Unholy Magic

by Stacia Kane

  “Yeah. It makes sense. And you know what else makes sense? That you help me find them.”

  “Me? Why in the world would I do that?”

  “Because this is your fault, that’s why. Look, I get that you feel bad for what happened to your friend. Really. And I get that it was an accident. But this is your fault. You shouldn’t have done what you did, you shouldn’t have carved that sigil—”

  “I should have just let him die?” He stood up and leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing. “I should have just let my friend die, is that what you’re saying? Rather than do everything I could to save him? What the hell kind of person are you, to even suggest such a thing?”

  “Do you think he’s better off now?”

  “I think he’s alive now!”

  “Yeah, alive and possessed, alive and staining his soul darker every minute. It’s not even life, Fletcher, it’s—suspended animation, it’s slavery. You did that.”

  He came out from behind the desk, his body somehow larger in his casual button-down and unstructured jacket. California Cool becomes Murderous Rage Chic, if the look in his eyes was any indication. She took a step back, reached for the knife Merritt hadn’t managed to find when he groped her in the security office. If he tried to touch her, she’d—

  He did touch her, but she didn’t finish reaching for her weapon, because he wasn’t attacking her. Wasn’t threatening her.

  He was crying.

  He leaned over her, rested his head on her shoulder, and clung to her, his tears soaking into her shirt.

  What the fuck was she supposed to do with this? Hug him and say something comforting? He was blackmailing her and now she was supposed to take care of him like some kind of fucking nanny or something? She didn’t know how to do that. What did people do to comfort each other?

  She settled for patting him vaguely on the back and wishing she was anywhere but there. Although he did smell good.

  Thankfully it didn’t last long. “I’m sorry,” he said into her neck. “I—This is quite a shock for me, you understand. I never meant to … If Horatio is killing people, killing women, it is my fault, isn’t it? Because of the sigil, because of what I did to him?”

  If he’d been her friend, she might have given him the lie. But he wasn’t her friend. “Yeah.”

  “I never wanted this.” He sighed. His grip on her loosened, but he didn’t move away. “I may be an asshole—I would say don’t bother disagreeing with me, but you won’t, will you?—but I’m not a murderer. I don’t want to be responsible for people dying.”

  “Then help me stop it.” She wished he would get off her. His forehead was digging into her collarbone.

  “I don’t see how I can help.”

  His biceps felt bigger than they looked, hard and lean under that expensive jacket. She grabbed them and pushed, forcing him off her. “You know where he is, don’t you? Where to find him? If we find him, we can find all of them. The girls, I mean. We can set them free.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Elder Griffin said you were talented.”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing. Not anymore.”

  “Is that why you didn’t summon real ghosts here? You could have, it would have been much simpler, you know.”

  “I—Yes. That’s why.”

  “Get over it. I need your help. You know him, you’re his friend. Maybe we can do this without anybody getting hurt.”

  “Get away from him.”

  Arden Pyle stood in the doorway of the office, her pale hair drawn back into a sloppy ponytail and her black shirt baggier than ever.

  All these things Chess barely noticed. She was too busy focusing on the gun.

  Fletcher turned from Chess, taking his hands from her waist and raising them slowly like flags at dawn. “Arden … Arden, honey, put the gun down.”

  “You promised. You said you’d take care of us.”

  “And I will, but I can’t if you shoot me, can I?”

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” the girl said.

  It was the sort of statement that deserved a big reaction, but all Chess could summon was a kind of weary anger. At this point, what the fuck did she care? Let the girl shoot her.

  Although she couldn’t help being pissed the end was going to finally come because of Oliver Fletcher. Because he apparently—Oh, yuck.

  “Shit, Fletcher,” she murmured. “She’s fourteen years old, you asshole.”

  “Yes, and—Oh, no. She’s—I’m not that twisted, Miss Putnam. Please.”

  “Stop talking!” The gun shivered in Arden’s fist. Chess dragged her gaze away from it, down to see the way the girl’s baggy shirt draped over her stomach. Her slightly protruding stomach …

  The girl was pregnant. Fourteen and pregnant. Chess could certainly relate. No wonder Arden had a gun in her hand, no wonder …

  No wonder she’d attacked her mother that night in the bedroom. Fletcher hadn’t been in town that night, but someone had been in the Pyle bedroom. Someone who felt dead inside. Someone desperate.

  “Arden.” She took a careful step forward. “You don’t have to do this.”

  The girl’s blue eyes barely shifted. “What the fuck do you know?”

  “I know shooting me isn’t a good idea. Do you want to have that baby in prison? And get executed a month later?”

  “Who cares.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. She was not good at this. In fact, there were very few things in the world she was less good at than this.

  What the hell was the matter with these people? How did they not see that of all the people on the planet, she was probably the least qualified to help them with their emotional problems? It was like asking a dog to do algebra.

  Oliver stepped in and saved her from trying to explain to a child why she should be concerned with something Chess didn’t care much about herself. “I care. That’s why we’re doing this, right? To get you away, so you can come stay with me? So I can help you? Don’t mess this up now, not when we’re so close.”

