Unholy Magic dg-2

by Stacia Kane

  “Gotta be the Cryin Man, everybody sayin—”

  “It’s not the Cryin Man,” she said again, barely paying attention. Where was the girl’s purse? It wasn’t on the ground beside the body or anywhere nearby that Chess could see.

  “You ain’t know nothing,” a man scoffed. “How I’m supposed to trust some junkie Churchwitch—”

  The words sliced through her like razor-sharp fangs. Her face flooded with shame, so hot she imagined it steamed in the icy air.

  At least it wasn’t difficult to identify the speaker. All she had to do was look for the man with Terrible’s fist locked around his neck.

  “Ain’t think I hear you right,” Terrible said in a calm, quiet voice. “Wanna loud up?”

  The man shook his head. His eyes bulged. He looked like a bug, with his thin fair hair standing in wisps off the top of his head and his hands clenching into tiny useless fists.

  “You sure? You got else to say, you best say it now, instead of later. Now we got us watchers. Later might not be true, dig?”

  The man dug. So did everyone else in the crowd. Watching them all step back might have amused her if she hadn’t been so humiliated, and so sick at the sight of the dead girl before her. This one was her fault. She hadn’t caught the bad guy, she’d let him get away, and this girl’s blood was on her hands. Just like Brain’s. Fuck, she needed a drink.

  Terrible let go, dropping the man in a gangly heap, and crouched down beside her. “All just the same, aye?”

  She nodded. “And I don’t see her purse.”

  “Elitha, where her purse gone to? She have it when you found her?”

  Elitha was definitely familiar. Chess had given her a cigarette on the corner just a few weeks back. “Ain’t seen it,” she said, blinking back tears. Her thumb drifted to her mouth and she bit the nail, looking for all the world like a little girl playing dress-up. “She gone and I ain’t even can find her purse.”

  “Were you with her?” Chess asked.

  “Were at the house, me. She ain’t showed up there …”

  Terrible took her arm and led her away from the crowd. “You sure now it ain’t the Cryin Man? You find somethin?”

  His eyes told her what he was thinking: he wasn’t even going to dignify the “junkie Churchwitch” comment by mentioning it, wanted to get her mind off it. Maybe it was possible, maybe not, but she appreciated it anyway. If he’d tried to talk to her about it, she probably would have done something stupid like cry. By keeping his silence he allowed her to keep what little pride she had.

  Luckily it also gave her a minute to think. She couldn’t tell him about Vanita, not without coming up with a good reason why she knew. But she did know Remington wasn’t the killer, and why. “I went into the spirit prison today. Remington is there. I saw him. It’s not him.”

  “Fuck.” He stood for a minute, staring at a point just over her head. She could see him reordering his ideas to fit the new information. “Bump wantin me to swing you by him, cool?”

  “What, now?”

  “Aye, if you got time.”

  She thought about it for a minute. She was so tired … Maybe Bump would give her some speed if she went. The Pyles would be expecting her the next day, but at no set time, and hard as it was to believe, it was only one-thirty now. And maybe when she talked she’d think of a reason, an excuse … “Yeah, okay. Just let me get something from my place first.”

  The crowd around the hooker’s body had mostly dispersed. A few stragglers still clumped together off to her right, as if waiting for her to rise. Or maybe they were just unwilling to leave until she’d been collected by whoever was coming to do that job, eager to witness her final indignity as she was loaded into the back of someone’s truck like a piece of furniture abandoned on the curb.

  As if on cue a van pulled up, its headlights bleaching the dead girl’s skin and making her hair glow silver in their cruel sharp brightness. Chess watched, along with everyone else, while the girl’s small, pale form left for her last ride.

  The drive to Bump’s place didn’t take long—just about long enough to hear “Ace of Spades” all the way through—but it felt like forever. Whatever Bump wanted to discuss with her, it couldn’t be good. Since their little deal regarding Chester Airport a few months back they’d barely said two words to each other, and even if they had … When a drug dealer summoned you it was never good news.

  “You right? Know it must be a shake-up, seein them girls.”

