City of Ghosts

by Stacia Kane

  She turned to them, gave them one last inspection. “Remember what I said, okay?”

  They nodded. Their fear drifted through the air to her. Another thing to fight. She had enough problems of her own without worrying about their feelings.

  One deep breath for luck, one more to center herself. “Let’s go.”

  She pushed the door open and stepped through the thick magical barrier and the wall of iron chains into the City of Eternity.

  The men gasped. So did she, but for a different reason. The ceremony was in full swing; she could see the huddled mass of blue-robed figures a hundred yards or so away, could feel their power sweep through her like a nuclear blast and shake her just as hard.

  She didn’t want to be noticed, not yet. So she crouched down, motioned with her hand for the men to do the same, and started moving carefully across the uneven dirt floor, not taking her gaze off the Church group ahead.

  They moved in a slow circle, chanting. Words of power bounced off the smooth dirt walls, rose hundreds of feet into the air and crashed against the distant ceiling. Some of the light came from the candles inside the salt circle the Church employees had laid; she knew how thick the line would be, knew that at least two Elders stood outside it, not participating in the ceremony itself, their only job to continue feeding power into that circle to keep it strong.

  More dim light came from the wards crisscrossing every inch of the walls and ceiling, strengthening the power of the earth itself, glowing blue with that same power.

  The strongest illumination came from the ghosts. Below the surface of the earth they glowed more brightly than they did above it, each of them a phosphorescent bulb in human form, flowing through the air. Ghosts milled around the enormous space, drifted through the vast emptiness, floated just above the ground. They clung to the blank uneven walls in unwelcoming clumps; they glared at the ceremony. Their anger was overwhelming, subdued though it was by the City’s powerful wards and by the earth itself. Outside the City, ghosts below the ground were more powerful, more dangerous—the reason basements and underground structures were illegal. But inside the City they were neutralized—at least until someone made a mistake and provided them with a weapon, or the means to escape through either set of doors guarding the train tracks.

  There was nothing to hide behind as Chess led the men toward the ceremony. No boulders, no ditches, no piles of dirt. The City contained no topography, possessed no visual interest. It was an ice-blue neon hell, so cold her nose felt numb, so enormous she had never seen where it ended.

  They slid against the wall of the Liaising Station, its solidity behind her back a false comfort. In a minute they’d be past it, out in the open; they’d be seen. She had no idea how their presence would be welcomed.

  Already some of the ghosts had noticed them. Furious as they were at the presence of Church employees, at the very idea that their home was being invaded by living people they could not touch, it had taken them longer than usual. Chess had hoped it might take even longer, but the life force she and the men carried with them stood out like a beacon, she knew, created waves that rippled through the empty air and brushed against the forms of the dead.

  She halted at the end of the Liaising Station wall and turned around. Terrible and Lex hunched right behind her. Neither man appeared to notice the ghosts or the cold misery of the space; they watched her, waited for her, with an unshakable faith in their eyes that would have been comforting if she wasn’t pretty damn sure they were all about to die. What would Lauren do when they arrived? What would the Lamaru do? Were they here already, hidden beneath pale-blue robes in the circle?

  “In a second we’ll be in the open,” she whispered. “We’ll need to run for it. But stop before we hit the circle, okay? Don’t break—”

  Too late.

  Power flared like a thousand-watt bulb being switched on. Her words ended in a strangled gasp as she spun around and almost fell. Terrible caught her shoulders; she felt him squeeze, glanced back just long enough to meet his eyes. One second of eye contact—all it took to rupture her heart.

  Another throb of power. She snapped away from him, righted herself.

  Above the circle hung the spectral forms of Elder Murray and the executioner. It was the high point of the Dedication, the moment when the last vestiges of their humanity were magically returned to them so they could bid their farewells before being relegated forever to the City.

  But it didn’t take a Churchwitch to know something was wrong. As Elder Murray’s head touched the top of the circle—she could see the thin white-light shell of power above it—another voice rose even higher. A voice that sent chills of rage up her spine and made her start running before she was even aware she was doing it.

