The knife descended. Lupita’s blood spilled out over her tattoos—so like Chess’s, but illegal, another crime to add to the growing list, as if Lupita needed anything more to damn her—onto the silk tablecloth.
“Kadira tam, Annabeth Whitman,” intoned Madame Lupita. “Kadira tam.”
A drop of sweat landed on the table in front of Chess. Her breath rasped in her throat. Shit, she really felt sick. Weak. Exposed, like all her psychic shielding was failing and her power fought to escape.
Escape … as Lupita pushed with her own weak power, as she leeched from all of them, Chess felt it, like she was a battery being drained, and in that second, just as the temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees, she knew something was very, very wrong.
No, Lupita didn’t have the power to raise a ghost. But Chess did, and Lupita was pulling it from her. Somehow the woman was reaching into her, through her, sucking Chess’s strength and focusing it—focusing it on her spell, fuck—
Chess fought, threw as much energy as she could to her shields, but she felt like a child struggling to play tug-of-war against a giant. She couldn’t think, her energy was draining away and she couldn’t … couldn’t hold on to it … her stomach roiled, her eyelids fluttered.
The crow flapped its wings, danced on the perch for a minute, then took flight. It circled the room, faster and faster. Chess’s skin crawled and stung, her tattoos screaming the warning her mouth couldn’t seem to form … .
Lupita’s deep chant turned into a screech. Through a bleary haze Chess saw the woman heave herself from her chair, her black-ringed eyes widening in terror. Staring … staring at the pale haze taking shape in the corner.
The haze of Annabeth Whitman.
Chess gritted her teeth so hard she thought they might crack and yanked her hand away from Annabeth’s mother’s. The microrecorder had an emergency button, in case her fellow Church employees weren’t already on the way. She had to get out of there, had to have help. Whatever was wrong with her was too much, too bad, for her to hope to defeat the ghost, and if someone didn’t do it soon, Annabeth would kill every person in the room.
She found the button, pressed it. And kept pressing it as the pale column grew, as a head appeared. Long tendrils of white formed arms; the shape solidified, growing more detailed with every beat of Chess’s panic-stricken heart. She’d lost count of the number of ghosts she’d seen, but the fear never left, never lessened. A ghost—one like this, free of its underground prison, free from Church safeguards and protocols—was a loaded gun, a sword in the hand of a lunatic.
And Chess and everyone else in this flaming pit of hell were the first who’d feel the weapon’s rage.
The others didn’t seem to understand that something was wrong. Mrs. Whitman was standing, holding her hands out in supplication. “Annabeth … my baby … we miss you, we wanted to—”
Annabeth’s features had formed now, translucent but perfect. She’d been a beautiful girl. Long pale hair hung down over her shoulders; the vague outline of her body beneath her gown was petite and sweetly curved.
Her eyes widened. Chess held her breath for one heart-stopping, hopeful moment. They weren’t always vicious, not always. Only ninety-nine percent of the time … There was a chance Annabeth would—
No chance. Those innocent eyes narrowed, the perfect lips pulled back in a snarl. Chess barely had time to open her mouth before Annabeth dove for the bloody knife on the table.
In her bag Chess had graveyard dirt and herbs. She couldn’t do a full ritual, didn’t think she’d have the power to do one even if she had the equipment, but she could freeze Annabeth, stop her from harming anyone.
Her fingers still worked. She tore at the tab of her zipper, yanked it open. Keeping her eyes on Annabeth, she shoved her hand into the bag, past her pillbox and compass and tissues and cash and wipes and all the other crap to find her supplies at the bottom.
Madame Lupita screamed and tried to run, but her weight and flair for the dramatic caught her. She tripped over something—Chess assumed it was the heavy folds of her ridiculous robe—and fell with a thud.
Sweat ran into Chess’s eyes. Acid bubbled in her stomach, leapt into her throat. Shit, she was going to be sick, her gut felt like somebody had shoved in a knife and twisted. This wasn’t normal. Magic, especially not her own magic, shouldn’t make her feel this way, she was—what was in that tea? What the fuck was in that tea?
The assistant, the little one, cackled in the corner. “Feelin awry, Churchwitch? Feelin sick?”
Oh, no. They knew who she was—knew what she was. Had known when she walked in the door.
Annabeth lunged for her mother. Chess threw a handful of asafetida and graveyard dirt, tried to put some power behind it as she forced words out of her gummy throat. “Annabeth Whitman, I command you to be still. By the power of the earth that binds you I command it.”
Annabeth faltered but kept moving. Not enough power. Shit!
A loud bang, the clattering of footsteps on the stairs. Reinforcements, oh, thank the technology that brought them here, they’d arrived.
Chess spun away from Annabeth. The others would take care of her. Instead Chess dove for the bizarre figure in the garbage bag, straining to focus. The handle of her knife felt cool, solid in her hand, better than almost anything else could.
Up close Chess realized it was a woman behind the makeup. She grabbed the tangle of hair on her head, held the knife at her throat. “What was in the tea?”
