City of Ghosts

She also had graveyard dirt. Good. Wolfsbane, she always had that, and for the last few months she’d carried melidia as well. Iron filings she’d picked up to replenish her supply—excellent. She glanced at Lauren and unwilling respect tickled in her chest. The other woman was in motion, setting up a small firedish, lighting a long wooden match off a striking strip on her shoe. Clever, that.

“Lauren! Lauren, what have you got?” She had to yell; the squealing had intensified. Not just one pig—one sow, if she was right, oh shit please let her not be right. More than one.

Lauren opened her right hand; three brownish leaves rested in her palm, next to a sprig of mistletoe. Spiritweed. Excellent. They’d need all the help they could get.

Chanting male voices rolled across the lot, slithered along Chess’s skin and set her tattoos tingling and itching. She grabbed her chalk, sketched a couple of protection sigils on her forehead; they burned the second she finished them.

Her skull she grabbed last, then hesitated. They couldn’t cast a circle, not unless they wanted to close the blaze inside it, and that would take too long and bring them too close. But without one, the psychopomps could escape, and that would be almost as bad as whatever was about to burst out of that fire ring; a psychopomp without control would snatch the first soul it found, and that was murder.

Lauren’s eyes met hers. Clearly she’d had the same thought. “I guess we’ll just have to wing it.”

Chess started to reply, but a wave of energy tore the words from her mouth, tore the ground from beneath her feet. Her elbow slammed into the dirt; her shout was lost in the wild crescendo of squeals, the final triumphant shout of the men. Thick, pulsing darkness throbbed around her, so heavy her ears popped from the pressure.

Silence fell. Dead silence, a vacuum. She flipped over, started to push herself to her feet, her eyes full of the circle before her. Wind pushed her hair off her shoulders and face; her entire body waited, like standing on the edge of a cliff and taking the first step off. The relentless beat of her heart thundered in her ears; her body throbbed, a drumbeat in her soul against the reverberating emptiness around her.

Wraiths exploded from the ring of fire.

Chapter Five

The soul should not leave the body until the moment of death. To do otherwise is to court disaster.

—The Book of Truth, Laws, Article 449

With their filmy black bodies came the return of sound. The moment of hesitation was gone. Chess had a sick feeling it was the last semi-peaceful moment she’d be experiencing for some time.

Wraiths. A witch’s freed living soul, joined with one of the restless undead. A ghost cranked on living energy, strengthened by magic, its living partner giving it the ability to do what astrally projected spirits could do: fly.

She’d never even seen one, much less fought one. The secret of their creation was closely guarded, the rituals needed—like the sacrifice of black sows—extremely difficult to perform. It was worse than she’d imagined. They swooped and dove above her, absorbing the red light, their slim bodies fluttering in the breeze their flight created.

Beside her Lauren moved. Chess glanced over and saw her on her knees, pulling a wad of silk from her bag. Inert silk, the type used to hold psychopomp skulls. But why? Unlike regular ghosts—unlike psychopomps—wraiths weren’t earthbound; they’d have to touch the ground for a psychopomp dog to be useful, and Chess wasn’t entirely sure what good it would do anyway. What would happen to the living souls when the dead ones were taken to the City? Would they die?

Not that she gave a shit. She just didn’t know.

The wraiths circled closer now, their eyes glowing red in their shadowy faces. Snakelike arms waved and flowed from their ragged bodies. The air temperature dropped. Such cold, such awful cold…

And what the fuck was she doing standing there? Quickly she knelt, opened her bags of herbs. Lauren already had the fire going, so Chess dumped wolfsbane on it, grabbed the melidia. As far as she was concerned the spirit prisons were too good for these fuckers, but it was better than nothing—

Her fingers brushed the bag of iron filings, and she stopped. Glanced at the wraiths again, then back. The filings were quite small, more like dust. If there was a way to get them into the air…Astrally projected spirits weren’t harmed by iron the way the dead were. Could she separate them somehow? Turn the wraiths into regular ghosts that she and Lauren could dispatch?

Only one way to find out, and she was about to get her chance. Her fingers scrabbled in her bag, found her Ectoplasmarker and shoved it into her pocket just as the wraiths dove.

