Unholy Magic dg-2

by Stacia Kane

  The headboard was padded in thick gray suede. Chess felt carefully over every inch of it, but no odd lumps marred the smooth expanse of fabric.

  The painting of Kym Pyle was heavy and awkward to remove, but Chess did. Pay dirt. A tiny hole, about the size of the head of a pin. It wasn’t directly behind the frame, but the mere presence of the frame hid it; it blended into the shadow unless someone inspected carefully. A small camera lurked back there. A camera … or a projector.

  It could almost have been Church-made, that setup, so small and clever was it. She couldn’t remove it to find out for sure what it was, and she wasn’t sure how they managed to use it, either.

  Her electric meter provided the answer. Low-level readings led her to the floor, where a small flap of the baseboard was removable. The lens in the wall was nothing more than a wireless transmitter or receiver; the corresponding element sat on the floor inside the wall, and the A/V wires from it ran off to the right….

  Into the bedside table. Chess opened it and found the machine itself. An awfully sophisticated setup. What exactly were they using it for? To record, or to project?

  She pulled it out and, after making sure it was off, found that the switch on it was set to receive. Of course that didn’t mean it always was. Perhaps they had something set up for her, a little display for the next time she stopped by in the early evening. Such a setup wouldn’t work at night. The cone of light from a projector, even a holographic one, would be too easily seen. But at dusk, when the light took on that unusual absorbent quality and all the electric lamps in the world didn’t seem to brighten the insides of rooms … then it might fool anyone. Might even fool her, at least until she realized it might look like a ghost, but it didn’t feel like one.

  Well, if they liked cameras … none of the video recorders she had on her were small enough, but she’d bring some next time and hide them. The curtain rods were big gold bars, with ornate finials at the end; she could run a wire and minicamera behind them without much trouble. Meanwhile she could find out what exactly they were recording on their own.

  Chess opened the drawers and found a startling array of vibrators and other sex toys—a few of which she couldn’t figure out—but no disks for the recorder/player.

  She found them under the bed, among some boxes of black lace nighties. Seven of them, unlabeled. She’d have to find out what they were later, and with that in mind she copied them one by one on the little scanner/recorder she’d brought. It would have been easier, and probably a clearer picture in the end, if she’d used their recorder, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  She put the penlight back in her mouth to photograph the little setup, closed the door, put the disks back under the bed, and started on the dresser. All Roger’s belongings. Kym’s would be in the closet, which Chess would inspect next.

  Six drawers filled with nothing but underwear, socks, and plain undershirts, not so much as a nudie magazine hidden under the clothes. She guessed nudie mags were unnecessary when you had not only Kym, but an assortment of willing party guests whenever the mood struck. A quick swipe with the electric meter confirmed nothing hiding beneath the drawers or the dresser itself.

  Kym’s closet—Kym and Roger’s closet, technically, as about a third of it was devoted to men’s clothing—was almost as large as the bedroom itself. Chess stepped inside and jumped, her heart pounding.

  A mirror. Idiot. A wide, full-length mirror, of course. Beside it, a dressing table surrounded with darkened bulbs.

  She circled the room with her Spectrometer, getting only a few random beeps, then again with the sensors of the electric meter. Still nothing. Nothing in the hundreds of pairs of shoes, racks four rows high, lining the walls. Nothing in the pockets of any of the silky trousers, nothing in the linings of the fur capes. She used her mirror on its long handle to check the shelf, just a little too high for her to see over.

  There was no way to put it off anymore. She’d have to check the bathroom.

  It waited for her, seeming to breathe a sigh of welcome when she stepped onto the dark marble floor. In the dim, cold moonlight coming through the frosted window the entire room looked wet, slick with something dark and unpleasant.

  The unit on her belt gave a tiny buzz. People upstairs? She hadn’t heard voices or footsteps, but electronics did not lie. She flattened herself against the wall and waited, straining to hear something.

