by Gemma Files
GEMMA FILES
VOLUME THREE OF THE HEXSLINGER SERIES
ChiZine Publications
A TREE OF BONES
FIRST EDITION
A Tree of Bones © 2012 by Gemma Files
Cover artwork © 2012 by Erik Mohr
Cover design © 2012 by Samantha Beiko
Interior design © 2012 by Danny Evarts
All Rights Reserved.
CIP data available upon request
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
[email protected]
Edited and copyedited by Sandra Kasturi
Proofread by Chris Edwards
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE: RAIN-OF-FIRE WEATHER Chapter One
Seven Dials: One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Seven Dials: Two
BOOK TWO: SAVAGE WEAPONS Seven Dials: Three
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Seven Dials: Four
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Seven Dials: Five
Seven Dials: Six
BOOK THREE: THE SIXTH WORLD
EPILOGUE
About the Author
To Steve,
whose contribution grows greater
with every new book:
partner, support, love.
And to Cal,
who keeps my hours full
and my intentions honest.
Otherwise: Elva Mai Hoover, Gary Files,
my surprisingly large roster of friends,
plus everyone else who has found themselves
developing a sneaking taste for
blood-soaked gay porno black magic horse opera.
The story is never over.
Out there in the large dark and in the long light is the breathless
Poem,
As ruthless and beautiful and amoral as the world is,
As nature is.
In the end there’s just me and the bloody Poem and the murderous
Tongues of the trees,
Their glossy green syllables licking my mind (the green
Work of the wind).
—Gwendolyn MacEwen
Poor fool, you are divided at the heart,
Lost in its maze of chambers, blood, and love,
A heart that will one day beat you to death.
—Suji Kwock Kim
PROLOGUE
From a missive sent by former Pinkerton Detective Agency man George Thiel from the Texican “ghost county” of Perdido — abolished in 1858 — to fellow ex-agent Frank P. Geyer, whereabouts unknown. To save paper (and create a crude cipher), sentences are cross-written, first from the bottom left-hand corner to the upper right-hand, then from the upper left-hand corner to the bottom right:
My dear colleague,
I write you this from the shelter of Texas, where fresh disputes w. Mexico are hotly brewing. Though we cannot be sure, repts. indicate a great host ready to march on N. Mexico at the whim of Emperor Maximilian. Said host is composed of Imperial soldiers, Carlotta colonists (who would have ever thought any American, defeated secesh or no, likely to change his citizenship on promise of undisputed slave ownership alone? Yet it has happened, it is happening) and other, even less desirable elements. A second Schism seems almost imminent, and all because cultists conflating Hex City’s devilish doyenne with Mary, Mother of God are streaming up over the Border and making their way to throw themselves at her bony feet, there to gash themselves with stones.
As one might expect, the Hapsburg considers this hexacious seduction of his citizenry further aggression from the United States, moving perilously close to an outright act of war. The Carlottas, in turn, have been ghosting up through Texas to catch and return as many as they can, which doesn’t make our allies happy. Thus far, President Johnson has gotten ’round it by claiming Hex City no longer part of the United States per se, thus implying he has allowed it to secede from the nation — which perhaps explains why he sent Capt. Washford and his Negro brigade down to help Pinkerton in the first place; i.e., so as to not encourage other only recently reintegrated parts of America to backslide. Texas, for example, where civilian government was only restored two scant years back.
One way or the other, our former mutual boss knows neither what he sows nor what the country at large will yet reap, as a consequence. The Texicans, a hot-headed race (to say the least), are poised to meddle, but without information, I fear this would be a fool’s game. So please tell me soonest what has come of your own quest, and address if you will all correspondence to the home of mine inestimable host, Texas Ranger Leander McNelly. Since I have no notion of where you presently reside, I send this via Apache scout. Awaiting further word, I account myself yr. most obt., etc., etc.
From Frank P. Geyer to George Thiel, one week and three days later:
George,
Since Pinkerton’s war on Hex City still rages apace and all notion of intelligence gathering seems frankly to have fallen by the wayside, I write to you directly. I am still wandering the wilderness like Elijah in exile, seeking after those ladies I told you of earlier — Mrs. Marshal Kloves (née Experiance Colder), a Spiritualist of some degree, plus the renegade squaw known as The Night Has Passed and that phantom shamaness she calls “Grandmother” or “Spinner,” who returned from the dead during Sheriff Love’s final battle with Chess Pargeter at Bewelcome.
Rumour has it that the Celestial sorceress “Songbird,” once Pinkerton’s confidante, may also be in their camp, making it the fullest roster of hexation-inclined females we might possibly hope to encounter. But since those same rumours imply she may yet be suffering from what other hexes fallen subject to Doctor Asbury’s vampire methods call the Little Death — i.e. been emptied of her reserves, down to the dregs and after — the prospect of her participation in any sort of revolt against our former boss may be considered moot.
As previously discussed, we have engaged a source inside Bewelcome itself to make contact with Ed Morrow, and possibly gain his observations from inside Camp Pink (since, loyal as I know him to be by nature, I suspect his true allegiance may lie elsewhere). While I fear the man in question essentially unreliable, I yet trust utterly in his ambition, as well as his skills at rhetorical politicking. I will retain his name for now, ’til next we meet in person.