  Her voice.

  Her own fucking voice, screaming words of power so tinged with black energy they were like vomit spewing into the air. That energy sailed through the circle and shattered it. Confused shouts and screams erupted.

  Something else erupted, too: three psychopomp ravens. Lauren’s psychopomps—or new ones, probably. They flew over the small crowd, through the thickening air, their eyes glowing red as they grabbed ghosts and lifted them. Carried them to the door, pushed the iron chains apart.

  Chess felt the magical seal over the doors break, like a cable snapping.

  Felt the doors open, and glanced back to see a black mass pour through the space and flow across the ground. The Lamaru. Saw ghosts begin to escape.

  Not her problem—or rather, not her immediate problem. All she had time to worry about was herself, Lauren pretending to be her, smiling in triumph and raising a sword as the Elders and Church employees turned on her.

  Some of her men passed her, heading for the black cloud of Lamaru almost at the broken circle. Her makeshift pouch bounced against her thighs, heavier than she’d thought it would be. She grabbed it and clutched it to her, her lungs ready to burst in her chest.

  Her voice echoed again, impossibly loud. This time it was answered. Not just by the Lamaru joining in the chant—some of them, anyway, the ones who weren’t already raising weapons to attack the defenseless Church employees—but by the dogs.

  Hundreds of them, their howls filling the air, crashing off the walls and ceiling and into her ears.

  Each Lamaru must have carried dozens of skulls, all those she’d seen at Lauren’s and then some. What the fuck was the point of bringing in psychopomps when you were opening the City doors and letting the dead escape? What the fuck was—No, no time to think, it was too late for thinking.

  The ghosts were moving, stirred and excited, blurring as they forgot their shapes and simply became masses of energy. Shit. Unshaped ghosts were incredibly dangerous; they grew extra arms or legs, merged with one another to form new beings, powerful ones. Was that the Lamaru’s plan? To set them all—No, why have psychopomps, which destroyed ghosts, if you wanted to set the ghosts free?

  The Lamaru had reached the Church employees now. Some of Lex’s and Terrible’s men had, too—she saw weapons flash, heard screams of a different tenor.

  But she barely paid attention, because worse than that, worse than all of it, was watching the dogs attack the ghosts, tearing them apart, savaging them. They weren’t setting the ghosts free, they weren’t worried about leaving the doors open, because they were destroying the ghosts, ripping them limb from spectral limb.

  She hit the fray. Took a second she couldn’t afford to figure out what to do first. Some of the ghosts had found the iron candlesticks and were trying to pick them up and use them as weapons. One gripped a burning candle and waved it slowly in an arc.

  That’s what she needed. Fire. The men were fighting the Lamaru already—shit, there were so many of them, more than she’d expected—but her fellow employees were still defenseless, without weapons of any kind or the types of herbs needed to truly subdue the dead. She had to find Elder Griffin or Elder Ramos, tell them what was happening.

  The City was a bedlam of blue robes, bl
ack robes, dogs and ghosts and knives flashing like ice in the cold blue air. She ducked across the remnants of the salt line, grabbed one of the firedishes strewn on the dirt floor and righted it, yanking her lighter out of her pocket with her other hand.

  Her pouch contained mistletoe, ground toad bones, and dried psychopomp flesh. She tossed them into the dish with some asafetida and fired them up, blowing gently to get them to catch faster and waving her hands in the smoke to spread it. She had no idea if it would be effective against the psychopomps now tearing their way through the hordes—

  Pain exploded in the back of her skull. The scene before her disappeared; red lights flashed and dirt filled her mouth as she pitched forward. Her already burned thigh hit the firedish and glanced off. Feebly she cried out, tried to roll away, but hard hands held her there; one gripped her hair and shoved her face into the dirt. She had no idea whether it was the Lamaru or the Church.

  With a stomach-churning effort she flipped herself over, swung her right arm in an arc. It connected, cracked so hard she thought her bones might have shattered.

  More arms on her, fighting her. An iron candlestick rested on the ground nearby. She grabbed it and swung, not caring if it hit anyone but just thrilled to be doing something.