Lauren screamed and ducked, her gun in one hand. It went off. The bullet shattered the dusty wood behind them and shot splinters at Chess’s head.

She didn’t have time to think about it or to rub the stinging places on her cheek. A wraith was there in front of her, black lips curling back from the even darker blackness, the emptiness, of its mouth. Its wide-open mouth, stretching, jaw falling farther and farther, her skin screaming at her—

She threw herself to the side, rolled. Shoved her hand into the bag of filings and grabbed some, whipped her hand back around and flung them at the shadowy form. “Arkrandia bellarum dishager!”

The wraith twisted out of the way of the full load, but wavered. Beside her Lauren screamed.

That wasn’t enough. Wasn’t good enough. It would take forever at that rate—time they didn’t have.

Smoke billowed around them from the firedish and stung her eyes, filled her lungs. An explosion was what she needed, something to fill the air around them with iron. To create a barrier.

“Lauren! Give me your gun. Give me your gun!”

It flew at her; she caught it one-handed, pulled it sideways. Gunpowder? There would be some in the bullets, right, enough to make a small explosion? Shit, she didn’t know. Had no idea, really, but it was the best chance she had.

Lauren was covered in wraiths, all but one of them dancing around her, clinging to her while she writhed on the ground. Chess opened the clip with shaking fingers, pushed bullets out with her thumb. No time to try and open them. Throw them on the firedish, that’s what she would do.

Six bullets, small and cold in her hand. Hopefully that would be enough. She tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans—not the safest place for it, but she couldn’t chance one of the wraiths grabbing hold of it. It would all be over if they did that. Without weapons they couldn’t do more than steal a little energy. With weapons they could steal lives.

With her left hand she grabbed more filings, then held both hands over the firedish. No time to count, no time to think about how this probably wouldn’t work. The horrible, cold, sucking energy of the wraiths surrounded her, muddled her thoughts, made her stomach heave and lurch and her brain buzz.

She emptied her hands onto the fire and threw herself to the ground.

Nothing.

Lauren screamed again and flipped onto her stomach, raised herself on all fours. One of the wraiths reached for the firedish, probably to use it as a weapon—

The firedish exploded. The force of it knocked Chess down. She sucked in a burning lungful of smoke and iron. Flipped over onto her back, pushed herself up in time to see the wraiths separate, the ghosts fall to the ground.

It had worked. She had no fucking idea how and she didn’t give a damn. It had worked.

Tires squealed. The red light disappeared. Men shouted. The commotion drew her eyes; she looked away from the wraiths, away from Lauren as her lips started moving, and saw the black sow corpses in a pool of blood in the street, visible now the circle had disappeared. Saw a black muscle car thrust itself into the vacant lot in a cloud of dust, and before her mind even registered it her heart lurched into her throat.

Her legs shook beneath her but there was no time to think of that, no time to stop. The ghosts were stunned. This was the time to get them, now, while Lauren’s voice rose, calling her psychopomp.

For the second time that night Chess found herself inventing passports for ghosts with no time to think or plan. She scrawled circles on each of them and finished just as Lauren’s psychopomp came into being.

Psychopomps, plural. Ravens, sleek and black. What the hell…? Birds weren’t used in Church ritual. They were too unpredictable. So why was a Church employee—a Black Squad member, no less, Church law enforcement—using them?

Soft wings brushed against her face. The air behind Lauren wavered, giving Chess a glimpse of lit torches, of black shapes shifting and turning on their journeys to the City. The birds fluttered around, silent death for the dead, picking at the ghosts who fought them.

A car door slammed. Her head snapped to the side.

Terrible strode toward them. Even in the darkness she could see the set of his jaw, the narrow slits of his eyes. Could feel the fury pouring off him in waves.

Fury aimed at her. For a split second she started to wonder what he was doing there, but she knew. Of course she knew. Bump must own one of the nearby buildings, must have people there. If something went down around Bump’s property, they knew who to call.