  Chess saw her cue. “Nobody’s getting in trouble. I’m going to take care of everything at the Church. I can even recommend to your parents and to the Church you be allowed to live with Mr. Fletcher, okay? So don’t—”

  “Arden?”

  Chess practically threw her hands in the air. Kym Pyle was joining the party, her light blue wool coat still thrown over her shoulders in the doorway of the office.

  Chess wasn’t sure what happened first. All she knew was Arden started to turn, her mouth opening. The gun moved sideways with her, its staring black eye finally focusing away from Chess.

  Oliver leapt forward at the same time Kym did. Arden saw him, tried to yank the gun back.

  It went off. Wood chips flew in slow motion from the doorframe.

  Kym screamed. So did Arden. Another gunshot roared through the room, and another. Oliver stumbled. Arden fell.

  Chess stood alone by the desk with her ears ringing. She couldn’t hear them screaming but saw their faces, mouths open, faces pale save the blood that seemed to have speckled everything in the room.

  It took her a minute to see where it had come from. Arden’s foot—the damned kid had shot herself in her own foot. Fletcher’s shoulder. Kym Pyle’s hand—the bullet had gone through it to hit the wood, or ricocheted off and hit it, she didn’t know. All she knew was that it was time to leave.

  With Oliver Fletcher. Gunshot wound or no gunshot wound, she needed him to find Kemp for her, and if she waited until after he’d left the hospital, it would be too late. Her job gave her some influence there, but not enough to make sure Fletcher wasn’t discharged and out of the District before she knew it. And what was she supposed to do then, go to his house all the way across the continent?

  No, he would take off at the first opportunity and wash his hands of the whole thing, no matter how many tears he shed into her sweater or how responsible he might feel. They had to act now.

  Merritt and three other guard
s came running, weapons drawn. Chess barely heard their voices over Kym and Arden’s shrieks and the ringing in her ears from the shots. The room felt too small, crowded with bodies and stinking of gunpowder and blood and anguish, while Chess stood and stared. It was almost interesting to see so much pain and for once not be part of it herself.

  Something else she could do while attention was turned away, though. With her left hand she yanked the clasp of her bag, held it open, while she gathered Oliver’s photos with her right and shoved them in. The camera’s memory chip … He’d said something about the chip. Was it there, too?

  No. She shuffled through the rest of the stuff on the desk as long as she dared but didn’t see it. Oliver must keep it somewhere else. She’d have to see if she could get it from him later; she could always break into the Pyle house again with her Hand and look through his stuff.

  Right now, though … It was dark outside, and they had to do what they could now. Had Oliver not been shot it could have waited, but no way was she chancing him getting away from her before they ended this thing.

  She pushed her way past one of the guards and grabbed Fletcher’s unwounded arm. “Come on.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me. We need to find Kemp.”

  “You must be joking. I’m not going anywhere but the hospital.”

  “Yes, you are. More women could die, deaths you’d be responsible for.”

  “No way. I’m going—”

  Chess leaned down, stared him right in the eye so he could see her determination. So he could see she really just didn’t give a fuck at this point. “You’re coming with me, or I’m calling the press. You want to turn me in? You go ahead. But you’re just as interested in keeping this whole affair under wraps as I am, and you know it. So let’s go.”

  She knew she had him when he blinked.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It’s always good to keep some basic first-aid treatments in the home. You never know when you might need them, and helping others is the best and surest way to feel good about ourselves.

  —Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies, by Mrs. Increase

  Having Oliver Fletcher in her apartment wasn’t her idea of fun, but they had to go somewhere, and she had a decent enough first-aid kit in her little bathroom.

  No point trying to call Terrible. He wouldn’t answer when he saw it was her. So she texted instead, a terse message to say she knew where the ghost house was and he should call her or come to her place.

  Five minutes later she got a one-word response: “Fine.”

  Okay, so was he coming over or what? Shit, and she probably looked like she’d just crawled out of bed.

  Fletcher was sitting on her toilet, cleaning the ragged flesh wound on his shoulder. Chess ignored him while she splashed cold water on her face and slapped on a little makeup. She felt like an idiot and it wouldn’t matter one bit, but she did it anyway.

  “Don’t bother helping me, I can handle it,” Fletcher snapped.

  She glanced at him on her way out the door. “Good.”

  Should she call Lex? Probably. Well, definitely. But the thought of having him come over when Terrible was there … She’d call him when they knew where they were going.

  A couple of Nips and a couple of Cepts, to calm her down and wake her up, and she was ready. Sort of.

  “Miss Putnam? Seriously, will you help me here?”

  Fletcher was still sitting on the toilet, bloody tissues scattered over the tile floor like flower petals. He was going to clean those up.

  “I can’t reach very well. And I’m in a lot of pain.”

  She sighed. “Turn around.”

  Dried blood surrounded the deep graze; the bullet had caught him at an odd angle. Chess grabbed a can of antibiotic spray and used it, ignoring his hiss of pain.

  “I know you have painkillers, Miss Putnam. I think the least you can do is offer me some. I have just been shot, you know, and I’m still here to help you.”

  “Don’t you have access to your own?” She dabbed his skin dry and grabbed a gauze pad.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Haven’t you been drugging Roger Pyle?”

