should—”
“Aye, had the same thought. Find out iffen anybody seen people disappearin, noticed people not bein around.” He shook his head. “Ain’t even thought them might be goin after … people, dig? Just anybody them stumbles across. Ain’t can figure on why, neither. Why kill them got nothing to do with Bump or me or any else?”
“Cutting off Bump’s income?”
He considered it. “Naw. Not iffen them wanting move in, make themselves money here. Who buys off them, iffen nobody alive to do it? An them bein killed ain’t customers, neither.”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Aye, well, guessin it do to them.” He shifted his weight, folded his arms. “Oughta get us outta here, aye? Got more coming in a few, pick up the bodies. Maybe you wanna get home now, dig, you don’t need to watch.”
“What about Zimmer?”
“Tell him go on home, too, once them get here. He can wait out front ’til then.”
“Think he’ll be okay?”
“Aye, won’t be long some comes on to meet him. No worryin on it. C’mon.”
They didn’t speak again until they were in the car, heading toward his place— No, probably toward Bump’s place, she figured, to tell him what their new twisted theory was. Now, there was something to look forward to.
Terrible’s hand touched her thigh, rested there warm and heavy. “You right, baby? What’s troublin?”
“Something doesn’t make sense,” she said, trying to figure out how to word it. Shit, she was tired. What a long-ass day it had been. Maybe a few Nips would help; she grabbed a couple from her pillbox and downed them. “I mean, none of it makes sense. But this Razor guy, he wants to take over Downside? Aside from killing innocent people … why do it like that?”
“The magic, meaning?”
She nodded.
“Aye. Had the wonder on that myself. Guessin he figures he turn em all into slaves or whatany it is he doin, they turn on Bump, Bump’s men. Fucked-up way of doin it, though.”
“Right. Couldn’t— I mean, I don’t know, but wouldn’t moving in and selling regular drugs work just as well, if he’s importing people from other cities to work for him? Why not take over that way?”
Terrible parked in the small private lot behind his building. They sat in silence for a minute or two in the closed car before he spoke. “Maybe takin over the business here ain’t all him wanting, aye? Got he some other plans for he slaves.”
She didn’t want to nod. Nodding would be agreeing, and agreeing would be opening her mind to all kinds of conjectures, the kind that woke her up in the middle of the night with cold sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead and her heart pounding. The kind that made her reach for her pillbox so fast she hardly knew what she was doing.
The kind that were almost as bad as her memories, because she didn’t have to imagine the kind of shit that sick power-mad psychos did to the small and defenseless. She already knew.
But she did nod, because yeah, there was a very good chance that their new friend Razor had more in mind than just taking over Downside’s criminal industries.
Triumph City was Church headquarters. The nation’s capital. Building a secret unkillable army in Downside, only half an hour or so from the Church grounds, from the City of Eternity … Holy shit. If that’s what Razor had in mind, they were all pretty fucked; if that’s what Razor had in mind, she needed to find proof of that immediately so she could take it to the Elders and—
Yeah. And hope they’d listen, because she’d lost her advocate with the Elders, hadn’t she? A week before, she could have walked in with a bugnuts theory like that and he would have listened to her, would have made the others listen. Now …
They might still listen thanks to her track record, but it would take a fuck of a lot longer and require a fuck of a lot more proof, as well as requiring some seriously imaginative explanations for how she’d found out about it. Before, Elder Griffin wouldn’t have asked, would have assumed she’d come by the knowledge honorably.
She’d really made the fuckup that kept on fucking up, hadn’t she?
“Maybe got he a gang like that, too, aye? Thinkin them all witches, not just him?”
“Maybe, yeah. Well, probably.”
He smiled, that slow smile she loved. And even then, when she was fighting to keep herself from crying, fighting to keep her mind from having a fucking picnic with the creepy and awful possibilities implied by the phrase “a gang of necromantic witches taking over Triumph City,” she still loved it.
“Ain’t ever a bore, leastaways, aye?”
She smiled back, happy to smile at him, happy the speed was starting to hit. “No, I guess not.”
“Chess! Shit, fuck, Chessie—Chess!”
What? What the hell, why was he— What was going on? Where was she? What was that— Terrible’s face was only inches from hers, his eyes frantic and wide. Behind him she caught a glimpse of ceiling, a— What was in her nose, why was there something in her nose? She’d been in the car, where was— Fuck, what—
A wave of thick greasy nausea overtook her; without even being fully aware of it, without quite knowing what was happening, she rolled onto her side and threw up. Everywhere. On the tile floor, on her hands … Where the hell was she, what had happened?
She was in Terrible’s bathroom, she realized after a second. And shit, she had no memory at all of how she’d gotten there.
Which meant whatever had happened was not good.