She took an involuntary step back, ghosts, psychopomps, and Lauren forgotten. Dimly she felt the opening between the worlds snap shut, but she didn’t pay attention. Couldn’t look away, because her eyes simply refused no matter how hard she might have wanted to. They traveled up the enormous length of him, all the way to the scarred, harsh-boned face. Once she’d thought he was ugly; he still was ugly, she supposed. She just didn’t give a shit. He was who he was, and her heart fluttered in her chest and wouldn’t stop.

So much for hoping she’d started to get over him. Or that she’d only imagined what she was feeling, only wanted him because she couldn’t have him. No. She had to squeeze the board behind her, let splinters drive themselves into her skin, to keep from running up and throwing her arms around him. Begging him to forgive her. To kiss her. Shit, what a pussy she was.

“What the fuck you doin here?”

Not the greeting she’d been hoping for, especially not shouted like that.

“I—”

“Church business,” Lauren interrupted, stepping forward. She shoved her sleeve up, exposing the curling black snake. Oh, fuck. Oh, no.

Oh, yes. Terrible’s eyes narrowed; he gave Chess the kind of look most people reserved for ax murderers. Ax murderers who killed children. And kittens. She shivered.

“What is your name?” Lauren continued, leaning down and snatching a pad and pen from her backpack. “And your address? What are you doing here?”

Terrible stared at her. His big arms moved, folding across his chest and straining the long sleeves of his workshirt. The pose made him look even bigger; the iciness of his expression made him look even deadlier. Chess wondered how he was feeling, whether his wounds had healed. If he was glad to be alive, glad she’d saved him. Wondered if he even knew she’d saved him. Or cared.

“I asked for your name.”

He spun around without another word and headed back toward his black ’69 Chevelle, still growling at an idle in the middle of the lot.

“Excuse me! You need to—” Lauren reached for Chess, started scrabbling at Chess’s shirt. What the—oh. The gun. Oh, shit, the gun. “Stop right there, buddy, or I will shoot you.”

“Lauren, you can’t—” She tried to twist away but Lauren found the gun butt and yanked it from her waistband, spun toward the car with the weapon lifted.

The trigger clicked. Empty. The clip still lay on the ground by Chess’s feet.

Lauren bent down, grabbed it, but she was too late. Terrible stabbed the gas and spun the wheel, sending the Chevelle roaring in an arc and spraying them with dirt. Its fat tires squealed on the pavement; he swerved around the pig corpses in the middle of the street and disappeared, leaving bloody tracks in his wake.

Chess hit the ground, hard. Her legs simply refused to support her. Without thinking she reached for her bag, shoved her hand in. She wanted her pills. Wanted to throw whatever she had into her mouth and swallow it, wanted—needed—to float away from this whole bloody scene and dull the pain in her heart. How he’d looked at her—worse than before. So much worse.

“Who was that?”

Oh, right. The pillbox fell back into her bag. Lauren was there. Probably not a good idea to pill herself into oblivion with a fellow Church employee—one who outranked her and was the Grand Elder’s daughter to boot—standing right there watching. Damn it.

“I don’t know.”

Lauren’s eyes narrowed. She still held the gun; for a second Chess thought the woman was actually going to raise it again.

Then it passed. “It looked like he knew you.”

Chess shrugged. The less said the better. Deny everything—the first rule of survival.

“So that’s it. You don’t know who he is or why he was here.”

“No.”

Movement in the intersection drew both their eyes; Chess silently thanked whatever luck had finally decided to pat her on the head. One of the witches, still alive after Terrible had bolted through the circle and apparently run them down. Must have been interesting, being forced from wraith form back into one’s body and then plowed into by several tons of BT steel. Well, good. She hoped the bastard suffered.

Her legs felt rubbery beneath her as she followed Lauren to the fallen body. What a mess. Blood ran everywhere from the sacrificed sows. Black ones, illegal to breed or own. The blood of a black sow—that was some heavy dark magic indeed. As they’d just witnessed.

Charmarks outlined where the circle had been. The inside was full of blood, tacky under their feet. Menace vibrated up her legs. She stepped over the bodies of two other witches, barely glancing at them. This could be a trick. With her right hand she touched the handle of her knife, tucked into her pocket. Lauren would probably freak if she realized Chess was armed, but better that than dead.

