Chasing Magic

by Stacia Kane

  “You can call the Church to verify it.” Not that Chess wanted Mrs. Blake to do that, but experience had taught her that making the offer usually meant the person wouldn’t bother.

  “My daughter isn’t here,” the woman said finally, and handed the ID back.

  “That’s fine. We just have a few questions.”

  Mrs. Blake sniffed, but she stepped back and motioned for them to sit.

  “Is Marietta’s father available?”

  Mr. Blake entered at that point. He shook Chess’s hand in that firm businessman way, as if he’d had tons of practice, and she focused on that touch as he did. Did he feel like magic, like he had any talent at all?

  No. Not a drop, really. He looked vaguely familiar, but then he looked a bit like Marietta, so why wouldn’t he?

  He crossed the floor to sit in an overstuffed chair that creaked when he moved. He appeared to be part of a matched set with Mrs. Blake; oh-so-tasteful graying hair, casually expensive khaki trousers, and a tucked-in white shirt. Growing up in this house must have been tons of fun.

  Of course, somehow Chess didn’t get the feeling that either Blake parent had been fucking Marietta or beating the shit out of her, so she had an advantage over Chess, but whatever. It still struck her as a horrible, stultifying place to live, not so much because of the old-money ooze or the dull furnishings but because of the coldness that permeated the entire house and seemed to emanate from the walls.

  “Kyle, dear, these people want to talk about Marietta.”

  Mr. Blake nodded. “Carmichael told me, of course. Marietta’s not here. Don’t know where she is.”

  “Yes, so Mrs. Blake said.” Were they protesting a little too much? They didn’t seem like protect-the-kid types, but they did seem very much the what-would-the-neighbors-say types. And they seemed very much like they’d have the money to send Marietta somewhere far away to hide out until things blew over.

  Also, Chess hadn’t yet said why she was there, other than “to talk about” Marietta. Which implied some sort of guilty knowledge on the Blakes’ behalf, didn’t it, even if it wasn’t the kind that was really “guilty.” So who knew where the conversation could go? “But I was wondering if you could tell me anything about her? Her associates. What happened. How … how things started.”

  Mrs. Blake gestured at the couch. “Sit down. Care for a drink?”

  Chess and Terrible shook their heads and took seats on the cold squeaky leather. Mrs. Blake poured herself a hefty glassful of amber-colored liquid; Mr. Blake, Chess noticed, already had a smudgy glass half full of the same in front of him. Damn. Did these people just spend their days half drunk? She had to respect that—or at least understand it.

  And, hey, maybe it would make them more inclined to slip up and say something worthwhile.

  “Marietta was always … difficult. She wasn’t a happy child.” Mrs. Blake took a mammoth swallow of whatever it was in her glass—bourbon or scotch, Chess wasn’t sure—and settled into the other armchair. “She didn’t fit in with the other kids. When she was fourteen she disappeared. She was gone for three days before we found her in the community center. She’d been sleeping in the laundry bins.”

  Mr. Blake grunted.

  “The last few years, ever since we bought her a car, she’d be gone for days. We never knew where she was. She took up with those people.… Miss Jessel would talk to her—”

  “Miss Jessel?”

  “Miss Jessel is—was—the nanny, but she stayed in touch after she left us when Marietta turned sixteen. She’d talk to Marietta, and Marietta would insist she was fine, and Miss Jessel would let it go. But I don’t think she was fine. I never thought she was fine.”

  “Could I get in touch with Miss Jessel?” Not that she’d need to, but it fit the ruse to ask.

  Mrs. Blake paused long enough to drain her glass. “I suppose I could find Miss Jessel’s number for you—she hasn’t called in six months or so. Stopped right around the time Marietta got involved with that man, that Ben person.”

  Sharp-eye Ben? “That started six months ago? Do you know anything more about him?”

  Mr. Blake cut in. “Only that he was scum.”

  “Kyle!” It wasn’t shock in Mrs. Blake’s voice; it was a warning, and Chess’s face grew hot when she realized why: Mrs. Blake was warning him to watch what he said because of Terrible. Because of how Terrible looked. Bitch.