“I’m sorry,” she managed—“choked out” would be a better phrase—as he wiped off her hands and face for her. “I didn’t mean to make a mess, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Ain’t give a fuck on that.” He grabbed more toilet paper and wiped around her nose, around whatever the hell was hanging out of it. She wanted to ask. Something in his reddened eyes, something in the growing sense of certainty creeping up her spine, told her not to. “Gonna be sick again? Wantin try getting into bed?”
“I don’t—” Well, no, she did have an answer, which was that she was not done being sick. She managed to lean over the toilet, at least, while Terrible held her hair back. “I’m sorry.”
“Aye, well.” He stood up, handed her a wad of tissues, and grabbed the trash can. She watched his back as he left the room. Fuck. This was bad. It had happened, hadn’
t it? The thing she thought would never happen, the thing she was always so careful not to have happen. She’d lost count, she’d lost track of what exactly she’d taken, and it had happened.
She reached up to touch her clammy face, to feel the thing in her nose.
“ ’San opiate inhibitor,” Terrible said, returning to the room. His hands curled around her upper arms, urging her to her feet. “Leave it in, aye? C’mon, let’s us try putting you in bed.”
He scooped her into his arms—slowly, carefully—and carried her into the big main room, where he set her on the soft gray bed. Her stomach rumbled a warning but stayed put.
So did Terrible. Standing there, looking at her. In the faint light from the open bathroom door she couldn’t read his expression, but she had a pretty good idea what it was. “I’m sorry, shit, Terrible, I’m so sorry, I just—I lost count, I guess, I wasn’t paying attention and—”
“Aye, guessing so.”
He unfastened her jeans and stripped them off her with impersonal efficiency, and fear blossomed in her stomach and chest. Fear that gurgled and rose and made her grab blindly for the trash can beside the bed so she could be sick again. Fuck, what a disgusting process. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to her or look at her—well, on top of everything else, of what she’d just done to him. And to herself, yeah, but she couldn’t have cared less about that.
When she was done he pulled the covers over her, took the trash can and walked away.
Shit, that was it. She’d fucked up, and he’d reached his limit; she’d known the line was somewhere, known that one day he’d realize he didn’t want to babysit a junkie, and she’d gone and grabbed that brass ring her very own self and pushed him into it. She’d forced his hand. She’d forced the other shoe to drop.
His shadow moved in the kitchen for a few minutes and he came back again, holding a glass of something clear with a straw poking out of it. “Here. Try this, see iffen it helps yon stomach.”
Sprite. It did help her stomach. Too bad it couldn’t do anything for the terror and misery pounding through her body, the shame so thick and strong she was half afraid she’d explode from it. How could she have fucked up like that? “Terrible, please … I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.… I love you, please don’t be mad at me.”
Pause. A long pause, and then he turned and started to walk away. Or she thought that’s what he was doing; in fact, he walked around to the other side of the bed, stripped off his clothes, and climbed in next to her. Warmth radiated from him, from his chest so close to her back. It spread over her, through her, and she managed to relax. A little.
“Ain’t mad at you,” he said finally. “I ain’t. Just … shit, Chessie, don’t know what to say. Scared the shit outta me, aye? All the sudden you just fuckin fell, dig, straight onto me, out cold and weren’t wakin up.”
“I’m sorry.”
He pulled her closer to him, so close she almost couldn’t breathe, and his stubble made the skin of her cheek and throat itch. She wasn’t about to complain. “Just … damn, baby, don’t ever do that one again, aye? Not ever.”
“I won’t. I don’t want to.” And that was definitely true. She never wanted to do that again. She didn’t even want to think about doing it again; hell, she didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d done it. She’d lost control, and she … she was the one in control, she’d always been the one in control. She’d always been so careful. Yes, she let the pills control her—somewhat—but ultimately she was in charge of how many she took, how often, and she’d always been able to handle it.
Right?
She cleared her throat. “When can I take this thing out of my nose?”
“Morning. Still workin now, keeps you from bein sicker an all.”
She nodded. An opiate inhibitor. “Why did you have it?”
“Never know, aye? Keep em in the car.”
Had he always kept them in the car? Or had he started when they got together? No way in hell was she going to ask that one.
But she still wondered as she looked up at him in the semi-darkness. Had he planned for this? She knew he paid attention to her pills and how many she took; if she hadn’t taken the ones that led to her little accident—fuck it, be honest and call it an overdose—outside where he couldn’t see, would he have said something, would he have stopped her? Would he have suggested she not take the speed in the car if he’d known?
None of those were questions she could ask him. But she knew no matter what the answers were before, they were certainly in the affirmative now, and she knew that not only because she knew him but because when she opened her eyes—every time she opened her eyes—he was still awake.
