by Gemma Files
A sick breath out of the dark, memory-borne stench of cold draft and wet rock walls: “English” Oona Pargeter’s raddled whore’s pan, opium-cooked from the inside-out, cured like meat. A woman reduced to nothing but need, just dead flesh still teetering upright, wrapped like Hell’s own candy in hate and poison.
The only thing Ed Morrow knew for sure Chess Pargeter feared, in life or death, was the thought that he might be likewise helpless one day before a similar hunger. So to find himself a hex, after all that—and not just a hex, either, but a damn blood-drunk god of hexes, power magnified beyond all comprehension alongside the clamouring jones for more, ever more.
If Oona had ever thought to put a curse on him, that’d’ve been a doozy, right there. And seeing how hexes bred hexes, who knew? Having met her the once, Morrow certainly wouldn’t have put it past her to try.
But now he blinked free of contemplation, realizing Yancey was repeating something. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, I’ve drunk my fill; looks to me like you have, too. Time to retire, for both of us.”
“Probably best, yes.”
Now even Joe was gone, leaving the whole place vacant. As they paused on the landing, poised to go their separate ways, he asked her (again without thinking, as seemed to be the pattern): “You’ll be all right?”
Fresh ridiculousness piled on top of a whole heap, enough to make him grit his teeth ’til they squeaked. But she didn’t even seem to notice.
“Don’t rightly know, Mister Morrow,” she replied. “I’ll have to, I expect.”
Then, quick as a fawn, she had already crossed over to her room—Geyer’s, rather—and clicked the door to, shutting him in the hall.
Inside “his” suite, meanwhile, nothing stirred, though Morrow doubted Chess was sleeping; he didn’t appear to need to, these days, no more than to eat or drink, dress himself, or keep track of his possessions. Whatever he wanted for, he could conjure—just like anything he didn’t want could be as easily disposed of, with even less warning.
Inside, the moon paled things so they looked almost clean. Chess sat cross-legged on top of the bed, still mainly dressed, back turned and staring out the window, apparently unaware he was no longer alone. His boots lay shucked on the floor, puddled all over with silverish light; the same light touched his hair, and rimmed his sideburns with frost.
But when Morrow came up sidelong, quiet as he could, he realized that Chess might as well not be there at all. Deep in some sort of trance, his green eyes were open but empty, pupils invisible. His skin, cool as a too-deep sleeper’s, barely dented to the touch.
The most amazing thing, seeing him this way, was to realize once more just how young the most ruthless off-hand killer Morrow’d ever met really was—barely older than Yancey herself.
No play tonight, he thought. Just as well, given . . .
So, with a presumption born of long-stood intimacy, he stroked Chess’s eyes shut to save them from dust and pressed him prone, then crawled in next to him and cuddled up, one arm flung ’round him for warmth; no earthly way to tell if that was how Chess wanted it, so why not? They could debate it in the morning.
Ed Morrow let his own eyes close, heavy as though individually weighted—felt his breath slow, ’til his lungs barely seemed to strain.
Then, in the dream he hadn’t even guessed was creeping up on him, he opened them once more . . . only to find himself perched on a ludicrously tiny, filigreed bench in the rock garden out back of Cold Mountain Hotel, with Yancey sat up next to him: ankles crossed delicate, hair neat-dressed, wearing the exact same clothes as when he’d first met her.
“This is where my Mama’s buried,” she informed him. “Where she was, anyhow, if it’s still there. I wonder where they buried Pa?”
“I’m sure someplace just as nice. People liked Mister Colder.”
“They did, didn’t they? I always thought it was more for show than anything else, since there were some at the start—Hugo Hoffstedt amongst ’em—who claimed having a saloon in town invited dicey elements. But after Mama passed, I believe that softened folks toward us.” She wiped at her cheek, briskly. “Knew all along I’d outlive them both, of course; it’s no tragedy, like being forced to bury your children. I just . . . hadn’t thought it would come so soon.”
“I’m sorry for that,” he told her. “Truly so.”
“I know you are.” A pause. “She was born into the Hebrew faith, I think; him too. Don’t quite know what that makes me, considering I was married in a church.”
