Sacrificial Magic

  “Aye, sure you do. Gimme the wait here, aye? When you done? Or maybe I wait for you.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Always got a choice,” he said, and planted a kiss on her forehead. She opened her mouth to reply, but he’d already turned and started walking toward the school building, glancing back to give her a casual wave.

  Bastard.

  “Were the same ghost in the gym as the theater, aye,” Vernal told her. They sat in an available office in the Administration section; after the kiss she didn’t want to stay outside. Couldn’t stay outside, where they could all see her. Their gazes burned holes in her back.

  But Lex had been right. Vernal had started chattering the second she closed the awful orange door behind her, and had hardly stopped since. Twenty minutes of solid talk; damn that kid could ramble. She wondered how often in his life someone older than him had actually listened to what he had to say for that long a period of time, for any period of time.

  But then, Beulah probably did. She’d seemed awfully defensive of him.

  “You’re sure it was the same one?”

  “Aye. Got a good look, I did. Thought it looked like that dame, the one offed sheself back in the when. But I ain’t got that solid, dig me, causen I ain’t seen no good images of she.”

  Right. She’d wanted to look Lucy McShane’s photos up anyway, hadn’t she? She scribbled that down, adding it to the list of things she needed to look up when she got to Church. Without hanging around to spend more time with Lex first. He’d done enough damage for one day. For a week, actually. Hell, for a whole fucking lifetime.

  “But definitely a female, and definitely the same ghost?”

  “Aye.”

  Chess leaned back in the chair behind the desk, a cheap one with a blue fabric seat and a plastic oval to support her back. The whole office was low-budget, from the threadbare rust-colored carpet to the scratched, paint-peeled metal filing cabinets with a couple of broken handles, to the desk so flimsy she was surprised it didn’t bend under the stack of papers sitting on it; it looked like something a six-year-old would put together. Whoever worked in there must not be high on the administrative totem pole at all. “But you said the ghost in the gym came from the bleachers, right? And in the theater it came from the curtains?”

  He nodded. Immediately after sitting down he’d plucked a rubber band from a little dish on the desk, and he twirled it between his fingers and around them, the movements almost hypnotic.

  But not quite. “And it was daylight outside. Just after school? Or still during school?” Then, at the look on his face, she added, “I don’t care if you were skipping class, that’s nobody’s business and I’m not obligated to tell anybody anything.”

  “Were skippin. Theater’s a cool spot for it, got its own ins an outs, big an quiet an all. Gives the privacy, it do.”

  “What were you doing on that day, the theater day, I mean? Just hanging out? One of the administrators thinks you were drinking; not that it matters.”

  “Had we a couple,” he said. Flick, stretch, twist, went the rubber band. “Ain’t got aught else to do, not here. They always tryna set we up them activities an shit, sayin keep us off them streets. Bullshit. I ain’t joinin. Ain’t even join Miss Beulah’s.”

  “What was Beulah’s activity?”

  He shrugged. “Some spuddle on positive changin, an makin shit happen, dig? Dame shit. Maia an Jia played she game. I ain’t.”

  Maia and Jia had been outside with Herb Paris berries and a firedish. Did Beulah know about that?

  “They all gots them groups,” Vernal continued, apparently not noticing her distraction or her raised eyebrows. “Mr. Li tryna get us all joinin too, do some camp-out shit or outdoors or whatany. Wants us playin along, like him our father.”

  She scribbled that down, although she was fairly confident it was useless information. So some second-school busybodies thought they should have more influence over the kids? They felt that desperate need to be popular and liked, they’d never grown up more than that? Ugh. Chubby polo-shirt boy-men. She could practically see them, with their too-jovial smiles and slightly off-color jokes, carefully calculated to make them seem cool without being dirty or rude.

  Ridiculous. Grow the fuck up. Any adult who spent a lot of time trying to win the confidence or affection of teenagers through community spirit activity bullshit was a moron, and an immature moron to boot. For that matter, anyone who spent time trying to win anyone’s confidence or affection, whether through those stupid activities or whatever else, was an immature moron.

  Giving a fuck what other people thought was a road straight to misery and pain; an obsession of the weak. To believe otherwise was to live in a fairy tale.

  “Can you think of anything else that might help me out? Anything else you noticed? Maybe you overheard someone talking about this and you didn’t make the connection at the time?”

  He grinned. “Aw, now, you testing me for snitchin? I ain’t pull that. You give Lex that one, I ain’t no teller.”

  Fuck. “No, it’s not—”

  He stood up. “I ain’t hear nothin, nay, but iffen I done, and were one of us, I ain’t gonna blow-back. Dig?”

  One of us? Great. That was just what she needed. Sure it might be useful in the short term, but it wasn’t going to help in general.

  She didn’t even want to think about being known as Slobag’s Churchwitch on this side of town.

  If she wasn’t already.

  Holy shit, she could be. Bump had said Slobag had a witch; she knew it wasn’t her, but … did Terrible? Did he think maybe she was doing it, that she’d killed Bag-end Eddie, that she’d— No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t think she’d actually do that, could he? Ritual murder? Was that why he hadn’t come back to her place to sleep?

