City of Ghosts

by Stacia Kane

  She got out of the car, grabbing the tracker and her bag. “I’m going to take a look,” she told his back. “Come along if you want.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  They ordered the underground spaces be filled, for venturing beneath the surface of the earth can only lead to danger and destruction. There the dead have more strength; there does energy increase.

  —The Book of Truth, Origins, Article 355

  Of course, she didn’t know where the tunnel entrance was, but it had to be around somewhere. Most of the other ones were hidden back off the streets; they tended to be short rusted doors, with traces of faded gray paint in splotchy patterns and the occasional street tag or “Fuck you” scratched into them.

  They were triple locked, heavy and hard to open, too, but she wasn’t worried about that. Enough furious energy coursed through her at that moment she figured she could lift a car if she needed to.

  Her leg started to sting as she stomped up the road, so she grabbed another couple of Cepts and washed them down while she moved. Okay, no doors here … but she’d learned through experience that there were usually doors every five hundred feet or so along each tunnel. And if she was right about a tunnel being there—which she had to be—there had to be a door of some kind. The tracker said the sensor was there, and machines didn’t … Hmm.

  The tracker had maps programmed into it. Lots of maps.

  Technically the tunnels belonged to the Church, just like everything else. But they’d originally belonged to the city and been part of some sort of transportation or municipal system or something; might some record of those systems still exist? The Black Squad had access to a lot of information, information other Church branches didn’t have.

  Worth a shot, anyway.

  A shot that paid off. After ten minutes or so of fiddling she managed to bring up the maps menu. None existed for the tunnels, but there was one for utilities, and on that map she noticed some little doorlike lines at set intervals. In fact, one of them was at Forty-ninth and Cross—right around the corner from her place. That was the tunnel Lex used to get to her. She’d found the right map.

  From there it was a simple matter of scrolling up until she found the address of the Stop Shop and then moving the cursor around until she found the closest tunnel entrance, which appeared to be at the end of the block. Yes! She’d been right.

  The little triumph was enough to make her forgetful; she turned, smiling, back toward the car to see Terrible heading in her direction.

  “I found it,” she started, then saw his second of hesitation. Right. He wasn’t going to share her happiness in this, was he? Wasn’t going to tell her how smart she was or act impressed. Her smile fell.

  “There’s an entrance up here. Eightieth and Foster.”

  He took the tracker from her, checked it himself. Did he think she was lying about that, too? “See, it’s that line there—”

  He jerked away from her. “Aye. Let’s us go then.”

  With no choice but to follow, she did; down to the corner and then, when they didn’t find the door, around it.

  Still no door.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s on the map,” she said, a little defensively. “Maybe it’s in the building? What is this building, anyway?”

  The structure at the corner was one of those most rare of Downside creatures: a building with its windows and doors intact, or rather, windows and doors still mostly boarded over. The boards looked fresh, too. New, or at least newer; they hadn’t warped completely yet. Her practiced eye told her they’d been up three, maybe four months tops.

  Terrible must have been thinking the same thing. “In there, aye?”

  “Worth a try, I guess.”

  It took him only a minute to rip the boards off one of the back windows, while Chess waited a few feet away in the alley. The breeze was picking up, bringing with it the fresh, slightly ozone scent of impending rain; the air around her was heavy with it. She shivered. Going underground, into the tunnels … not the way she wanted to spend an afternoon. Going into the tunnels with someone who hated her? Yeah, that didn’t exactly make it more appealing.

  But her Cepts were kicking in nice and slow, and if she was lucky they might actually find something useful. Not that she expected to get lucky, but thinking about it was at least a diversion. She didn’t want to watch him in action—well, she didn’t, but she couldn’t help sneaking glances, watching the muscles in his arms bulge, remembering how they’d felt around her.

  She hadn’t let herself think about that, not once. It was better that way.

  He hoisted himself over the sill easily, was halfway across the floor by the time she reached the window.