“Never cared too much on religion, myself. The Rev used to say all it was good for was reasons folks could kill each other over, and I suppose he’d know.”
“What was he like, Reverend Rook?”
Awful, he wanted to say. The sun struck hard against those neat-laid border stones at their feet, picking out the quartz, and dazzled him; there were tiny green sticker plants growing in between, furled and succulent, like thorny roses.
“Gave a fair impression of being good, sometimes,” he made himself reply, “and Chess did love him, in his way. But to tell you the truth—I hope to hell you never have to find out.”
“Am I dreaming this, Mister Morrow? Ed?”
He’d been wondering that himself, somewhat. Beyond the garden, the Hoard’s main street shimmered slightly; the garden’s dust glittered like mica. Yet Yancey stayed cool and fresh, her calm eyes infinitely inviting. Morrow yearned to watch his reflection fill them up, like little grey mirrors.
“Well . . .” he began, slowly. “. . . I know I’m asleep.”
She nodded, yet again. And then, as though that’d decided the matter for her, she climbed up onto his lap, too quick for him to do much more than rock back in surprise—the weight of her plopped astride, pressing hard down on him. One small breast seemed almost to lunge itself into his hand, nipple scarring the palm, as she traced a thumb ’round the shape of his lips like she was measuring his mouth for size, or trying to sell herself on what might be the best thing to do next.
“No need to be over-formal, in a dream,” she said, carefully.
Through a suddenly dry mouth: “Guess not.”
Though he couldn’t’ve told what she tasted of, he somehow knew it was the exact same way he’d always hoped she would. As they kissed with lips and teeth, messily, Morrow thrust his other hand up under her skirts, only to meet with no real resistance; everything just peeled away to his touch, skinned itself the way a flower drops its petals. There was a fine dusting of hairs all up and down the insides of her thighs, dusky-silky, to match the thatch on her innermost parts; when he slipped two fingers inside, a smell emerged both fresh and salt. He groaned at the feel, out loud, and loudly: so long, so damn long. . . .
With a last sticky nip, Yancey sat back, both breasts unlaced and blushing prettily. Said, breathless, “I’m unsullied yet, Mister Morrow, if you’d wondered. Uther and I never got so far; he was old-fashioned in some ways, which I found charming. Still, I’d take it as a great kindness were you to relieve me of that particular burden, if only in metaphor, before waking.”
Morrow blinked, stupid. “Oh. Yes?”
“Yes.” She sat forward, solemn: “Ruin me, Ed.”
“I’ll . . . do my very best.”
A twist, a tumble, and the bench fell away, the garden itself dissolving around them—sand turned to silk, sheets on a phantom bed slipping down ’round both their hips. And they were naked, too—conveniently so, scrabbling and grabbing at each other, with him pressing forward, she straining to widen herself around him. He was simultaneously surprised and not by her apparent understanding of the act, for wasn’t this what dreams were for? To play out in full whatever actions the day’s demands had denied them, truncated by duty’s call or time’s restraints?
One leg wrapped ’round his, calf to calf, while the other arched up and back, so she could hook it ’round his hip; he sunk deep, drawing a double gasp. “Oh God,” she said, through her teeth, as the movement lit them both
up from inside out. “God, sweet Christ, good God Jesus—”
(good God almighty, go on and hit that)
What?
(You heard me, Edward.)
Hands in his hair, digging. Her breath in his ear, a bite grazing the lobe. While the whole of her clamped down on him, back locked in spasm, wet and hot and glorious as spilled blood.
“Harder,” she told him, voice rising and sinking both, a fucked cat’s mean-ass squall. “Harder, harder, Jesus God, who’s the Goddamn faggot here, ’tween the both of us? Stick it in, twist it like you mean it, motherfucker, do me ’til it damn well hurts—I said hard, you dumb ox, HARD!”
“Gah! What the shit-fuck son-of-a-gun—”
Morrow went leaping back, pecker out and near to spitting, from Chess’s violent embrace. Chess bolted upright too, mussed from the bottom up with his customarily immaculate hair sweat-stuck every which way, face red as his wilting prick. To spit out, mouth caught in a betrayed half-snarl: “Were you screwin’ that damn girl in your dreams?”