The witch moaned again, writhing in his blood-soaked robe. His robe with the Lamaru symbol on the front.

“They must have been watching,” Lauren said. She tugged a bright pink cell phone out of her backpack. “Waiting for us to show up.”

Gee, you think so? Chess thought, but said nothing. Lauren had handled herself pretty well during the attack; even if she hadn’t, and if she didn’t outrank Chess, there was the little matter of pretending she didn’t know Terrible or why he was there. Best not to bring Lauren’s thoughts back onto her, not when there was a convenient injured Lamaru witch right there to take the weight.

Lauren nudged him with her toe, pressed a button on the phone. “We need a wagon. Yes. Yes. Corner of Fifty-fifth and Brand. Yes, Downside. Yes, you will. What do you want me to do, put him in my car? Get your ass down here.”

She snapped the phone shut. “They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile…” She nudged him with her toe again. “Hey. Hey, you. What did you think you were doing down here?”

The Lamaru witch moaned again. Lauren’s mouth twisted. “I asked you a question.”

“Lauren, maybe he’s not—”

Lauren glared at her. “He’ll talk.”

“Why don’t we see if he has ID or something first? You know, what we can find out on our own?”

Chess didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to dig her hands into his bloody pockets, to make contact with the evil hovering over him like a cloud of locusts.

But she did. The sigil on her forehead blazed on her skin, the wards in her tattoos ringing like fire alarms. She jerked away. “He’s Hosting.”

“What?”

“Look.” She forced herself to touch him again, ignoring the stinging sensation, and tilted his head so Lauren could see the silvery cast of his one open eye. Blood clung to her hands, made it hard to breathe.

Lauren loomed over her, leaning to peer down at him. “How the hell did his Bindmate escape my psychopomps? Shit. Let me call them back and let them know.”

“Sure, I can Bind him down on my own,” Chess muttered. Luckily the supplies she’d grabbed earlier were still within easy reach in her bag; she dusted the broken Lamaru with asafetida and graveyard dirt, added a little salt and power to keep whatever he had inside him until it could be Banished at the Church. Squatting in pig blood next to an evil piece of shit—and Lauren, too—was bad enough without having to summon her psychopomp and take care of it herself.

Lazy, sure, but then given the type of investigation this was, the Church would probably want to get a look at the thing themselves anyway.

She had to move him to get into his pockets; he shrieked when she did. His right arm flailed, narrowly missed her face.

Lauren grabbed it and slammed it to the ground, eliciting another shriek, while Chess opened the slimy wallet.

ERIK VANHELM said the driver’s license. Below that was an address in Cross Town. Erik was awfully far from home—if he actually lived at that address—but then he would be. Nobody would try to pull shit like this in one of the decent parts of town, where the Black Squad actually patrolled and the neighbors actually cared.

She pulled out her notebook and scribbled the information down. Never hurt to keep your own notes, especially not when working with the Squad. Or with anyone, for that matter. One of the reasons Chess chose Debunking was so she could work alone.

Lauren held her hand out for the wallet; Chess slapped it into her palm, aware again that they were being watched. Aware too that she had to get home. He was going to show up, she knew it. If she was right about Bump owning something near here, which she had to be…yeah. Arriving with a member of the Black Squad and poking around was not going to win her any points in the Bump’s-best-pal contest.

Would he talk to her when he came to get her?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. She was sure she wouldn’t have a choice.

Chapter Six

Be aware that when you work for the Church you belong to the Church, body and soul. You cannot serve two masters.

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

Pace, pace, pace. Her body still buzzed, woozy from speed; she desperately wanted to take something to come down but didn’t dare. Couldn’t fall asleep. Needed to be sharp when he got there.

Lit another cigarette. It made her queasy on top of everything else, but what was she supposed to do? She’d rushed through her second shower of the night, dried her hair, put on makeup and a red top she knew he liked, even as the little voice in her head told her there was no point. She took another couple of Cepts to drown it out and kept pacing.