  Luckily he had a flashlight. As she made her own careful way over the ledge the first few drops of rain fell, fat heavy drops that splattered cold on her bare hands and scalp, and the clouds overhead grew even darker.

  Inside the building all was black, save for the circle brightened by the flashlight. It swept over the bare, clean floor, over the walls innocent of paint. In the corner hung a rickety shelf; it was the only thing in the room that could even remotely be considered decoration.

  But the energy was there. The second her foot touched down inside the building she felt it. Subdued, hidden by whatever they were using to mask it, but there nonetheless. The energy of death and ice-cold hearts and slithery things; it sneaked up her legs, circled her waist, tried to pull her down into its secrets.

  She shuddered. Oh, no. The last thing she needed was to have that shit forced on her, on top of everything else.

  Her chalk was in her bag, as always. She scrawled a sigil across her forehead and on the back of her left hand, then paused for a minute. Was it worth it to switch her shoes onto the wrong feet? No. The floor had been swept, and recently; not even the finest coating of dust covered the bare cement.

  “Come here,” she said, interrupting his slow flashlight sweep. “They’ve—ow—there’s definitely been some magic here. You should have some protection.”

  He shook his head.

  “Terrible … come on. Especially if we’re going to go underground, you really should let me do this, okay?”

  The light kept playing over the ceiling, the walls and floor. He waited just long enough for her to open her mouth again, then sauntered over to her, letting her know by the way he moved that he gave his consent with great reluctance. Like she didn’t already know that.

  Quickly she drew a protective sigil like hers on his forehead, another on his temple. He refused to admit he’d felt anything when they’d seen Maguinness, and she knew he wouldn’t admit it if he felt anything there, but she was worried enough to think he needed something extra.

  She licked her lips, focused her gaze over his right shoulder. Looking him in the eyes probably wasn’t a good idea. Not after what had happened the last time she’d marked him, after what he’d said to her then. “Hey, seriously. Have you felt any different or anything since—since the hospital? That sigil might have some kind of weird—”

  “Ain’t talkin this shit with you, dig? Why the fuck you keep askin?”

  “Because I want to help you. If—”

  “Don’t need your fuckin help.”

  “You needed it that night.” Her eyes stung. She hadn’t meant to do this, hadn’t intended to start this conversation, but now that they were there, alone in the big empty room while rain thundered down outside and made a low rumble against the walls, she couldn’t stop herself. The words tumbled out, backed by every lonely, miserable thought she’d had since the night he’d caught her in the graveyard; she couldn’t seem to stop them. “You would have died if I hadn’t—I saved your life. Can’t you just—”

  “Aye? An I recall savin yours once or twice myself. Maybe makes us even. Ain’t make us aught else.”

  “I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t, that’s not what I wanted, not ever. I was going to end things with Lex, but we were at the graveyard and that sex mag
ic they’d been doing—”

  “Aw, shit. Ain’t fuckin believe this. We here to work, or chatter? Got better things I could be doin.”

  “I just want to talk to you. To explain to you—”

  “Talk?” He shook his head; she saw his profile in the dull glow of the flashlight’s beam, his eyes closed. “Why? Got more lies to give me?”

  “I didn’t lie! Not about wanting—”

  “Ain’t chatterin on this no more. Let’s just get this done, I can get you back. Makin me … makin me sick just bein in the same room as you. Dig?”

  Yeah. Yeah, she dug. It was over. Really, really over; she’d never heard him talk to her that way before, that flat, cold detachment. Every hope she’d had, every stupid, naïve, idiotic little hope that one day he would forgive her, that there was still some kind of future there, that she hadn’t fucked everything up, died. Just … died, there in the empty cement-gray room.

  All those years she’d been alone, and she’d never felt loneliness like that, a fist in her chest.