  Her Cepts made a bitter, eye-watering mess between her teeth as she crunched them, left her tongue feeling gritty and dry after she washed them down. On top of the three she’d taken an hour and a half ago, and the Nips, she was pushing it, but she couldn’t have given less of a shit at that particular moment. “What about you? You knew them. I didn’t.”

  He hesitated, like he was trying to figure out how best to reply. “Aye. Sure wish we could end this.”

  He glanced at her, slowing the heavy car to a stop near the Market. They’d have to walk across it to get to Bump’s place. “Got a thought for you. What you think iffen I say I hear Slobag got himself a problem just like this?”

  Oh, shit. This was it, he knew, he’d somehow heard …

  That’s why he was taking her to Bump’s place. They suspected her.

  Which was only what she deserved. She was lying to them, and she was going behind their backs. They didn’t know she’d agreed to sabotage Chester Airport for Lex or that she’d discussed their dead hookers with him. Didn’t know she’d been wandering around his side of town earlier, that she got most of her drugs from him, that she was literally sleeping with the enemy. So why was her stomach aching, instead of twisting in fear?

  “Chess?”

  “I didn—Um, Slobag’s been losing hookers?”

  “Aye, what I’m told. Earlier some boy give me the rumor. Ain’t wanted to say it out where any can hear, dig?”

  “I—no, actually. Why don’t you want people to know it’s happening in Slobag’s part of town?”

  He pulled out his cigarettes, raised his eyebrows. Chess nodded and he lit two, handed her one. “Causen some still thinkin it is Slobag, an we ain’t ready to tell them untrue. They worry less, aye, thinkin it’s fightin instead of ghosts.”

  “Damn, Terrible. That’s clever.”

  Dull color crept into his cheeks, visible even in the meager light shining through the windows. “Aye, well,” he said. “Well. Point is, ain’t just our side gettin it.”

  “And this is why Bump wants to see me? Why would he want to talk to me about that?”

  “Could be. He just say me bring you.”

  “So what do you think he wants?”

  “Ain’t sure.” He blew out a thick stream of whitish smoke. It hit the windshield and curled away like the foam at the bottom of a waterfall. “You know Bump. Always wants to hear the knowledge straight from them got it, meanin you, aye. Maybe he got some plan figured up, wants the help from you.”

  He popped the door handle. Cold air shoved itself into the car. “C’mon. Best see what he’s wantin.”

  The Market was still moving, but with the emptiness around the edges that signified a slowdown. The only crowd still visible was the one waiting to get into the pipe room, a snaking semi-formed line of shivering people who barely looked at one another. Chess could almost taste the smoke herself. Maybe after she found out what Bump wanted … She had thirty dollars or so on her. More than enough for a hard little lump of Dream and twenty minutes of oblivion on the curving sofas. Get those eyes out of her mind and give her a safe place to spend some time, too.

  “So what’s workin on your Church case, that dude from the TV? Think they got it real?”

  “I don’t know.” She dragged her gaze away from the lucky horde. “Could be, could be not. I’ll just have to wait and see what else I can dig up.”

  “So them ghosts, meanin if they ghosts. Murdered, aye? Makes em mean up? More than others, dig.”

  “Yep. Th
e ghost of a murder victim … They keep it, if you know what I mean. They stay locked where they were when they died.” Hadn’t she just had this conversation?

  “Aye, some things ain’t easy to move past. No difference how hard you hit, never leaves all the way. Like that? An they wants their fair evens an come back to get it.”

  She blinked, trying to soothe the stinging in her eyes. “Doesn’t work that way, though.”

  “Naw. Ain’t can change aught what’s already done. Only can try an lose the memory, but ain’t can lose it real. So them just keep thinkin on it. Like cars on blocks, don’t go nowhere.”

  His eyes lowered, away from her face to his feet. Chess watched him reach up and rub the back of his neck, watched him pull another cigarette out of his pocket.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I think that’s a lot what it’s like for them. For everyone, really.”

  He blew smoke into the air, his expression changing. “Like this, aye. Wait and see. Only you know how Bump feelin when it comes to the waits. Ain’t make him happy.”