Tried to read; the words swam on the page. Tried to watch TV; the people wandered around, saying and doing insipid things—well, that wasn’t just nerves and drugs, that was TV no matter what—until she wanted to throw her knife through the screen. She’d snapped it off and the silence blasted her from her chair. None of her CDs sounded right, were what she wanted to hear. She finally shoved in Radio Birdman just to fill the apartment with sound. Just so her misery had some company.

Where was he? It was after three. Surely he hadn’t just…forgotten about her? Did he hate her so much he didn’t even care what she’d been doing there?

Maybe he didn’t need to know. Maybe he was just going to kill her. She glanced at the stained-glass window that made up one wall of her apartment. Her building had been a Catholic church once, back before Haunted Week and the rise of the Church of Truth. Most churches had been razed during that week when the dead walked the earth and took millions of souls with them—and in its aftermath—but the Church had decided her building had some historical significance and was aesthetically pleasing, so it had been allowed to stand.

There were buildings across the street. Their windows looked into hers. Was he over there with a gun? Just waiting to—

From the street came the low rumble of a car. Of one particular car. Her heart stopped; she ran to the window, looked down in time to see Terrible walk up the steps.

One last pat of her dyed-black Bettie Page hair; one last slick of lipstick over her too-dry mouth. She couldn’t do anything about the rest of it. She was pale and shaky, her entire body clammy with nerves.

When his heavy knuckles hit her door she was ready, standing beside it. Her hand flew to the knob, but she caught herself before she turned it. Bad enough that she’d made an ass out of herself the last time she’d seen him. He didn’t need to know she’d been hovering here by the door, waiting.

The makeup was a mistake. So was the top, and the high-heeled boots. It was all a mistake. What did she think this was, a fucking date? How much more obvious did she want to make it? Maybe when she opened the door she could fall to her knees and start crying, too, just to complete the pitiful picture.

Another heavy knock. Okay. Deep breath time. She twisted the knob, stepped back, and pulled.

Nobody filled a doorway like Terrible.

Her mouth opened. What should she say here? Hi? How are you? Come to bed with me? Yeah, that would work. Fuck! What was she—

His eyes met hers. For one second she saw something in them. Something like what she used to see, a ghost of what had been.

Then it was gone. He jerked his head to the side in a short “Come on” gesture, turned, and walked back down the hall. No need to say anything; they both knew why he was there, where he was taking her.

Her heart fell into her shoes. It was no more than she expected. No more than she deserved. But it still hurt; fissures inside her she’d thought were starting to heal cracked back open and pumped deep-blue misery through her veins.

Breathing past the lump in her throat, she grabbed her bag and followed him, pausing only to lock and set the wards on her front door. Her arms felt awkward, her hands too big; she shoved them into her pockets, took them back out, folded and unfolded her arms as she tried to keep up with his long stride. Down the stairs, across the wide lobby and through the huge double doors, out into the cold early spring wind.

Out of habit she paused by the passenger door, waiting for him to open it, but he didn’t. Right. She grabbed the icy handle herself, felt it bite her palm as she lifted it and let herself into the dark, smoke-and-leather-scented interior. Other scents lurked there as well: bourbon and beer. He’d been drinking. She didn’t blame him. She could have used a drink herself just then. Would have been smart to grab a beer from the fridge.

The driver’s side sank when he lowered himself onto the seat. Keys jangled.

They didn’t move.

Her water bottle was in her bag. She fumbled for it, concentrating on it so she wouldn’t have to feel him next to her. To smell his skin. To look at his bumpy, craggy profile, black DA haircut swooped up and back and glistening with Murray’s pomade. It didn’t work. She was acutely aware of all those things, and of her sadness spilling over all of it. She…she missed him. He was her friend. No matter how much she wanted him to be more, no matter how much she’d blown her chance at it…all that shit aside, he’d been her friend, and she missed that so much it hurt.

“What’d you do to me?”

The bottle slipped from her fingers; she managed to catch it before it spilled. “What?”

His right hand circled over his chest. Oh, right.

“Oh. It’s a sigil, it…binds your soul to your body.”

Images of that night swirled from her memory, played in front of her again. The way they had so many times since. His body, motionless…the hawk swooping down to claim his soul…her knife handle cold and hard in her hand, carving the sigil into his chest, the blood seeping from the design like it was responding to her summons.