  One of the Lamaru grabbed the candlestick, tried to yank it away from her. She let him pull her to her feet and kept going, ramming herself into him.

  Her firedish blazed now, thick tingly smoke filling the air. She couldn’t see if it made a difference to the psychopomps, couldn’t see anything but the black-robed man before her. Couldn’t think of anything but the intense and impersonal need to bash his head with the candlestick as hard as she could.

  Instead she brought her knee up and rammed it into his balls, then swung away from him before he had time to fall.

  Elder Griffin’s head appeared, light shining from his pale hair. Chess tucked the candlestick under her arm and ran for him, using the thing as a spear to clear her path.

  He’d acquired a ritual knife somewhere and was using it to slash at two Lamaru who were slowly trying to back him up against the wall. She charged at them, swinging the candlestick like a baseball bat. His face darkened when he saw her; the knife lifted.

  “No!” She managed to duck away, holding the candlestick, not wanting to hit him but terrified he’d kill her before she could speak. A fist glanced off her cheek, she jumped back. Shit, there were too many of them, too many Lamaru.

  Too many ghosts. Spectral hands closed over the candlestick and leapt back as the iron burned them. The thing turned rage-filled eyes on her, lunged at her; her tattoos screamed even louder, searing her skin as her blood turned ice-cold from the ghostly contact.

  It tried to grab her, possess her. She felt it. Shit. Her tattoos held. What about the wards she’d inscribed on the men? What about—

  Terrible. She took a chance and turned her attention away from Elder Griffin for a moment, looking for him; saw him raising his bloody knife above his head and driving it down into a black-robed chest. Still fighting. Still alive, still himself.

  Elder Griffin grabbed her by the neck, threw her to the ground. For a second she just stared at him, shocked. He’d never touched her in anger, never done anything to make her suspect he even had it in him. And the old reaction came back; she wanted to curl up into a ball, hide, make herself invisible, take the punishment and make it end faster.

  But then he raised that ceremonial knife above her heart and plunged it down.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  It is not enough to know the Truth. You must speak the Truth.

  —The Book of Truth, Rules, Article 558

  “It wasn’t me!” No time to roll away, she raised her hands and grabbed his wrist.

  He was too strong for her; the knife continued to descend, slowed but not stopped. “Elder Griffin, it’s me, it’s Chess, that wasn’t me, it was Lauren—”

  Desperately she tried to meet the cold blue chips of his eyes, to make him see her, who she really was.

  It didn’t work. Shit. Her stomach twisted; she brought her legs up and kicked his arm away from her. Kicked him away from her with a crunch that reverberated in her mind, digging itself down deep into that hidden place where guilt and shame constantly bubbled and seethed. His arms around her at the Binding, holding her, his soothing voice …

  No time to stop, no time to try again. He was already staggering back toward her. Instead she ran through the thickening smoke, passing through ghosts, knocking against unfamiliar bodies. Dogs brushed her legs but ignored her, searching instead for their dead prey.

  And the dead prey appeared, drawn by the tang of blood and life in the air, gathering in ever-deepening hordes and pushing their way through. Getting aggressive. Cold hands reached for her, tried to grab her. The iron candlestick in her hand grew hot from the constant warding, so hot it was hard to hold.

  This was useless. She could hope to defeat the Lamaru, but she couldn’t hope to beat their ghost-mauling psychopomps, psychopomps behaving in ways she’d never seen, who felt like nothing she’d ever felt, whose purpose was the utter destruction of everything the Church was built on. The Elders and Church employees were gathered around the firedish she’d started, chanting, sending waves of almost unbearable power rolling over her, making every step she took a struggle, yet it barely seemed to have an effect on the murderous psychopomps. Ghost parts littered the ground; every step was like dipping her feet into icy water. Her eyes filled with tears. Now that she had a second to stop, she was exhausted; all the energy she’d exerted already, all she needed just to keep moving, was too much even for the speed she’d taken.