  “Yeah, I get that about him.”

  He gave her a little grunt in acknowledgment as they started walking toward Bump’s place. After a few steps he stopped, his scarred upper lip twisting.

  “What?”

  “Fuck. Hold it here, aye?”

  “But—” she started, but he was already gone, running across the cement. At the far end of the Market a figure moved, spinning away from the gaggle of people hovering around a fire can. Ah. Somebody owed Bump money.

  He’d told her to wait, and that’s what she knew she should do. But she didn’t. Instead she followed, nodding to Edsel as she passed his booth, moving as quickly as she could. Her bag thumped against her leg, reminding her she’d forgotten to show Terrible the eyeballs. Idiot. Well, before they went in to see Bump for whatever it was he wanted, she would.

  Finding him wasn’t hard. Once out of the Market she just followed the begging wails to the next street over.

  Terrible’s victim lay facedown on the pavement, with Terrible’s heavy knee sunk into the middle of his back. Chess slipped into the shadows against the building on the corner. Along the street others did the same, random strangers on the street who knew what was happening and did not want to be involved, did not want their witnessing of the event to be taken as involvement. Terrible had his prey; nobody wanted to be next.

  “Ain’t enough money in it, Nestor,” he said, rifling through the man’s ragged wallet. He pulled out a few tattered bills and stuck them in his pocket. “Ain’t good for you, dig? Bump wantin his money. Almost three months gone you had the owes.”

  Nestor squirmed like an upside-down bug, tried to kick his legs back but couldn’t. “I just need a wee more time, just a wee more—”

  “What kinda work you do?”

  “Huh?”

  Terrible stood, urging Nestor faceup on the cement, keeping his boot on Nestor’s chest. “What kinda work you do, Nestor? You use your hands for work?”

  “N—Aye, aye. In the factory, aye? Makin them clocks, the ones with the—”

  Terrible snapped Nestor’s leg with one heavy stomp. Nestor’s shriek echoed off the walls, burrowed into Chess’s brain.

  Her heart pounded. She should leave. He wouldn’t like her seeing this, she knew. But something held her there, plastered her against the cold brick, watching his body outlined in the phosphorescent glow of the lone streetlight.

  Terrible knelt down and flicked open his switchblade, held it where Nestor’s terror-wide eyes could focus on it. “Next time you ain’t so lucky, aye? Two weeks. Two weeks, an Bump have it all. Or you pay more than lashers, if you dig.”

  Nestor nodded—Nestor’s entire body seemed to nod, but that could have been convulsions. “Please …”

  He winced when Terrible’s beefy hand smacked him lightly on the cheek. “Naw, all done now. You get Bump’s money, we ain’t do this again. Real easy, dig? Ain’t personal.”

  “How if I … how if I get some knowledge? Some knowledge Bump … might can use?”

  “Like what?”

  Nestor shook his head.

  “Aw, shit. Don’t make me get mad, Nestor, aye? Give me the knowledge, maybe Bump give you another week. Ain’t give me the knowledge, you lose a week. This ain’t some game.”

  Nestor whispered something, his sibilants harsh and whistling. Terrible nodded, stood up.

  “You get it, we talk. No promisin, dig? Still got two weeks, I come find you.”

  He stood up, turned. His eyes met hers.

  Her first instinct was to back up farther, to slip around the corner. Too late for that, and honestly, what did it matter? It wasn’t like she didn’t know what he did for a living, hadn’t seen the results of that living before.

  So she just waited for him to join her, leaving Nestor crying on the pavement without a second glance and heading back toward the Market.

  “I forgot to tell you,” she said, her nervous voice loud in the silence. “Somebody left me a present today.”

  “Aye? What—aw, shit. You must joke.”

  “Nope.” She handed him the bag. The outside felt sticky, even though she knew it wasn’t. Like the eyeballs inside were trying to worm their way through the plastic and suck her fingers into their blind depths. “In my car, on the driver’s seat. Outside the Church.”

  “And now we gots us another body outside your place. Damn, Chess. Why you ain’t gave me a ring up?”