  She cleared her throat, loud in the heavy silence. Cleared it again, hoped that when she spoke her voice had some strength in it, that he couldn’t hear how close she was to losing it completely. “Okay, then. Let’s look for that door.”

  There was a door, a low one back in the far corner of the building. They walked through it, into the tunnels, the tracker emitting quiet little beeps; the farther they walked, the closer together the beeps came. The farther they walked, the harder the restless energy beat against her skin.

  Their feet sloshed through a grayish stream, barely half an inch deep. It disappeared about a hundred feet along the way through a hole in the floor. They peered down into it; magic breathed up from the dark space below. Chess figured they were right before the Stop Shop then; whatever the tracker had found, it was down there.

  “Ain’t look too far down, pretty straight bottom.” Terrible crouched by the opening, angled the light farther. “You go first, aye?”

  “I—Oh. Sure.” He’d rather dangle her down than catch her at the bottom. Of course. Less physical contact that way.

  His hands gripped hers tightly; she set her feet on the edge and swung down.

  For a second she hung there in the darkness, with the warm breath of the room swirling over her skin; her shirt rode up, exposing her stomach. Completely vulnerable. She had no idea how far down it was. No idea what she would land on. All she could do was trust him, and he hated her.

  He let go.

  She hit the cement with a knee-creaking thud, fell to the side, and landed on her injured thigh.

  Whether her scream brought him down so fast or whether he’d planned on following her immediately she didn’t know. She was too busy trying not to cry after her initial, helpless shriek. Oh, that hurt, that really fucking hurt; like the fire had started again, the knife slashed through her skin again.

  “Chess! You right? What’s got you?”

  “I’m fine,” she managed, but the light hit her in the face, and she didn’t manage to turn away quickly enough to hide the tears on her cheeks.

  “Aw, shit. I drop you on somethin? Ain’t seen aught down here, dig, ain’t meant to—”

  “Don’t.” She lifted her right hand from her leg and held it in front of her face, trying to block the light. Her entire body trembled from the shock of the sudden, intense pain. It was too much, on top of everything else. The slight energy she’d felt upstairs was stronger here; they must have done their rituals in this room. It didn’t feel old, either. They’d been there recently. Her skin buzzed with it. The tracker beeped faster in her bag.

  It probably meant something, but at that moment she was too tired and in too much pain to care.

  “Aye.” Metal scraped on cement; he propped the flashlight off to the side. “Ain’t in the eyes now, aye? What’d you do? I ain’t meant to—”

  “Fuck, just … don’t, okay?” Shit, she was pitiful. “Please don’t do that. Please.”

  “Aye, right. Ain’t doing nothing, aye? Just sittin here, you just take—”

  “Would you fucking stop it?” She buried her flaming face in her knees. Couldn’t look at him while she spoke, the words rolling out like the tears down her cheeks. “Don’t—don’t talk to me like you care about me, okay? I can’t—I can’t take it, please, just don’t.”

  Silence. Shit. He probably didn’t even have contempt left to feel for her now. Didn’t even have hatred left.

  And her leg hurt like a motherfucker, too. She gave it an experimental stretch; it blazed in response. The bandage felt loose, the skin beneath it sticky; she was bleeding again.

  Okay. She needed to pull herself together. Bad enough she’d made a fool of herself up in the building; bad enough she’d let fly with her Downside’s-most-pitiful line a few seconds before. She could not give in, could not allow herself to start crying now, because if she started she wouldn’t stop.

  “Ain’t meant to drop you on somethin,” he mumbled again. “True thing.”

  “You didn’t.” That wasn’t too bad. At least she didn’t have that awful warbly tone in her voice, that hovering-on-the-edge-of-tears thing. “I was in a fire last night and—Aaah!” Damn it! Now her wrists joined the fun. Was there some other part of her body that would like to erupt in pain? Maybe something from the ceiling could fall and smash her toes. “My leg got burned. Could you turn around, please?”

  “At the slaughterhouse? Them Lamaru got you there?”