Meanwhile, for all that Chess Pargeter remains supposedly dead, his influence — like that of his former paramour, Reverend Rook — seems to have infected the very landscape around us, altering it almost beyond recognition. Each night and morning, the weather witches of Hex City brew storms, lashing Bewelcome like a second Deluge; monstrous rumours abound, trumpeting creatures unrecognizable by any report. The Red Weed, too, still ranges apace, impinging on settlements with hideous results. What steadholders remain have resorted to routine self-exsanguination in order to drive it back, which in turn only serves to further establish the presence of that thing currently wearing Pargeter’s shape: Lady Ixchel’s sibling and rival, a black god which styles itself our whole world’s Enemy.
This entity roams the battlefield, appe
ars in dreams to voice cryptic warnings, even pops up here and there to “help” one side or the other (its aid, like hers, bought always at the price of fresh-shed blood), before making itself once more scarce. Yet just as its overarching goals remain mysterious, its thirst for the same substance that powers the Lady’s soul-hungry Machine renders the very notion it might be somehow more trustworthy, laughable. Tezcatlipoca is, after all, the god of Chaos, Night, and Magic . . . as much a hex as any other, though writ so much dreadfully larger.
Reverend Rook and his kith aside, George, we are rolled like toys between two opposing devils — one angry, one amused. And increasingly, I cannot any longer begin to decide whose victory frights me more, as a prospect.
Your friend and ally,
Frank.
From a representative agglomeration of newspaper headlines recently filed by San Francisco Californian correspondent Fitz Hugh Ludlow for his series Notes on a Tenth Crusade: At the New Aztectlan Front, with Allan Pinkerton and the 13th Louisiana Regiment of Infantry (African Descent) —
THE HEXACIOUS — THEIR LATEST DEPREDATIONS EXPOSED
Fresh and Exciting Report
of how a Combined Battalion of Pinkertons and Negro Troops
Liberated, at Great Personal Cost,
23 Captives of No Magickal Skill,
Enticed and Enslaved by the Hex-Horde!
HORROR IN THE MOON-LADY’S STRONGHOLD
True Testimony of Victims Reveals
how Men, Women and Children of all ages, all races
Continue to Suffer Imprisonment, Assault (and Worse).
While Pinkerton and his Compact struggle
Vainly against Incalculable Odds,
Innocent Americans still fall Victim to the
Barbarous Old Mexican Practice of
Human Sacrifice!
FRESH NEWS OF THE HEX-WAR’S MAJOR PLAYERS
Agent Edward R. Morrow, Fully Reinstated
After his Flirtation with Outlawry,
while Professor Joachim Asbury,
Pinkerton’s Witch-Finding Weapon Master,
is even now Employed in Discovery of
New Anti-Hexological Methods;
In Bewelcome, Widow Sophronia Love makes no effort to Disguise her Disappointment over the Sad Fact that
Mrs. Kloves, Vigilante Murderess of Sheriff Mesach Love,
Remains, as yet, Un-apprehended.
Pinkerton’s Response: “We have more
Pressing Matters to Worry Over.”
And finally, a notice published in Bewelcome Township’s own Daily Letter:
All citizenry to assemble as of Four O’clock Sharp at the Nazarene Hall for Town Meeting; grievances aired and debate heard.
Resolutions to be voted upon accordingly.
In attendance: Mrs. Sophronia Love (Widow), Reverend Oren Catlin, Mayor Alonzo H. Langobard, with testimony on recent breakthroughs in all matters arcanistric from Doctor Joachim Asbury.
(Though most probably unable to join with us himself, Mister Pinkerton has promised at least one more high-placed representative of his organization will also be in attendance.)
To-night’s reading: Proverbs 2, 20 to 22 —
Walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous.
For the upright shall dwell in the land, and the perfect shall remain. . . .
But the wicked shall be cut off from the earth, and the transgressors shall be rooted out of it.
BOOK ONE: RAIN-OF-FIRE WEATHER
November 11, 1867
Month Fifteen, Day Thirteen Eagle
Festival: Quecholli, or Treasured Feather
During Quecholli, prisoners dressed as deer are hunted as sacrifices to the god Mixcoatl, Cloud Serpent, Lord of the Milky Way. Since Mixcoatl was the first to strike sparks from flint, and is also a god of war — though not on the same scale as Huitzilopochtli, the Lightning-Bearer — this may explain why war is known as in atl in tlachinolli: “the water, the fire,” a flaming rain.
This Aztec trecena (or thirteen-day month) is ruled by Itzpapalotl, the Obsidian-flake Knife, first of all tzitzimime, those female warriors who have been honourably killed in childbirth. Itzpapalotl reigns over Tamoachan, the heaven for dead infants. Here grows the Suckling Tree, which bears over 400,000 nipples; here children can rest, nourished and safe, until they feel ready for reincarnation. She stands for purification through sacrificing that which is most precious.