  But instead of what she expected, there was only silence, growing ever louder until her ears throbbed with it. What was going on? Was someone just standing in the hall—or, given the type of party this apparently was, fucking in it?

  Being caught wouldn’t be the end of the world. The documents the Pyles had signed when they turned in their complaint gave Chess and any other Church employees free rein to enter their property at any time with or without notice. But it was bad form, being caught. A sign that perhaps you weren’t as good as you should be. Atticus Collins still hadn’t lived down the time he’d forgotten to use his Hand; he’d been caught searching through a drawerful of lingerie by an angry, gun-toting husband who thought Atticus was some kind of home-invasion pervert. For months afterward he’d found panties everywhere he looked, including attached to his car’s antenna.

  She could just imagine what sorts of things would be tossed at her if she were caught at the Pyles’ place. Ugh.

  She wasn’t going to stand here against this stupid wall all night, either, so after her watch ticked off five minutes she decided she’d had enough. Her head was starting to ache from standing tense in place like that anyway.

  Her light scanned across the ceiling, revealing nothing. Not even a spiderweb in one of the corners, no surprise there. She did find a tiny seam of shadow on the nearest wall, which proved to be a small cupboard.

  Bleach, disinfectant, scrubbing cleanser, bleach emulsion to cling in crevices, spare disinfecting toilet disks to make the water blue—why would people want to make their own bathrooms look like public toilets when you could get disks that didn’t dye the water?—scrub brushes, sponges, gloves … The entire cupboard reeked of bleach and cleansers, as though one of the bottles had spilled. It was making her light-headed, making her eyes sting.

  The Spectrometer showed some extra interest around the sink, which had been restored to its original sparkling white. Chess leaned over, ready to shine her light down the drain—

  And almost jumped out of her skin when a face flashed in the mirror, just behind her right shoulder.

  The penlight fell, bouncing off the marble with a series of clacks and clatters, rolling to the edge and finally falling on the floor. Chess searched the room, found nothing.

  She had not imagined that face. A woman, her eyes pale pupilless orbs set in the furious visage of her face. Tangled hair hanging in clumps down over her shoulders. Lips curled in a snarl … Chess shuddered, tried to get control of herself, and shuddered again.

  This time it did not stop. Her hands seemed controlled by someone other than herself. She tried to lift them to push her hair back from her face, to rub her forehead, but they trembled like she was in the throes of a seizure.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. When had it gotten so cold in here? The marble at her back froze her spine. She couldn’t move, couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  A sound, barely audible, from the bedroom. She couldn’t identify it, but when she turned to look she saw a pale shape taking form …

  Her grip on her arms started to hurt, but she couldn’t let go. The hazy mass writhed, trying to find its form, then snapped into being with sudden clarity.

  A man. Faint folds and lines indicated trousers and a loose, tucked-in shirt. He hadn’t seen her. His attention was focused on the empty bed, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he didn’t see it. He saw shapes there, sleeping forms. He must, because his translucent arms lifted and the sharp head of the axe formed a steep angle with the ceiling.

  The axe came down.

  She bit her lip
hard enough to taste blood, but barely felt it. All she felt was a miserable sickness, fear and shame at that fear, the horror of witnessing a gruesome murder almost a hundred years after it happened …

  The axe came up again, and down. Up, and down again. She could practically see blood spurting from the long-buried figures on the bed, practically smell the—

  The smell. The smell was back, waves of choking foulness that left her gasping on the floor. She couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t stand it. The window was only ten feet away, across the wide expanse of dark marble floor.

  As quietly as she could she reached into her bag, using every bit of her strength just to get her hands to obey. She was prepared this time, with graveyard dirt and asafetida. She’d even brought some melidia with her, just in case.

  She’d take her chances with the ghost. She needed air. Had to have it, or she would die. Her stomach churned, her head pounded like she’d drunk a case of beer the night before, and spots flashed before her eyes, but the window was there.

