by Stacia Kane
The Binding marks burned ice cold. Through the blur of her tears she saw something move on her wrists, not just the lacy pattern but something else, oozing out with her blood, spectral forms: the First Elders. They’d put part of themselves into her. She’d thought the psychopomps at Lauren’s place had stolen their power and fed it back to her, but she’d been wrong, it had been the parts of them living in her blood that regrew and strengthened, and they formed themselves whole and towered over her, turned to join the crowd with a dignity that made her want to cry before another blinding rush of power tore into her flesh.
Baldarel pushed back. She felt herself flying, opened her eyes incuriously to see she was flying, her body twisting and turning on a wave of purple-black magic. Her apron fell off, spilled herbs and the fetish onto the ground. She ignored it. Who cared? Not she. She was too high to care, that was it—the ultimate rush, the ultimate high, the ultimate forget-it-all-fuck-it-all moment, and she didn’t want it ever to end. She pushed back at him, so easily, directing that tremendous force toward its creator and adding her own to it, and the First Elders joined her, all of them together. She felt the rip, felt the toad-magic break, felt him separate from his ghost with a shiver that kept going, running all over her body.
Screams rose from the ground below. She slammed against the smooth dirt wall, fell, didn’t feel it, didn’t care. To the screams were added howls, psychopomp howls: Baldarel’s beasts. She had no idea if that was a good sign or not.
And above it all, suddenly, came the Elders, chanting again. She felt each of them join in, felt all of them as a unit.
Another explosion.
The power disappeared in a flash. It … evaporated, left her there on the ground with tears running down her cheeks and blood still pumping from her wrist. She smelled ozone. Every nerve in her body felt fried to a crisp. She was a husk, the shed exoskeleton of an insect left to crumble into dust after its owner had outgrown it.
Around her the fight went on, but even she could see these were the last desultory stragglers, still forcing themselves to move in the haze of smoke and frantic ghosts. From where she sat all the way to the ragged hole in the City wall the ground was littered with bodies and ghost parts. The psychopomps were gone.
Baldarel was not. A flurry of movement near the hole drew her eye in time to see Elder Griffin and what looked like the Grand Elder tackle him to the ground. Elder Ramos whipped off his robe and used it to bind Baldarel’s wrists to his feet. Even from her seat she felt the emptiness around him.
Could she move? She wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to try, either. It was so comfortable there, her back nestled into a divot in the dirt wall, her legs bent in front of her. A good place to sit and watch. She was fine there, really.
At least until Elder Thompson, Dana Wright, and Agnew Doyle appeared before her, their faces twisted with rage.
Chapter Forty
At the end of a case, all you can take with you is the knowledge that you did your part, that you acted as the Church would desire and defended the Church against those who sought to defile it. If you did those things, you have succeeded, no matter how you may feel.
—Debunking: A Practical Guide, by Elder Morgenstern
“It wasn’t me!” she cried, but Dana slapped her so hard across the face that she literally saw stars. By the time she felt capable of speech again it was too late—a chunk of dirty robe had been stuffed into her mouth and her wrists and ankles bound, blood still seeping into the fabric from her wrists.
Her eyes picked out Lex, still standing, talking to a few of his men; relief flooded through her. She scanned the small clumps of people, one or two still fighting, most of them not. She didn’t see Lauren. Didn’t see any Lamaru still standing. Saw a few of Baldarel’s children but they huddled together crying, their fear and unhappiness somehow more appalling on their unformed faces.
In the middle of everything she felt sorry for them, was pleased she could. It wasn’t their fault what they were, what he’d made them, any more than her upbringing had been her fault. She hoped the Church would take care of them.
Two Elders stood by the hole Baldarel had made; their voices carried to her, chanting. Rebuilding the magical seal, stretching it to cover the opening. Workmen had already been called, she assumed. The Church didn’t waste—
Terrible appeared. Breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her. He was gathering his men into a small circle, fewer than there had been. She wondered how he felt about that, if he thought it had been worth it or was angry or … what. She hoped she’d get to find out.