  Mr. Blake didn’t seem to have any of the same compunction, though. “He is scum. Living in that filthy ghetto, involved with those people, if you can even call them people. That whole Downside slum should be razed to the ground. It’s an eyesore. It’s disgusting.”

  This was her job, Chess reminded herself. Wasn’t even actually her job; she’d misrepresented her reason for being there, which meant confronting Blake on his shitty views and shitty words and general shittiness was not a good idea. It was not something she could do.

  Mrs. Blake stood up into the silence. “Would anyone care for another drink?”

  “Well, that was basically a waste of time, huh?” Chess said as the Chevelle nosed back onto the street.

  “Were guessin it would be though, aye?”

  “Yeah, it just … I still hoped, you know? Like that we could walk in and the Blakes would give us a list of names and dates or something.”

  His eyebrow quirked in amusement. “That kinda shit ever happen for you?”

  “Well, no, but I can still hope.”

  “Aye.” His hand landed on her thigh and gave it a rub. “Aye, you do that, Chessiebomb.”

  She slid her hand over his. “So … what are we doing now?”

  “Ain’t know. Figured on you maybe bein tired, headin back yours let you rest. I gotta head over Bump’s, dig, give him what’s on.”

  Oh. The smile left her face. Kind of silly of her, really; of course he needed to talk to Bump, and it wasn’t as if he’d think taking her with him would be some kind of treat for her. Yay, hanging out with Bump, her favorite thing.

  But she’d hoped … well, she’d hoped he’d want to spend some time with her now that she wasn’t sweaty and puking, with a chunk of plastic hanging out of her nose. Some alone time. So much was going on, so many things that frankly terrified her, and she wanted to forget them, even if it was only for a little while.

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to go to Bump’s right away, though, right? You could come up to mine for a bit first.”

  “Aye.” He squeezed back, sending shivers of excitement and happiness through her. “Needin make sure you get to sleep all right, aye? An nothin happen or whatany.”

  “I definitely think that’s a good idea.”

  They rode on in comfortable silence, hands still clasped, until he slid the Chevelle up to the curb across the street from her building. The sun was setting, leaving that peculiar fuzzy dusk-light where nothing looked clear or real. But then, very little of the last few days felt real. Horrible magic and destroyed bodies and Lex and Elder Griffin turning his back on her—it all felt like some kind of bizarre Dream hallucination, and she wished it would end.

  “C’mon.” Terrible opened his door, came around to open hers, and she stepped out, glad for the break in her thoughts, glad to be focusing elsewhere.

  Warm breeze, faintly scented of garbage and exhaust but still pleasant, shifted her hair and sent a few strands of it to tickle her cheeks. She tucked it behind her ear as they crossed the street, heading for the wide front steps of her building together. Not close enough to touch even accidentally, but close enough that they almost could. Close enough that she could peek at him sideways and watch the way he held his head, the way his shoulders moved when he walked.

  The steps to the front doors started about halfway from the curb, with wide ledges along each side. Sometimes people sat on them, climbing the steps part of the way up so they could access the ledges, which were too high to reach at the street end. They were like thick walls along the edges, with scrub grass, gravel, and pale
dry dirt forming a border around them.

  A black-clad shape—a man—ran out from behind the one on the left and headed straight for them, a knife glinting in his upraised hand.

  Terrible’s hand almost knocked the wind out of her, shoving her back and behind him before she’d even really registered what was happening. She stumbled and almost fell to the rough concrete. Damn her heavy bag, if she’d had a second to brace herself it wouldn’t have knocked her off balance like that.

  But it had.

  Something small flew through the air; Terrible batted it away with his hand and went down.

  Holy shit. The speed, it was a packet of that speed, and Terrible’s eyes were just opening again when his attacker—Lex’s assassin, Devil, it had to be him—pulled his foot back and kicked Terrible in the ribs.

  Chess was already moving, trying to get up and simultaneously trying to attack, trying to push the man or hit him, trying to do something. She got a look at him, one that chilled her even more; snub-nosed and heavy-browed, almost as big as Terrible, with the flat dead eyes of a man used to doing his job with brutal efficiency.