Morrow clutched at himself, instinctually modest, though it wasn’t like the two of ’em hadn’t seen everything the other had on offer. “What’s it to you, if I was? You even think t’ask me, ’fore you started using me for entertainment?”
“I didn’t think I had to!”
“Then we both know somethin’ new, now, don’t we?”
For all he knew, Chess’d been dreaming too, and couldn’t really help it. But still, Morrow found, he’d genuinely believed they were past all that—how he wasn’t simply some muscle-bound toy for Chess to amuse himself with, some handy object to rub against, but . . . a pal, Goddamnit. The way he most-times felt Chess was to him, these days.
Poised to spit out his ire, Chess abruptly seemed to think better, and let himself settle. Allowing, finally: “S’pose I might’a surprised you.”
“Oh, just a tad.”
“Though it ain’t like you seemed exactly reluctant, at the time.”
Morrow made his voice gentler. “Dreaming, Chess. Just the way you said.”
Those green eyes flared. “Dreaming of her, is what I said.”
“I think she somewhat started it, comes to that. But—yes.”
“That’s right. ’Cause, I mean . . . you don’t even want to be here, with me. Do ya? Not really. Not anymore.”
“I . . . don’t not want to.”
Chess sniffed, dismissively; gave Morrow’s dick a combination of flick and twist, running his nail ’round its uncloaked head just hard enough to hurt, yet still set it humming. “If you’re talkin’ ’bout this thing, I guess not. But don’t tell me you don’t wish I was her.”
Spoiling for a fight, ’cause that always was easier than talking things through—but Morrow wouldn’t be provoked. Instead, he schooled himself enough to answer, fairly amiably, “Which only makes us even, seein’ how you wish I was the Rev.”
Chess didn’t bother to deny it.
“True enough, Goddamnit,” was all he said, at last.
Thinking, so hard Morrow could trace the shape of the words: He put a hole in me, so deep—deeper than my chest, by far. And I only wish he’d done it with a bullet.
Once, Morrow’d thought it impossible for savage little Chess Pargeter to have a heart, let alone one that hurt him, even on occasion. Now that Chess was genuinely heartless, however, pain leaked from his every pore.
Morrow sighed, and opened his arms. “C’mere.”
“I can see inside your head, Ed. Don’t you dare try to pity me.”
“Just come here, you damn porcupine. Or take yourself back off on devil-godly business somewheres else, and let me get some sleep.”
Chess set his jaw, mutinous, before folding himself inside the larger man’s embrace. And Morrow hugged him fast, not holding back: all tight sinew, a contentious gift-box packed full of awful wonders. Or simply a man, fair and foul and singularly made, capable of great harm yet oddly innocent at the core; a man too young to have loved but twice and been sorely disappointed both times, to the cost of everyone else around him.
“It’s all changed,” he half-felt Chess say. “Used to be I was good at this, at least. . . .”
“I always thought so,” Morrow agreed, stroking the back of Chess’s skull. “And you still ain’t no outrager, for all you might’ve used hexation to work your will on me, that first time—hell, you gave me the chance to say no, and I didn’t. So don’t worry yourself about that.”
Chess shook his head. “We both had our fun, as I recall. It’s just . . .”
Here he fell silent, swallowed, as though he couldn’t widen his throat enough to let the conflicting flood of words out, or bear to make himself pick and choose between ’em. So, since he had the option . . . he opened his mind, instead, and let the whole tangled mass come sliding into Morrow’s, with a convulsive wrench.
Just I was out there for hours with my skin left behind, roaming ’round after Sheriff fucking Love, and after all that I still can’t find him, one dead man made of salt in the whole damn world, and it’s like he fell through a crack down into THERE, that place, oh Jesus I don’t want to think about it like someone’s hiding him from me, and who would that be, I wonder—
Not Rook, Morrow thought back, head pounding—Chess’s rageful fear hammering behind his eyes, the world’s worst hangover magnified thousandfold. And not her either, or you’d know, wouldn’t you? Three of you being bound at the neck like you are, in slavery-marriage to this world-wrecking plan of hers.