  Was he trying to hurt her? Oh, right. Yeah, he probably was. “Could you turn around, please? I need to check my leg.”

  She caught only a glimpse of his face, pale in the weak light, before he gave her his back.

  Her hands shook a little as she slipped off her jacket—she didn’t want the sleeves getting in the way—then unzipped her jeans and carefully slid them down her legs; they caught on her boots. Duh. Nothing more fun than planting her ass against the cold, damp cement wall behind her while she pushed them off her feet, followed them with her jeans, and her socks when they tangled in the jeans and she didn’t feel like fighting them. The room’s energy skittered over her skin, an uncomfortable feeling like dry wrinkled fingers stroking her.

  Yeah, the bandage had come loose, and yeah, she was bleeding again. Luckily, she’d thrown some things into her bag; unluckily, Terrible had moved it aside when he landed, and it was now just beyond him.

  Shit. “Could you hand me my bag, please?”

  “Aye, got it—”

  She hadn’t thought he would turn around to hand it to her; she hadn’t thought to grab her jeans and hold them in front of her. His eyes traveled up and down her bare legs, stopped on her wounded thigh.

  “Ain’t just look like a burn,” he said. Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little strained?

  Best to ignore it. “One of them had a knife and—Ow, dammit!”

  “He ain’t got you, aye?”

  “Ha, no. I got him, though. He …” She stopped. Stopped, because he wasn’t listening to her anyway. She knew that look. Had seen it on other men’s faces before, had seen it on his face before.

  But he wasn’t moving; she wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Only his gaze kept in constant motion, up and down her legs, lingering on her breasts; she didn’t have to look down to know her nipples were poking at her T-shirt through her thin cotton bra.

  Her tongue felt swollen three or four sizes too big. Should she say something? But what? She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to break the spell.

  But just because he was there, and looking at her, didn’t mean anything. Just because he’d shoved his left hand into his pocket and his right shook slightly as he held her bag, that didn’t mean anything either.

  They were stuck there, staring, while the air around them waited and the tracker gave the occasional beep. And she had a choice. She could walk up to him, press herself against him, and hope he wouldn’t turn away—hope he didn’t shove her away, which would be so humiliating s
he didn’t think she could ever get over it—or she could try to talk to him. Really talk to him.

  Neither seemed like the right thing to do, but then when had she ever done the right thing?

  “They—Lex, I mean—kidnapped me, right after that first night you took me to Chester.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  We must not simply atone for our sins, our crimes against Truth, with words. We must atone for them physically as well.

  —The Book of Truth, Laws, Article 323

  True to form, wrong thing. His face darkened; he stepped away. “Ain’t—”

  “He told me if I let Bump use the airport they would kill me. And I believed them, I mean, they kidnapped me from my apartment building. And maybe I should have come to you—I should have, I know that now—but I didn’t know you then, not like I did later. Not like I do now. And by the time I did it was too late. So I agreed. I didn’t want to but I agreed, and they gave me—they gave me stuff for free. That’s all it was.”

  “Ain’t looked like—”

  “And yeah, eventually I—I started seeing him.” Her mouth was so dry. She needed a drink, but was afraid to stop. He was listening; he wasn’t happy about it but he was listening, and she was not going to let him out of this—this whatever it was, it wasn’t a tunnel, it was some kind of room—without hearing the rest of the story. She had to tell it to him, couldn’t stand having it sit in her stomach like a lump of coal anymore.

  “But what happened at the airport didn’t happen because of him, honest. It was all I could do, the only way to beat the thief. And I never told him anything about you, or about Bump, or anything, and I didn’t—He was just a friend, really. I never cared about him like I—It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t about that, it was just—”

  He spun around. His eyes were slits in his angry face; his fury stretched between them, oozed sticky and dark over her already tender skin. Her heart hammered in her chest. “Why the fuck you givin me this? Think this supposed to, to fuckin make all better? You—”