The woman giggled. The acrid, silvery odor of speed sweat assaulted Chess’s nose. Just what she needed. A fucking Niphead lunatic holding her life in her filthy hand.
“What was in the fucking tea? You don’t want to die right now, you’ll—”
“You ain’t kill me, Churchwitch. Ain’t got it in you.”
Chess pushed the knife farther up, so it dug into the woman’s throat, and focused. She’d killed before. She hadn’t wanted to do it and she hadn’t liked doing it, but she had. And better yet, she knew people who did it without batting an eye, knew people who’d done worse—hell, if she went back far enough she knew people who’d done worse to her. People who made hate rise, boiling and putrid in her chest. She thought of them, let those memories wash over her and crystallize in her head, become something solid and hard.
Behind her all was chaos. The Church employees shouted. The scent of banishing herbs rose thick and dry. Chess ignored it all and stared at the woman at the point of her knife. She stared, and she believed, deep down, that she would drive the knife up, and she let the woman see that belief.
It worked. “Tasro.” The woman looked down. “Were tasro.”
Poison. Tasro was poison. Chess’s head swam.
“Chessie? You okay?”
Dana Wright, another Debunker. Her eyes were wide with concern, her hands still full of herbs.
“Tasro. They put tasro in my drink, they knew me before I even got down the stairs. Is the kit in the van?”
“I’ll go with you.” Dana reached for her, but Chess ducked away. She didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t think she could stand it.
“No, just—take this one, okay? I’ve—I’ve got to—”
She didn’t bother to finish. It felt like she’d swallowed a razor blade and she didn’t have much time. Not to mention the tiny prick of uncertainty, of worry. The antidote shouldn’t react with her pills, but … better to be alone. Just in case.
“You’re not supposed to self-administer—”
“I’m fine.”
Dana looked like she wanted to say more, but Chess didn’t stick around to listen. She ran up the stairs, out the door, and let the icy wind dry the sweat on her forehead.
The Morton case three months before had forever changed her position in the Church. Not just her job itself—in addition to Debunking she now worked occasionally with other departments, which was how she’d gotten to run point in tonight’s deadly party—but in the eyes of those she worked with. Half of the
m looked at her like she was the great Betrayer and the other half seemed to think she was some sort of fucking genius for banishing Ereshdiran the Dreamthief—but only after he’d killed Randy Duncan, another Debunker. That Randy had summoned the entity in the first place made a difference only to some.
Chess didn’t give a shit either way. The only thing she minded was that the anonymity she’d once prized had disappeared, and now she felt eyes on her everywhere she went. Which sucked. Who knew what they might see if they paid attention? Church employees were not supposed to be addicts.
Her skeleton key unlocked the van’s back door and she yanked it open with a bit more force than necessary. Somewhere in the back was a first-aid kit with a variety of antidotes along with basic remedies like bandages and antibiotic ointment.
She climbed in, leaving the door open so more cold wind could blast her. It wasn’t just the air of the shack that had made her warm, wasn’t just the poison either. She’d taken an extra Cept before entering the building, not knowing how long the ritual and resulting paperwork would take and not wanting to be caught out if it took too long. If she sat still and focused, she’d be able to feel the high, but there wasn’t time. Not unless she wanted it to be the last high she ever felt, which she didn’t.
The kit was hidden beneath the back bench seat. Chess dug it out and opened it. Fuck. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d hoped the antidotes weren’t kept in syringes anymore. So much for hope …
The needle was cold, too. Great.
Voices rode the wind into the van. She had no idea how far away the others were, but she preferred to have this done with before they returned. Nobody would think twice about it, not after Dana told them what had happened. But that didn’t make the thought of being found in the back of the van with a spike in her vein any more pleasant. Too close to the truth, perhaps, the undeniable fact that she was only a short jump away from that fucking needle turning into a vital part of her life, that only fear and willpower had kept her from it so far.
The rubber catheter was stiff, not wanting to be tied. Chess could relate. She didn’t want to tie it. Fear curled in her stomach and sat there like a lump of half-rotten Downside meat. She tied off, clenching her fist to pop a vein, slapping the crook of her arm. Something she’d sworn to herself she’d never do. That she was doing it to save her life—doing it with Church sanction, the way they’d been taught to do—didn’t seem to count, not when she’d seen this moment coming, dreaded this moment almost every time she opened her pillbox.
She shook her head. This was ridiculous. Everything was under control, she was under control, now more than ever. She didn’t owe anyone money, she had plenty of pills, she maintained. A happy medium.
One quick stab, that was all it would take. She could do that, it would be easy. She’d barely feel it, right?
Not right. The freezing needle buried itself into her vein and when she shoved the plunger down, cold shot up her arm like a crack in ice. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she turned her face away while she yanked the catheter off, not wanting to watch the syringe bob in time with her pulse while she fumbled in the kit for a cotton ball.
It only took a few seconds for the antidote to warm up. Another few to find the cotton and press it into place after she withdrew the needle. It was over. She’d done it, and it hadn’t been so bad.
That was the scariest thing of all.