  She curled her legs beneath her, gave the figure in the bedroom one last look, and leapt for it.

  Chapter Ten

  A further note: The spells within contain common, legal ingredients. You may be told you can gain greater results by using herbs or symbols forbidden to the public. Don’t believe it! Forbidden herbs are forbidden for a reason.

  —You Can Do This! A Guide for Beginners, by Molly Brooks-Cahill

  She couldn’t see him anymore, didn’t know for sure if the figure she’d glimpsed in the mirror was gone or was even now creeping up behind her again. Her throat closed, rebelling against the stench. She ground her teeth to hold in the coughing fit. It was no longer a matter of wanting to open the window. She needed to if she hoped to remain conscious.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up while her weak, numb fingers groped at the latch, finally lifting it.

  Icy air plunged into the room, fresh and clean and the best fucking thing she’d ever tasted in her life. She sucked it into her lungs like it was Dream and she had only a minute at the pipe. Risking a ghost attack, she leaned out as far as she dared, letting the moonlight bathe her skin, letting the wind chill it.

  The second the nausea started to abate she turned around to check the room. Nothing. For the next several minutes she sat there on the cold windowsill, breathing and looking around, breathing and looking around. She still had her bag with her; now that her fingers had returned to her control she grabbed a handful of dirt. It grounded her, made her feel stronger.

  Strong enough, finally, to get up and tiptoe back to the bedroom door.

  Gone. The ghost was gone. Moonlight entered the room again. The bed was still neatly made, the walls free of blood. It looked as though nothing at all had happened.

  Maybe nothing had. Highly unusual for a ghost to appear and take no notice of a living human, especially not the ghost of a murderer reliving its crime.

  Of course, it was also highly unusual for her to feel so awful for no reason. The throbbing in her head wouldn’t let up, hammering behind her eyes. Her throat was like sandpaper. She took a drink from her water bottle, but it tasted off, bitter and metallic, like old dirty pennies.

  Her legs shook beneath her, but she managed to retrieve her penlight from where it had rolled beneath the countertop. The room was still cold, but it was a natural cold. She did not want to take the chance of closing that window again. Even now that the visitation had apparently ended she could still smell that horrible rotten odor, faint but present, like the lingering stain of a bad memory.

  She was just about to straighten up when something under the sink caught her eye. A shinier spot on the silver pipe, where the metal had been scraped … as if the plumbing had recently been worked on. Or tampered with.

  This time she shone the light down the drain, steeling herself for roaches or blood or who knew what else that might decide to crawl out of it. Perhaps there was a smaller, inner pipe in there, or—

  “Check that window.”

  Fuck! She spun around. The open window taunted her, a blank hole in the pale wall. She’d forgotten about the security staff. They’d be making their regular rounds, of course—she’d watched them do it from the woods.

  Cursing silently, she snatched up her bag and raced out of the bathroom. The unit on her belt buzzed again—were they already in the hall? She pressed herself against the bedroom wall by the door but heard nothing.

  Three long, quick steps carried her across the corridor—no time to retrieve the alarm from beneath the carpet—and back into Arden’s room.

  She hadn’t removed the ward from the top of the stairs, either. Confused male voices floated toward her, anxious chatter from women farther away. The party guests weren’t pleased by the interruption, she assumed. Not that she could blame them.

  Two choices. Stretch the ladder and risk getting busted at the bottom, or hide in Arden’s closet. Neither appealed. Especially if they did a search of Arden’s room and found either the missing wire or—well, her.

  It would have to be the window. She yanked the ladder from her bag with her right hand while sliding the window frame up with her left.

  On second thought. The voices grew louder. They’d be at the door any second. Thirteen feet … seven and a half feet taller than she was.

  Busted, or injured? Injured won. In one motion she gripped the freezing sill and slid over it.

  A second to hang there, like a target painted on the side of the house. Another to fall.