  She shrugged, hoped it looked casual. “I figured I’d see you later anyway. I had to work tonight, I needed to get home and sleep.”

  “Ain’t you think them eyeballs might be important? Like maybe you oughta stay off your place, somebody comin after you?”

  “What the fuck was I supposed to do? I’m not stupid. I got the message, okay? But I still live there, and I needed to go home and sleep. For my actual job, you know, the thing I do that doesn’t cause people to break in to my house or leave eyeballs in my car.”

  “That thing you ain’t be able to do, you ignore shit like them eyeballs.”

  They were back in the Market now, winding their way through the last clumps of stragglers. She didn’t bother to wonder why people got out of their way so fast; Terrible didn’t look happy, and she imagined she didn’t either.

  “Look.” She grabbed his arm, made him stop and face her. “Yeah, I probably should have told you about it earlier. But it’s done now, right? I—I’m going to stay on the Church grounds tonight. I’ll be fine.”

  She forced herself to meet his eyes when she gave him the lie, knowing he would believe her anyway. That he would trust her. Shit, she was a sleazeball. Bad enough that she lied about where she got her pills, how many she took. That was her business. But this …

  He didn’t look entirely pleased, but he nodded. “You call me, aye? Anythin go on there. Church might be safe, but them have magic too, aye? Like them Lamaru got past yon spells, got in your place.”

  “Yeah, but they had Randy to tell them how.”

  “And you know them now ain’t got the same? Just keep me straight if aught happen.”

  “Yeah, okay. Okay, don’t look at me like that.”

  “Shit. Anybody try breakin in on you like to find themselves knifed up right, aye?”

  She smiled. “Yep. Especially now I’ve got somebody teaching me how to fight.”

  “Figure you good enough now? Only I ain’t want you takin my job.”

  “Yeah, I thought about it, but I figured I’d let you have it. You know, give you something to keep busy.”

  “Aye, thanks. Thanks for holdin me in yon thoughts.”

  They’d reached Bump’s place now, at the edge of the Market where the wind whistled around the corners. Chess caught a whiff of the pipes, the thick, sweet honey scent carried in the frigid clear air. Without thinking she sucked it down, wished for one miserable minute she were there instead of standing in the cold.

  Waiting to see Bump and find out what illegal task he had
for her to do next.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dangerous magic exists; it will tempt you. This is why a Church employee must be honorable first and foremost.

  —Careers in the Church: A Guide for Teens, by Praxis Turpin

  Terrible reached up and knocked on the plain black door of Bump’s house, while Chess steeled herself for the horror she knew awaited them within. Not Bump himself, but his dubious taste in interior design.

  It had gotten worse. The first thing she saw, after following a nondescript little brunette down the vicious crimson hallway, was Bump seated on the scarlet velvet couch. Above his head floated a new painting she’d never seen before, of a nude woman—big surprise—with her legs spread obscenely wide and a happy smile on her garish face. Whether deliberately or not, Bump had positioned himself right below the center of the picture, so it appeared as though he’d fallen out of her and she was looking down, shocked and pleased to see what she’d birthed.

  Even for Bump it seemed extreme. One quick glance was all Chess could stand, especially when her mind kept removing those cheerful eyes from the woman’s image, kept replacing her grin with the silent dead visages of the hookers on the street. With Vanita’s furious translucent face.

  How many Cepts had she taken? Could she take a couple more? The jitters just weren’t going away, despite her put-on bravery and the brief moment of levity outside the door. The thought of that murder happening right outside her bedroom, the memory of the Crematorium, the eyes … She had her notebook. She could probably afford to take two more. It wouldn’t matter if her mind slowed down a bit, not when she could take careful notes to examine when she was better able to.

  “Been awhile, Ladybird,” Bump said, motioning with one pajama-clad arm for her to sit on the other couch. The pajamas were fur, of all things, a horrid hot pink fur with black zebra stripes. His thin reddish frizz stood up from the back of his head like dander.

  Pajama-clad and uncombed he may have been, but he was still Bump. Against his leg rested a shining black cane with a gold handle, and heavy rings glittered on his fingers, casting tiny sparks of light on the walls.