“Cesaria.”
Elder Griffin stood over her, his face stern but his eyes unbearably kind. He knew. He knew it hadn’t been her, knew she’d come to stop it, she saw it in his eyes and felt it when he knelt beside her and tugged the wadded fabric from her mouth, untied her wrists and ankles.
“It wasn’t me,” she said again. It seemed to be the only thing she could force out. “It was a glamour, she got Baldarel to make it for her, he—”
“Worry not, Cesaria.”
“The fetish is over there. I think.” Her arm was so heavy; had it always been that heavy? “I’m sorry. I found out last night what he was doing—betraying them, trying to take over their plan and using them—and I went to tell Lauren but she wasn’t really Lauren, did you know that? Shit, did—Oh, sorry, sir.”
He smiled. “Go on.”
“Did you get her? Did you find out who she is?”
“Elder Thompson has her, yes. But whether he has discovered her identity I know not.”
“They wanted to destroy the ghosts. They thought if there were no ghosts they could take over, they thought he was helping them but he was using them. Planning a double-cross.”
He nodded, his eyes lighting up. “So that is why. He needed them to get into the City. Needed the woman pretending to be Lauren, and the Lamaru’s knowledge of Church ritual.”
He’d needed their hints about the tunnels as well, but Chess didn’t mention that. A deal was a deal.
They were silent for a minute, watching the vast space clear. The Liaisers—save for Bruce Wickman, of course—were busy around another firedish, sending sweet-smelling mullein smoke into the air to calm the ghosts. It appeared to be working.
Others were cleaning up, crawling across the ground in search of anything that could be used as a weapon and grabbing it.
Lex caught her eye; he was by the hole, about to leave. He held up a hand when he saw her, slid past Elder Ramos and out onto the platform.
“Cesaria … if I may ask, my dear, who are all those men?”
So many answers flew through her mind that she didn’t know which to pick, aside from the obvious truth that “My drug dealer’s enforcer and his rival who I used to fuck” was definitely not it.
So instead she said the one she thought was the closest to true, the one she hoped was true: “They’re my friends.”
Just thinking of going to Church made her tired.
In the two days between the battle in the City and the present moment when she threw a couple of Cepts into her mouth, fired up a cigarette, and tucked her tattered blanket over her legs, she’d been either there or asleep, with nothing in between. Hours of testimony. Hours watching Lauren—or rather, Cassie Benz, as her name turned out to be—testify. The Grand Elder had gone into seclusion when he learned the Lamaru had killed his daughter before she even arrived in Triumph City; Elder Ramos had been acting in his stead.
Now, finally, she had a day off. The next day she’d have to go in again to testify about Maguinness/Baldarel and his connection with the Lamaru, but for now, nothing.
Really nothing: she’d gone to the Market earlier to score instead of agreeing to Lex’s plan to come by her place. She didn’t want to see him. Well, no, she wanted to see him, but not then. Not yet.
Stupid of her, really. She didn’t want to admit even to herself how stupid it was: that she didn’t want him around, in case …
&n
bsp; How was it possible to be totally red-face humiliated and yet proud of the same thing? For one short sentence, three short words, to create such a reaction in her soul?
Pride was a new one for her, at least pride that wasn’t related directly to her job. She’d always been proud of that, proud and aware that she was lucky and that she owed something for that luck.
This was different. She shifted on the couch, watched the smoke drift from her cigarette into the air. It killed her that she hadn’t heard from him. Killed her that she’d blown it. Embarrassed the fuck out of her that she’d actually said what she said, right to his face, staring right into his eyes.
At the same time, that pride was still there. Yeah, she had done it. She had said it right to his face. She’d been terrified but she’d done it, she’d said those words that she’d never said before—at least, never said them and meant them.
And nothing had come of it. And she guessed nothing would.