No, Ed, that’s right. Which means it must be—
—that other fella—
Black-faced and huge, hunched like a crossbones corpse, locust-grinning: The Enemy, Night Wind, He By Whom We Live, Smoking Mirror. And all of it underlaid with Yancey’s trance-took voice, sounding out the syllables of that alien name—
Tezcatlipoca
—that’d be him, yeah—
Thought so, Morrow made himself “reply,” throat filling up quick with bile, ’til his back teeth burned. Then added, out loud and hoarsely: “Think we could maybe switch back to talkin’ with our mouths, ’fore I have to puke?”
Okay, Christ! Pure jolt of annoyance, stomach-punch harsh, that everybody he dealt with couldn’t keep up on a playing field so un-level, it might as well be a cactus patch cut with horse-crippler. Followed by this frankly startling afterthought, given who it came from: “Sorry, Ed. Sometimes . . . I forget.”
“I know you do,” Morrow said, gulping acid, and held him closer.
Cold wind crept in over the sill, drying their sweat together tackily, while a great clumsy grey moth blundered past, in hopeless search of some candle to singe itself on. Out in the darkness lurked all manner of threats, momentarily invisible: Weed seeking to lay itself lovingly at Chess’s doorstep, itzapapalotl flocking, the widening crack down south and the gathering storm up north, with as yet undiscovered trouble no doubt massing to the east and west, to boot. Plus Hex City’s constant lure, casting baited hook-lines in Chess’s direction—power calling to power, tempting him same as any other devil.
“He’s always whispering at me, you know,” Chess said, of the Enemy. “On at me all night and half the day, ’bout all manner of mystic shit—stuff I am, stuff I owe, stuff we’re gonna have to do together. Like I even give a good Goddamn what happens so long’s I can hold that bastard Ash Rook’s beating heart in my hands, take a good big bite, and show him how it feels.”
A shiver moved through him, sickly uncontrolled, raising Morrow’s neck-hairs in sympathy. “What’re you really scared of?”
“Not one fuckin’—”
“Oh, enough!” Snapping, as Chess stared: “You can read my mind, right? That’s gospel. And guess what? You’re leaking like a sieve, same’s whenever you get riled—think I can’t hear? Sure, you’d rather die than admit it . . . but the fact is, this fear you feel ain’t for yourself at all.”
Chess bit his lip, clamping down hard on a swift That’s how much you know, motherfucker. . . .
Yet the images bled through nonetheless, etched in pure sensation: nightmare sketches of the valley scorched, Morrow dead with a hole ’twixt his eyes, Yancey and Geyer in similar poses; Joe took into custody or swung outright, his whole place burnt down. A flood of Pinks, Songbird pulling spells from the air like unpicking silk ’broidery, Asbury with his sparking pain-rope wires, Pinkerton’s maimed grin.
Or, if nothing else—Sheriff Love appearing, inevitably, over the same hill they’d climbed to get here. Hoffstedt’s Hoard again a hundred times over, a hundred times worse.
And each and every part of it consequential not just to what Chess’d done—’cause I’ve done a heap of shit merits killin’, Edward, before and after—but because of what he was: a walking plague, a cursed object. A God- (and gods-) damned hex.
“That was never anything you could’ve done something about, though,” Morrow said. “Not even if you’d suspected. Hell, you could’ve shot yourself in the damn head the minute Rook told you, and all that’d’ve done was bring it on the faster.”
Chess gave a long sniff, mouth twisting. “If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it ain’t working.”
“You’re not the worst thing ever happened, son, is all. No matter how you like to think different.”
“Tell that to the Marshal, that other Sheriff, those yokels from Mouth-of-Praise. To Y—that girl’s—damn Pa.”
“So you’re scared, like I said; no shame in it. You know that already, from the War—fear’s what keeps you upright, keeps you human.”
“Too bad I ain’t, though.”
“You ain’t not, either, fool. Not completely.”
“I can see how it’s going, even if you can’t,” Chess said, at last, his voice all but toneless. “It’s gonna be like the Hoard was, soon enough—everything, everywhere, all ’cause of me. My own damn fault. And though I can do every other fuckin’ thing, I can’t do a thing about that. Can’t even start to know how to try. . . .”