  Flat dead eyes like Terrible’s were when he was working.

  Terrible jumped up before she could do much more than launch herself forward, putting himself between her and Devil. His fist connected with Devil’s face, but Devil used his knife as he stumbled back, slicing a thin line from Terrible’s right elbow to his wrist.

  Terrible hit him again, his left fist jabbing forward and up; Devil jerked to the side at the last second so the blow landed on his shoulder instead of his throat.

  Another right from Terrible hit his nose. Blood started pouring from it; the man’s grin beneath it was horrible, red hiding his lips and staining his teeth. He struck again with the blade, another cut on Terrible’s arm. Devil didn’t look like he was trying very hard to cut deep; it was as if he was happy to just paper-cut Terrible again and again. What the fuck was he doing?

  Running away, that’s what he was doing. Terrible hit the man again; as he stumbled sideways a dark-blue car, one of those anonymous modern semi-sedans, hopped the curb with its passenger door open. Chess caught a glimpse of the driver before Devil threw himself into the front seat and the car squealed away.

  “What was—” she started, but no one heard. Terrible was tearing across the street with his keys in his hand.

  Chess ran after him. “I’m going with you.”

  She could see the argument he wanted to make plain on his face. But she could also see his impatience, the knowledge that arguing would take more time than unlocking her door.

  He barely waited for her to finish sitting down before gunning the Chevelle; they jumped off the curb in a fury of noise and exhaust.

  Terrible routinely drove at speeds that made her nervous until she’d gotten used to them, but she’d never seen him really open up the Chevelle before. They tore up Forty-seventh after the blue car, closing the distance. Fast.

  And obviously being seen. The blue car turned left, swerved left again into an alley, jumped onto the on-ramp at Highway 300 with the Chevelle right on its ass. Chess braced herself. It didn’t help, didn’t make her heart stop pounding like a fucking jackhammer in her chest, but it at least gave her something else to focus on besides the idea that if the driver of that blue car decided to tap his brakes, they’d be picking her up off the highway in garbage bags.

  Together the two cars wove through traffic, from the right lane to the left and back again. The blue car took the interchange exit at Highway 101 and started to run the cloverleaf. Ugh. Driving in tight circles at crazy speeds: just what she needed when nerves were making her stomach twist up on itself in a way that made the few bites of food she’d taken earlier feel like balls of lead.

  When they hit the stretch of highway between ramps, Terrible swerved around the sedan and started to nose in front of it. Tires screeched. Chess thought the sedan spun out; she didn’t know for sure, though, because the Chevelle definitely did, and for a too-long, too-sickening moment, the world was a blur of light and noise. Then they started to move again, back up the entrance ramp. The wrong way.

  She forced her eyes to stay open, forced herself not to cover them up. If he thought she was scared—if he knew she was scared—he’d want to slow down. He might even stop and make her get out. For whatever reason—love? Loyalty? Death wish? Maybe all of the above; probably all of the above—she didn’t want to do that. She was in it, and she was staying in.

  Horns blasted. Blinding headlights swerved out of their way. The blue car ran over the shoulder and back into traffic, with the Chevelle following.

  Terrible started to pass the blue car to cut it off. Again the driver slammed his brakes and spun, then ran into a parking garage beneath a lonely-looking building off—Of course. Off Thirtieth, they were on Thirtieth. Lex’s hired killer, in Lex’s territory. She hadn’t even thought of it; just the presence of the Chevelle in this area could be trouble. At least it was getting dark out, more so by the second. Maybe they wouldn’t be so noticeable.

  Terrible slowed as they passed into the shadows. The Chevelle’s headlights discovered a few abandoned cars huddled between faded white lines on the cement, empty husks of cars hiding from the world.

  And, as they turned to pass the ramp to the next level, as they drove around the elevator bank or office or whatever it was blocking the center of the garage, they saw another car. The blue car. Not shrinking back against the crumbling cement wall, but planted right in the center of the aisle, doors open. Engine still running.