By the Mayan Long Count calendar, today is governed by Xipe Totec, who provides its shadow soul. It is a day dedicated to Huitzilopochtli, Hummingbird on the Left, sometimes known as the Blue Tezcatlipoca — Lord of all warriors, those who willingly lose their lives in order to keep the current age, the Fifth Sun, moving forward. A good day for action, a bad day for reflection; a good day for invoking the gods, and a bad day for ignoring them.
CHAPTER ONE
Squinting up at full gallop while the rain pelted hard into his face, cold and raw as judgement, Ed Morrow almost thought he saw Heaven open, as on the final day, for: behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.
Digging his knees in, he wished that that particular passage didn’t remind him quite so much of the red beast earlier in Revelation, with its seven heads and ten horns. Let alone that the bulk of his Bible knowledge after Sunday School didn’t come from such a very . . . specific source.
Then thunder detonated, haloing Bewelcome’s pitiful excuse for a Main Street in a glare that flashed from blue-white to red to purulent green. As what looked like a blast of lightning whip-struck past, Morrow threw himself free, hitting the mud with a squelching slam that punched the wind from his lungs; as his horse ran on, unconcerned for any safety but its own, the spell-missile he’d just dodged went sizzling through the rain above him to strike one of Captain Washford’s hapless soldiers full in the face.
Yet no shriek or blood spray resulted: instead, a greyish-dun mass like some wad of dough smashed flat by an angry child sealed tight over the bluecoat’s head, a horrible flesh-bag snapped tight. He threw up arms and legs alike, rifle gone flying, and collapsed — a landed fish flopping, so disoriented he barely knew where best to claw.
With no breath left to swear and his bad knee screaming, Morrow scrambled to the other man’s aid, careful to stay flat as possible throughout, so’s to not present a tempting target. He pried his fingers under the thing’s clayey edge (blood-hot, damp and rubbery to the touch, like flayed muscle) and yanked with both hands ’til it peeled back just a titch, revealing one eye rolled up and a wrist-thick tendril shoved deep ’tween the man’s gagging jaws, bloating his neck’s dark flesh obscenely. Revulsion stomach-punched him, loosening his grip; the death mask snapped immediately back into place, writhing as it did.
Oh no you don’t, you Christ Jesus-puking piece of foulness —
Digging so hard into his breast pocket that the thing he sought fair leapt to his palm, Morrow soon came up with a familiar device, just about the size and shape of a pocket watch. He wound its fob frantically ’til it burst to shrill, buzzing life, then slammed its flat glass face into the wriggling mess, and bore down. A mindless shriek ripped his eardrums under the torrent’s drumming, fierce, yet so high-pitched as to be barely audible — then cut off, sharp as a snuffed candle. Simultaneously, the spell-chunk he gripped commenced to shrivel, gone so fast its dust had washed away almost before Morrow could let go. In its wake, the soldier jackknifed over, retching fit to dump his guts.
Poor bastard.
Apparently, however, this one was an old hand — experienced enough to get himself under control within a few whooping breaths, if nothing else. “Th’ hex . . . one who threw this . . .” he gasped out, casting ’round for his lost gun. “Where’d she . . . ?” Bolting back upright, just as fingers met stock, to holler: “’Hind you, Pinke
rton man!”
Morrow hurled himself clear, Manifold punched up like a tiny shield ’fore he even had a chance to register who “she” might be. Only instinct and speed, along with the device’s last few whirrs, saved his life as another lit cannonball of hexacious smother-flesh struck like a haymaker, knuckle to knuckle; it put him over with his wrist on fire, either broke or paralyzed. The Manifold, caught in between, burst outright, taking the spell with it — greasy shreds and gears sprayed everywhere, pattering down into the muck, while impact knocked what was left of his weapon from his hand, leaving him defenceless.
Morrow rummaged for his pistol, praying ’gainst all hope he’d somehow managed to keep his powder dry. But his eyes stayed on the girl, similarly froze maybe ten feet away, rain skittering clear of her like she was galvanized: no more than twenty, tall and lovely, her hair a braided mahogany crown. The ragged hem of a once-fine green dress mended with thread of living light just brushed her ankles, disclosing bare feet sheathed in black mud.
Poised to attack? No. Might be she didn’t understand his Manifold was gone, or had actually never before seen one at work, in close quarters. Might be she was an essentially gentle girl in bad circumstances, unfit for fighting, except at self-elected Hex City general “Reverend” Asher E. Rook’s beck and call. One way or the other, however, and with all power disparity momentarily set aside — in that same throat-catching shared heartbeat, she seemed almost as terrified as they were.
The instant Morrow finally got his gun free, her horror flashed to panic like lucifer-lit touchpaper. She flung one arm skyward, calling out to someone unseen: “I’m threatened, can’t see my way clear — help me, sissy!”
Was that flat-vowelled accent of New York extraction? One of Hank Fennig’s wives, then, Morrow thought, only to have it confirmed when the answer came back from high above — feminine likewise, but well-touched with County Cork, its hoarse musicality worn thin by shouting above the storm.