Thinking about it made her chest hurt. She put out the cigarette and grabbed a kesh instead. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be, why not? Anything to get her thoughts off that track and onto something else.
She’d just picked up her lighter when the knock at the door came.
Probably a neighbor wanting to ask if she’d gotten their mail. Possibly Edsel; he hadn’t seemed too pleased that she hadn’t stayed to chat that morning. Maybe Lex had decided to come by after all, despite her telling him she’d see him the next day after work.
Wrong, and wrong again. Terrible stood outside, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched in that way he had when he felt uncomfortable.
Yeah, well. She didn’t exactly feel comfortable herself. What else was new?
“Hi,” she managed, stepping back to let him in. His presence literally went to her head; she had to lean against the wall for a second. Of course, that could have been her Cepts, too, kicking in nicely enough for her to attempt a smile.
Bruises decorated his jaw and neck, a jagged cut started on the back of his hand and disappeared up the long sleeve of the shirt he wore under his bowling shirt. It stood out angry red as he pushed the door closed and leaned against it.
“Hey. You right?”
“Yeah, um, right up.” Okay. What should she do? Invite him in to sit down? Why was he there? Shit, she was not good at this. “You? How are you?”
He shrugged. Stared at the floor.
“Hey, I didn’t get to say thanks. For, you know, for finding me and bringing those guys in to help me and everything.”
“Ain’t need for thanks. All right there, now? Got the City locked up an all?”
“Yeah. New doors and everything. They had some already made, I guess. Elder Griffin said—” She hesitated for a second, anticipating pain in her wrists, but none came. They’d removed the Binding the second they’d left the City. She hadn’t fully allowed herself to wonder if part of the reason they’d been in such a hurry was because they hadn’t realized what kind of power it would give her, any more than she had until the moment she used it. Anyway, the end result was the same. No more marks, no more Binding. “Elder Griffin said they had some spares waiting just in case, so really it was just the wall that needed to be repaired.”
“Any of them ghosts get free?”
“A few, we think. It’s hard to tell because so many of them were absorbed. But we’re pretty sure only a few got out. And we’ll find them. They might have to pay a few settlements, but that’s nothing compared to what might have happened if we couldn’t use psychopomps, or if Baldarel had managed to absorb all the ghosts and take over. So … it’s not that bad, really.”
He nodded. “Aye, cool then.”
“Yeah.” She bit her lip. Was that why he was in her kitchen, in her apartment? Just to find out how the situation had resolved itself?
He had a right to ask. A right to know. That didn’t make it hurt any less.
“Hey, you want a beer or something?”
“Aye, be good.”
She fled to grab two beers from the fridge and set them on the cracked countertop. A threadbare dishtowel hung off the door of the unused oven, its sole purpose to protect her hands from the rough edges of the bottle caps. She used it now, flipped off one cap, reached for the other beer—
“Thought you was dead.”
She glanced back at him. He hadn’t moved. Well, they might as well talk about something, right? Even if that subject was a bit odd for him to pick. “Yeah, actually, I was kind of worried a few times myself, I mean—”
“Naw. Ain’t my meaning.” He cleared his throat; it didn’t seem to help much, because when he spoke his voice sounded dry somehow. Strained. Still the same deep gravelly rumble she knew so well, but … tense. She realized she’d never, not once in the entire time she’d known him, heard him sound scared or nervous until that moment. Her heart gave a little crank as she opened the other beer and turned to face him.
“Thought you was dead when Lex come found me, dig. An us tryin to give you the ring up, you ain’t answering … drove around hours, we did. All that time I had the thought you was dead. An finally catch you, pulled up on that curb an you there so white, so fuckin white, Chess, all bloody an weren’t moving. Thought it again.”
He paused. His eyes flashed toward her for a second before turning away again, so fast she could almost have believed she’d imagined it.
“I ain’t … Shit. Ain’t liked it. Thinkin you gone.”