  Empty.

  Outside the garage dead weeds reached in a wheat-colored tangle for the sky, a tangle with streaks of green as new growth wound its way in, naked in the headlights’ glare. The weeds shook slightly. Maybe from the wind, maybe from Lex’s hired killer and the car’s driver. Shit.

  Terrible’s palm slammed into the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

  “He probably didn’t get—”

  The greenish dashboard light illuminated his glare. “Ain’t fuckin leavin you here.”

  His eyes narrowed further when she opened her mouth again. Right. Suggesting she go with him wasn’t a good idea, either.

  Okay, then. She lowered her gaze and saw what she’d managed somehow to forget in all of the noise and terror of their little joyride. He’d been cut. His arms glistened dully with blood, brackish in the semi-light. She reached out a tentative hand. “We should—”

  He snatched his arm away, throwing the Chevelle into reverse and stabbing the gas without speaking. Yeah. She got the message.

  For the second time, Lex’s hired muscle had managed to ambush him. For the second time, Lex’s hired muscle had managed to injure him. For the second time, Lex’s hired muscle had gotten away.

  And for the second time, Lex’s hired muscle had managed to accomplish all of that because Terrible had been either distracted by her or unwilling to risk her getting injured. Motherfuck. Lex had found himself a weapon, all right.

  Her.

  No tandem showers after they got back to her place. No nothing after they got back to her place, in fact. He’d practically growled at her when she tried to bandage him up, and he headed for Bump’s almost immediately.

  Which left her with nothing to do. Nothing except drugs, anyway, which was a given.

  Putting a thick wall of narcotic peace between herself and the events of the day helped, but not enough. There were still the previous days to deal with. She’d lost something important, something that mattered. She’d lost Elder Griffin’s friendship and approval.

  Now she was in danger of losing something even more important, and fury thrummed through her body as she set the alarm on her car and pounded on the side door—the hidden door—at Lex’s house.

  The guard who opened it for her started to step aside. She didn’t wait for him to finish, shoving herself past him and storming up the stairs. Lex was probably in his room. As far as she knew, he hadn’t moved into another one.
/>   And if he had? She’d just fucking check them all.

  His door was closed but not locked. Not that it mattered. She had her pick case, although she didn’t think she needed it. Even with her pills making her insides fizz with fake cheer, she was pissed enough that she thought she could kick the damn thing off its hinges if she had to.

  She threw it open instead, stalked halfway into the room before she realized Lex wasn’t alone. He had a girl with him, next to him on the low blue couch.

  Oh well. “Call him off, Lex.”

  “Hey there, Tulip, ain’t this a sweet—”

  “Call him off, Lex. Now.”

  Lex glanced at the girl—a curvy little blonde; Chess didn’t pay any more attention than that—and jerked his chin. “Gimme a few, aye? Head you down on the other room, dig, watch you some TV.”

  The girl glanced at Chess, then back at Lex, before standing up. “Aye. Be there, I will.”

  Chess felt her long up-and-down gaze as she passed, and ignored it. Fuck her.

  The door closed. Chess gave it a five count—not that it mattered, since the girl was probably standing right outside with her ear to the door frame—before she spoke again. “I mean it.”

  “Ain’t know what you talking on there, Tulip.”

  “Don’t fucking— Yes, you do. Now call him off.”

  Lex leaned back and lit a cigarette. With his feet up on the low coffee table, he looked like he was having a pleasant chat with a friend, perfectly relaxed. Maybe not just relaxed, either; a few feet away, a vodka bottle missing its cap sat next to a couple of shot glasses, one of which had a semicircle of burgundy lipstick on the edge. “Why’d I do that?”

  Shit. She hadn’t expected that. “What— Because, that’s why. Because this is bullshit, and—”

  “And? And what? Causen you asking me to? Damn, girl, had the knowledge you got some selfish shit in that head you got, but ain’t—”

  “Self— What?”

  “What what?” His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck thinking you got there, I give up causen you run over here and gimme the asking to? Ain’t some fuckin game, this ain’t.”