  Pain shot up her legs, but she didn’t think anything was broken. She stumbled to her feet and ran, glancing back once she’d reached the safety of the trees to see the guards coming around the corner of the house.

  They left Lex’s car on Fifteenth and walked the rest of the way; there were places below Thirtieth where even Slobag’s men felt the need for caution, and the two of them were heading for one of those. Just what she needed. Not that she didn’t trust him to keep her safe; she did, as much as he was able. It was just that she could think of better ways to spend a freezing night than wandering the streets. Especially when all he’d told her when he called was that he might have some information, and she should hop on over to his place.

  Lex took her hand and led her into an alley. If it hadn’t been so cold, she might have been suspicious, but as it was she doubted he had anything of interest in mind.

  Of course, she’d been wrong before. His lips were cold, but they warmed up fast. Too bad she couldn’t say the same for his hands. The second they slipped up under her shirt she yelped.

  His laugh puffed against her throat. “Cold hands, aye?”

  “Like ice.”

  “Sorry.” He teased her earlobe lightly with his teeth. “Maybe you got somewheres warm I can put em?”

  “In this weather? No way.”

  “Aw, never mind that. Just pretend we back in my bed.”

  “But we’re not in your bed. We’re in an alley. Someone could walk by and see, even if it wasn’t freezing outside.”

  “Part of the fun, ain’t you think so?” His teeth moved down to her neck. “C’mon, Tulip, let’s us heat up.”

  She gave a small, choked half-giggle. “Is this why you brought me here?”

  “Nay, but you looking awful cute in that Churchy coat, aye? Like them big buttons down front.”

  He kissed her, up against the dirty brick wall. She moved her own numb hands to his thighs, slid them up beneath his leather jacket and the hem of his ragged sweater until she found bare skin. He gasped and jumped back.

  “Cold, huh?”

  “You ain’t hadda do that, now. Coulda made your point some other ways. See? Mean.” But he was smiling, and so was she. “Maybe I oughta hold them hands out the way, what you say? Like this …”

  Her wrists hit the bricks, rough and cold against her skin. Her heart rate sped up.

  “Look like I got you all held up now, me.”

  “Looks like it,” she agreed. His lips were in
ches from hers. “But if we’re supposed to meet someone, isn’t it a good idea to actually go and meet them?”

  “Aw, damn. You always worryin about stuff like bein where we say we gonna be.” He let go, stepped back. “But whyn’t you come here anyway, share you some body heat for a minute, then we get moving on.”

  She pressed her back against his chest, let him wrap his arms around her. It was warmer this way, she had to admit, even if it did feel strange to be this close to him and not actually doing anything but standing. Strange, but not totally uncomfortable; it was nice to have someone there after the horror of the Pyle bathroom earlier. She hadn’t wanted to come out, hadn’t wanted to do anything but sit at home under her tattered blanket, but … people could die. Women could die. She figured a little physical inconvenience was a worthwhile price.

  “So who is this guy again?”

  “Huh. Name of Hat Trick, but best you ain’t recall it, aye? Not a safe place we headed, Tulip. Keep that knife you got handy.”

  “And I get to go along because …?”

  “Who else? Hear he maybe got some knowledge, figure best you come along. Maybe he know something bout what the ghost for, aye? Only I ain’t knowing if he speak true or not. You know it. So you here.”

  “That’s true.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. They were, as best she could tell, by one of the abandoned warehouse blocks growing like toadstools around Fifteenth. Deep in Slobag’s territory now, where tin wind chimes hung in broken windows to amuse the squatters within. Their off-key jangles rode the wind toward her, discordant and disconcerting.

  “You brought all them stuff you use, aye?”

  “No, Lex, I left it all at home because it’s such a nice night for a walk. Of course I brought it.”

  “Just checking, is all. No need to get fratchy.”

  “I’m not, I’m just—it was just a joke.”

  “Aye. Sorry.”

  She rolled her eyes without letting him see and kept walking. He always seemed to have in his head that she was much touchier than she actually was.