“I knew you’d find me,” she said softly, not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to reassure him somehow. To say something. She knew how that felt, to look at someone and think they were gone. Would never forget seeing him on that broken sidewalk with his eyes closed and his chest silent and still, and how it had felt like her soul had been ripped from her body as well.
“But I weren’t so certain, aye, an it … Fuck. I ain’t good on this shit, aye? Ain’t can say it up right. Fuckin killed me thinkin you dead, is all. Thought seein you with—with Lex weren’t even so bad, not—”
“I’m not with—”
He shook his head. “Ain’t sayin you is. Saw you with him, knew you gave me the truth. Just had the thought I better see you with that, aye? Than be gone. An you …” He took a deep breath, slow and loud, while Chess’s entire body buzzed.
“What you say me, dig. ’Dyou mean it? True thing?”
Fuck.
It was one thing to be brave when the world was tumbling down around her ears and she was pretty sure she was about to die. It was another to be brave when he leaned against her door and her hands shook ever so slightly and she knew—knew—that this changed everything. Not just everything between them, but her life. That telling the truth would mean giving up privacy and security; that she might get hurt. Would get hurt, the way her luck ran.
Fear tempted her: say no, end the conversation, send him away. But she couldn’t. It would destroy him, and she couldn’t stand the thought of doing that again. It would be a lie and she’d told enough of those, especially to him.
She took a drink, swallowed hard. “Yeah. I mean it. True thing, Terrible.”
He didn’t move. Neither did she. Should she go to him? What was she supposed to be doing? Panic fluttered in her chest and she fought it down.
“Wanna believe you,” he said finally. “Been … been missin you hard, aye. But I ain’t for certain I can.”
Shit. She wished she could say she was surprised, but she wasn’t. Couldn’t blame him, either. She’d have a hard time trusting herself, too; hell, she did have a hard time trusting herself.
It seemed to take a very long time to cross the sticky linoleum floor of her tiny kitchen, still clutching the beers in her stiff fingers. She watched herself stop a foot or so away.
“I never got to tell you what happened.” She wanted to look up at him but couldn’t, aware her face was flaming. “The night you got shot, I mean, the night at that house. I didn’t know what was going on, I was on the ground, and I saw you. You weren�
�t moving or anything, and a psychopomp was coming for you …”
She shook her head. “I killed it. Oliver Fletcher tried to stop me but I held the gun on him, I almost shot him too, because … because I couldn’t stand it if you died, and I didn’t care if they executed me for it—”
His hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her to him in one quick, forceful movement; she barely had time to register it before his lips met hers.
No anger lurked in that kiss, none of the confusion she’d felt from him before. It was like the first kiss at Trickster’s, like the second on the rooftop: just the two of them, with nothing in between. Nothing in the way.
Both bottles fell from her hands; dimly she heard them land, heard foam spread across the floor and felt it licking cold on her bare feet. She couldn’t have cared less. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, solid and warm and real. His hands fisted in her hair, pulling it back so he could stroke his fingers over her collarbone, sending little shivers through her.
He lifted his head to look at her. Giving her his eyes, giving her what was behind them. “You know I do, aye? Love you right, Chessiebomb.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do, shit, Terrible, I really love you—” She didn’t wait to finish the sentence, not when his face was so close to hers, when she could kiss him instead of talking.
Words were inadequate. No matter how good they sounded, or how good it felt to say them, there were other ways, better ways. It might take a while for him to trust her again. He might not ever forget about Lex; hell, she knew he wouldn’t, knew it would probably come back to bite her on the ass one day. Could feel it lurking there, another dirty secret to add to her store of them, another shame to stockpile in her soul.
But he wanted to try, wanted to be with her. And she had to try. Was desperate to try. If that meant she was barreling toward another painful episode in a life full of them, it was nothing new, right? Because there was still the chance, the off chance, that she wasn’t. That she could finally do something right. And if anyone could give her hope, it was him.