  It was just a guess, but she didn’t expect the answer she got.

  “That wasn’t me. That was Kym.”

  “Kym?”

  He nodded. “You don’t think I’m the only one who didn’t want the Pyles living here, do you? She was hoping he’d—Hell, I don’t really know what she thought. That he’d feel jumpy and sick and it would make him vulnerable, I suppose. As I said, she’s not really the most intelligent woman in the world.”

  “Yes, you did say, didn’t you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  That was it. That was what bothered her before. “In fact, you went out of your way to point the finger at yourself, Fletcher. Right from the beginning. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “It was Arden, wasn’t it. She started the fake haunting. She’s the one who scratched Kym in the bedroom that night, she set up, what, some kind of projector or something—like the one you screened your movie on, right? The night I was there?”

  She didn’t wait for him to reply. “And when she told you what she’d done, when you found out Roger and Kym were going to get the Church involved, you rushed to help her, because you knew that whatever she’d done might fool her parents, but it wouldn’t fool the Church. You knew what a real ghost feels like. You knew the kind of investigating that’s done for a haunting, and you knew there was no way she’d get away with it once the Church stepped in. Awfully altruistic of you, helping your friend’s daughter like that. Just out of the kindness of your heart?”

  He sighed. “Not really. She’s mine, you see.”

  “She’s—What?”

  “Arden is my daughter, not Roger’s. He’s sterile. Kym found out, she came to me … I helped her. Arden doesn’t know—Well, neither does Roger, for that matter. But when she needed help, she came to me, too. She’d already started this stupid haunting thing, rigged up one of Roger’s old projectors. He’s got a few of them lying around. I had no choice, really, but to try and help her.”

  “Yes, you did. They would have been lenient with her, and you know it. You were with the Church long enough to know that. She would have done a year in a Church program for underage offenders, at the most. And you wouldn’t have been—oh. Right.”

  She caught his eye, knew he followed her thoughts. He nodded. “The DNA match. When they arrested her they would have put the family’s DNA on file, and they would have found out she isn’t Roger’s. It would have killed him to know that. Would have destroyed Arden.”

  “And you, when the press got wind of it.”

  “That too, yes.”

  Shit. Arden all along. Some investigator she was, shit.

  “Who’s the father of her baby?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy back in L.A. That’s why she wanted to leave so bad. Not just to get away from her parents, but to get back to him. What can I say, she’s fourteen years old. Can I have one of those pills now, please?”

  She rolled her eyes, but let him follow her back into the living room and gave him a couple of Cepts and some water.

  And sat, while the Nips sped her heart rate and set her toes tapping on the threadbare carpet.

  She didn’t have to wait long, at least. She’d only managed to play one Queers song in her head before the heavy knock made her leap to her feet.

  The distance between the couch and the door had never seemed so far. What should she say? Should she even bother to say anything? Would he talk to her?

  The sinking feeling in her stomach told her the answer even before she opened the door and found him there, hands in pockets, his harsh face set in stony, dead lines and his gaze focused so far past her she felt like a speck of dirt on a window screen.

  “Hi.” She stepped back, inviting him in. “We, um, that’s Oliver Fletcher, he knows where we’re
going, so if you want to come in …”

  Terrible shrugged and entered, subtly twisting his torso so as not to touch her when he walked past.

  He hadn’t looked at her at all.

  Well, what the fuck did she expect, that he’d give her a big hug and tell her she was forgiven? They never even hugged normally. This probably wasn’t the time he’d pick to start.

  Fletcher stood up, wavering a little on his feet. Great. Just what she needed—a tipsy amateur witch. How much scotch had the man had back at the house? Had he eaten anything at all? His wound couldn’t have caused that much blood loss.

  “I’m Oliver,” he said. “Have you ever done any security work? I’m always looking for—”

  “Just gimme the knowledge so we get this done.”

  Fletcher looked blankly at Chess for a minute, then said, “You want to know where Kemp is?”

  “Kemp the one?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced at Terrible, waited for him to look at her. He didn’t. “He’s working with a murdered hooker named Vanita. Her spirit, I mean. Remember how Tyson had a host? I don’t think it’s the same exact arrangement, but … yeah, he’s working with her.”

  Terrible’s chin lifted and lowered, his only indication of surprise.

  “Oliver knows Kemp, he studied at the Church too so he can help …”

  “You coming then?” Terrible eyed Oliver up and down. “You come handle all, dig, you got the juice.”

  She bit her lip. “No, we’re both going, he’s going to help me.” Look at me, talk to me, something.

  He didn’t. Just stood for a minute, absorbing what she’d told him, then shrugged. “Where?”

  Chess looked at Fletcher, still standing with his feet planted a little too widely apart like he was having trouble balancing. What a lightweight. “Fletcher? Where?”

  “What? Oh. You’re assuming he’s set up in one of our buildings? There’s four in this part of town. One on … Second, I think, by the cemetery—What?”

  Chess stiffened but just managed not to cringe. “Where are the others?”

  “Let’s see. Eightieth, that’s a warehouse. I think the houses are on Mercer and Wharf. I understand the one on Mercer burned down or something recently, though.”