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“Hey, Chess,” he said. She got the words not just from his voice, barely a rumbling murmur over “Garageland,” but from watching his lips move. “Figured you ain’t coming after all, getting so late. You right?”
“Yeah. Right up. The job went on longer than I expected.”
“Lookin pale.”
She shrugged and drank her beer. No point discussing it, not when they could barely hear each other. “When are they going on?”
“Few minutes, maybe. Not long. They—Hold on.” From his pocket he produced a small black phone and flipped it open. The stark white glow of the screen invaded the darkness of the corner and highlighted his furrowed brow. “Fuck.”
“What’s—”
He cut her off with a look, a quick jerk of the head to indicate she should follow. This she did, trying to stay in his wake as he cut through the crowd back to the front of the room, narrowly avoiding razoring her cheek on some guy’s Liberty spikes, and out the front door.
Desultory clumps of people huddled outside, braving the cold to get a free listen once the band started playing. They shuffled out of the way when Terrible headed for the side of the building. Chess followed. For a second the cold soothed her heated skin before it became too much and she shivered. She should have brought a jacket, but they were such pains in the ass to hold on to in a club.
“Got problems.” He didn’t look at her as he dialed the phone and lifted it to his ear. “You know Red Berta, aye?”
“I know who she is.” Red Berta handled most of Bump’s girls—which meant she handled all of the Downside prostitutes west of Forty-third.
“Aye, well—Hey. Aye.” Whoever he’d called must have answered. “Aye, she—When they find it? Shit. Aye, hang on. I’ll be there.”
She knew before he snapped the phone shut that he wanted her to go with him. What she didn’t know was why.
“What’s going on?”
He stood for a moment with his eyes narrowed, sliding the phone back into his pocket without paying attention while he worked out whatever it was he needed to work out. “Feel like riding with me?”
“What’s going on?”
“Dead body.” His other hand went into his pocket. The movement made his shoulders look even broader, but the threat of his size had never been less evident. “One of Bump’s girls. Third one they find.”
“Somebody’s killing hookers?”
He shrugged. “Looking like a ghost doing the killing. Wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“What, just in the streets?”
“Ain’t you cold? Whyn’t you come on, Chess. Warmer in the car, aye? Just take a look.” His head turned back toward the huddled crowd. Right. Probably not a good idea to discuss this in public. So she nodded, and followed him across the street while the music kept playing inside the bar.
Terrible’s ’69 BT Chevelle straddled the curb two doors down, making the streetlight look like it was set up just to display it. New black paint gleamed in the orangeish glare. Chess was almost afraid to touch it, the way she would be afraid to approach any predator. The car seemed ready to leap forward on its fat black tires at any moment and start swallowing the road.
Sitting on the leather seat was like sitting on a block of ice, but Chess didn’t mention it. Terrible didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. Instead she waited for him to talk, knowing he’d get to it in his own time.
They’d gone about ten blocks through the abandoned streets west of Downside’s red-light district before he did.
“First hooker,” he said. “But the third body, dig? Bump ain’t paid much attention before, outside getting pissed. Dealer first. Slick Michigan, know him?”
She shook her head. The heater was starting to work; she could have relaxed if it weren’t for her nerves. The last thing she wanted to do was get involved with a murderous ghost. Another murderous ghost, that was—she still hadn’t fully recovered from the Dreamthief.
Terrible kept talking while she grabbed her pillbox and popped a couple of Cepts, washing them down with the beer she still held. “Found him maybe five weeks ago, down by the docks. Nobody think much of it. You know how them docks get. And Slick weren’t exactly the calm type. Figure he gets into a fight, aye? Plays with some boy got a quick knife hand.”
“He was knifed?”
“Aye.”
“But then—”
/>
He glanced at her. “Second one came a couple weeks ago, guessing. Little Tag. He a runner, aye? Ain’t sell, ain’t handle much. Just carryin from one place to another. Found him in an alley off Brewster.”
“I didn’t even know there were alleys off Brewster.” She looked out the window. They’d gone south first, down to Mather. Now Terrible swung the big car left against the light. What was a hooker doing this far off the drag, and this close to the end of Bump’s territory?
“Aye. Ain’t much good in them places, neither. Nobody even sure how long he was there. He body … ain’t pretty, if you dig. Hardly any left.” He took a long pull off his own beer and set it back down between his thighs, then pulled two cigarettes from his pocket and lit them.
Chess took the one he offered her and leaned back in her seat, letting the smoke curl out of her mouth and up toward the roof. “And now a girl.”
“Aye.”
“You still haven’t told me why you think it’s a ghost.”
“Ain’t sure it’s a ghost. Not me, not Bump. Got others thinking so, though.”
“So you want me to come in and say it isn’t?”
“Be a help, aye.”
“But what if it is?”
He glanced at her as he pulled the car up by a burned-out building. “You think be a ghost, Bump gonna call the Church ask them take care of it? Or you think he come to you?”
Shit.
Unholy Ghosts is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Unholy Magic copyright © 2010 by Stacey Fackler
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.