Watching her. All night.
She waited for him to bring it up in the morning—well, technically the afternoon, because she couldn’t seem to get her eyes open until then—but he didn’t. Not unless she counted his typical wake-up greetings to be bringing it up, which she didn’t. Nor had he said a word when she took two Cepts—hell, OD or not, this wasn’t the time to deal with withdrawals—and did a little bump to get her still-a-bit-sluggish mind and body going. Nobody said she had to stop, she just had to remember not to drop the ball again. She had to remember to be careful, to pay attention, that was all.
He didn’t try to convince her to stay in bed a little longer, though, either, which was generally code for staying in bed naked for a while longer. He didn’t even hint at it. She tried not to be worried by that.
And it wasn’t the time to worry about that, either, because they were in the Chevelle advancing up a long curved driveway that wound through some trees before it stopped in front of the Tudor-style mansion in Northside where Marietta Blake had lived. It was time to focus on other things. Like on how they probably wouldn’t get any information at all, and this would end up being a totally wasted trip.
But they had to make it, because they’d officially reached the grasping-at-straws part of the investigation, hadn’t they? They had a name: Razor. Who could be anyone from anywhere, and who could be anywhere. They had—she’d confirmed it only an hour or so ago when they stopped at her place—speed cut with ectoplasm and blood in walnuts that worked with the ectoplasm-cut speed to control the user.
And they had way too many dead people, and pretty good odds that more people would be joining them, and she really didn’t want one of those people to be her. Or him.
Terrible opened the car door for her, and they made their way across the manicured stretch of green lawn, striped by late-afternoon shadows, to the front door. The sound of blue jays in the trees sent an uncomfortable twinge through her body; jays weren’t the strongest of psychopomps, no, but they weren’t lucky birds, and it was difficult for her to hear any birds without being made nervous by them. Especially in situations where she very well might be in danger, like this one. Exclusive wealthy neighborhood or not, Marietta was or had been up to her neck in whatever was going on, and nothing said her family was innocent.
Yeah, being with Terrible meant she was safe if people were all they were dealing with, but there sure as fuck wasn’t a guarantee, was there? Not with some crazy sorcerer wanting to see them all dead.
The door opened on her third knock to reveal a tall lean man in an impeccable gray suit, with thick glasses covering half his face. “Can I help you?”
Chess flashed her Church ID, sleazy as it felt to do so. “I’m looking for Kyle or Lindsay Blake? It’s about Marietta.”
He dipped his head, low enough that she saw light reflected in his bald spot. “One moment, please.”
He wandered off but left the door open, so … Chess and Terrible exchanged glances and entered, standing on the shiny dark-wood floor of what Chess thought the Blakes would call an entry hall. Pale high ceilings rose over their heads, with black beams crossing them; a wide staircase hugged the wall, leaving a bare expanse of gleaming floor to its side. Serious money, yes indeed. She hadn’t bothered to investigate the Blakes—aside from anything else, she’d need a
n Elder to pull their financial files—but who knew, maybe it would end up being worth doing.
The man returned after a few minutes. “Follow me.”
Something in his voice … bothered her. Or it sort of felt like it bothered her. The whole house sort of bothered her, though. For a second she wondered if maybe it was just too big, too ostentatious, but then she remembered Roger Pyle’s place. She’d never had any serious problems with that, so no, that wasn’t it.
The house felt so cold, though. There was something dark and watchful about it, something she didn’t like. It made her uncomfortable.
Terrible didn’t look any more relaxed than she felt as they entered some sort of living room off the hall. More ceiling beams, more dark wood. The place made Chess long to light up a smoke, do a few lines, and start making out with Terrible on the low leather sofa.
Of course, she pretty much always wanted to do that, but damn that house was stuffy.
She reached out to brush Terrible’s arm, mouthed, “Are you okay?”
He gave her a shrug and a nod. But the way he glanced around the room, checking all the entrances and exits, made it clear he noticed what was bothering her, too.
The man bowed again. “They’ll be with you in a moment.”
He left, closing the door behind him. Chess didn’t know whether she should be impressed or amused by the fact that he’d left a couple of strangers alone in a room full of expensive items—the candlesticks on the mantel had to be worth a few grand alone—but she had shown a Church ID. And not everyone mistrusted the Church.
And it didn’t matter, anyway, because almost immediately the door opened again to admit a woman who had to be Marietta’s mother. Her face darkened when she saw them. “My daughter isn’t here. I don’t want you people—”
Out came the Church ID again. “Mrs. Blake? I’m Cesaria Putnam, from the Church. We wanted to ask you some questions about Marietta.”
Mrs. Blake looked her up and down suspiciously, and examined Terrible even more closely. She snatched Chess’s ID from her hand to inspect it.