  She stumbled over her own feet. Her stomach roiled, nausea overwhelming her. The fight went on around her and she pressed herself against the dirt wall, wanting to stay out of it. Or rather, not wanting to, but feeling she should. She’d been kidding herself that she could change things down there. Nothing she could do. She’d failed, she was a failure, and she’d—

  Lauren.

  What made her look she didn’t know, but she did, and caught sight of Lauren—of herself—at the periphery of the fighting crowd. If anything could galvanize her, that was it, that bitch. There Chess was blaming herself, and it was Lauren’s fault, Lauren’s plan, Lauren’s doing. And not only had she done it, she’d done it disguised as Chess.

  Rage cranked her heartbeat back to a rapid pump and she took off past the ghosts and psychopomps, pushing bodies out of the way. Fuck them. At that moment she didn’t give a shit what happened to anyone, anywhere, as long as she got to settle her hands around Lauren’s miserable fucking throat and squeeze until she didn’t have any strength left.

  Lauren turned; their eyes met. Chess almost fell. Staring at herself, at this perfect doppelganger—a shiver of pure terror jerked through her body. Doppelgangers were harbingers of death. Bad luck. Every magical instinct she had, honed by six years of Church training and three as an employee, told her to turn the fuck around and get away as fast as she could, that to look at her doppelganger was to curse herself, that some things couldn’t be unseen and that was one of them, forever hanging over her like the guillotine’s blade.

  But only for a second. That wasn’t her, it was Lauren, and if one of them was going to die it sure as fuck wouldn’t be Chess—at least not if she could help it. Her feet found their way again. She dashed around the mass of fighting men, glimpsed Lex a few feet away, kept going.

  Lauren hunched down, spreading her hands, ready. At the last second Chess dodged to the side, pivoted around her, grabbed her hair and yanked it back as hard as she could.

  Her left eye exploded as Lauren’s fist shot straight up, stunning her. Her grip loosened, but just for a second. She still had that hair and she wasn’t letting go. Lauren fell on her back onto the ground, and Chess, gripping her hair, spun around and yanked her knife from her pocket with her free hand.

  The point pressed into Lauren’s neck, her own eyes stared back at her. “Tell
me how to stop them.”

  Lauren said nothing. Her eyes cut away from Chess, widened slightly; thus Chess turned her face directly into the fist.

  She tumbled off Lauren, her entire body limp, her brain short-circuiting. Lights flashed in her head, she couldn’t think, dimly felt someone grab her by the throat and squeeze.

  Her arms refused to move. Nothing would move, she could still feel her body but it refused to obey her commands. It took her a second to realize she was held down, that Lauren sat on her chest with a twisted smile that rendered her face—Chess’s own face—unfamiliar as she choked her. Ugly power traveled down Chess’s arms, a familiar power, something slithering and glutinous beneath Lauren’s energy: the glamour she was using.

  Panic replaced the air in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Struggled harder, to no avail. This couldn’t be it, she refused to let this be it, suffocated on the floor in the City.

  Limp. She forced herself to go limp, fighting every instinct she had. Lauren would relax, wait for it, she’d think Chess was dead and oh, fuck her lungs were about to explode and the need to move, to breathe, to fight hammered inside her like the worst withdrawals ever and her heart screamed and ached because she was about to die and there was something she hadn’t done, something she hadn’t ever done in her life, and she should have and she needed to and it was too late.

  Lauren flew off her. Air rushed into Chess’s lungs, she couldn’t get enough, great gasping lungfuls of it flavored with herb smoke and blood and so fucking sweet she wanted to bottle it. For a moment she lay there gasping the dizziness from her head, until her vision cleared and she saw Lauren scrambling away from Terrible’s heavy footsteps. How had he known it was her?

  Lex’s gore-spattered blue robe clung wetly to him; he looked like a ceremonial butcher at Festival time. Blood dripped off his hands as he quickly dispatched the Lamaru who’d helped Lauren hold Chess down. No time to thank him; she reached out, brushed his sleeve, turned away after Terrible. Her makeshift apron banged her knees; of course. She had that. Lauren didn’t.