  Slobag’s witch was something she could ask Lex about. He very well might not tell her—probably wouldn’t—but she could ask. The thought calmed her down a bit, as much as anything could.

  “Yeah, I got it.” She tore off a half sheet of paper from her notepad and hunted in her bag for her pen, which had apparently slipped out of its loop. Shit.

  Rather than dig around for it, she opened the top desk drawer, which gave a burbly squeal as the tracks stuck. At least it held a pen. Even better, the pen had ink. She scribbled her cell phone number down and held it out to him. “Call me if you think of anything, please. Or if you hear something. It’s not snitching, it’s helping everyone out, okay?”

  “Aye, sure.” He winked, took the paper from her hand. “Helpin out.”

  “We’d really appreciate it.” Meaning herself and the Church, but she knew Vernal would think she meant herself, Lex, and Slobag. Well, hey, it wasn’t her fault if he made an assumption. Maybe that was sleazy, but she didn’t have much choice.

  It wasn’t until he finally left the cramped office and closed the door behind him that she looked back into the drawer. A few sheets of red construction paper, some loose glitter, maps of campgrounds and parks. Crap, but not typical desk crap. Someone apparently did some art projects in there, or— Damn. Someone did other things in there, too, it seemed. Three condoms hid under one of the maps. Interesting.

  And gross. What was this cheap-ass desk, this half-broken chair, used for? Ugh. Good thing she had some hand sanitizer; she used it liberally, spraying everything in sight. Including her hands. For the third or fourth time in the last hour.

  The drawer made that broken sound again when she began pushing it shut, but over that she caught a rattle of some kind. A rolling rattle, like beads or marbles.

  Maybe it was. Maybe it was something else.

  A quiet jab of a button locked the door. Best not to be interrupted. Normally she’d wait until night, when she could come in with her Hand if she needed it and look at her leisure, but when opportunity struck …

  Not beads. Not marbles. Two Herb Paris berries.

  Well, fuck. What the hell was going on at that school? And who used that offic
e?

  Beulah sat behind her desk—a much nicer desk than the one Chess had just dug around in, with a smooth, polished wood top and a leather blotter in the center—in a pose so casually graceful it looked planned. Once again Chess found herself thinking that something about the woman seemed familiar, some sort of— She blinked, and it was gone. And what did it matter, anyway?

  “Hey,” she said. “I was wondering, who uses that office? The one on the other side of the administration area here, the small one with the filing cabinets?”

  “Which one?”

  It was such fun when people stalled. Beulah was pretty good at it, and at looking innocent while she did it, but Chess wasn’t falling for it. “The one right there. You can see the door. It has filing cabinets. Monica told me I could use it to interview students.”

  “I thought you were going to be in 122.”

  “I was. Then they needed the room back.”

  “Your interviews take a long time, don’t they. That’s not a very efficient system. Perhaps the Church ought to rethink the way they handle things.” Her eyebrows rose. “Or, of course, the way their employees handle things.”

  Chess tensed her jaw to keep from laughing. “Perhaps the school ought to reconsider who they give administrative offices to, when those people are so unaware of their surroundings.”

  To her surprise, Beulah giggled. A genuine giggle, a pretty one that softened the air around them. “That’s a storeroom, mostly, but it’s also used as an office on occasion. Wen uses it, Martha uses it—you met them, the Lis, remember? They’re supplementals, like me. Sometimes Otto Pao uses it; Monica; teachers or students who need a quiet place to work … all sorts of people.”

  “Students are allowed into a file room?”

  “The cabinets are locked. And I’m sure you have no idea what this is like, but a lot of these kids don’t have a quiet place to study. They can’t do homework at home. They don’t have electricity or heat—”

  “I live in Downside.” Beulah’s words sent a wave—a small wave, but a wave nonetheless—of shameful memory from her gut to her head. Yeah, sure, she had no idea what it was like to not have any privacy or safety or quiet in what was supposed to be her home. No idea how it felt to be excited to go to school even though it sucked because it meant she actually got to focus on something kids were supposed to focus on, how it felt to know no one was going to hit her or make her do things she didn’t want to do while she was there, to hate weekends because she had nowhere to hide.

  School had never been safe like the Church. But it had been better than some of the homes-cum-prisons she’d grown up in.

  Beulah didn’t even blink at that information; somehow Chess thought she already knew. Probably knew exactly where Chess lived. “Then you understand how it can be for them. Part of my job is to facilitate their learning, to build a sense of self and community spirit and a respect for tradition and history.”

  That struck a little chord in the back of Chess’s mind. “Church tradition and history?”

  “Of course. Church tradition and history.” Beulah’s smile was as fake as a red plastic plant. “Our children should definitely be proud to live under the Church’s thumb—I mean, guidance and protection.”

  “I certainly hope they are proud,” Chess replied, forcing what she hoped was a natural-looking smile onto her face. Fuck Beulah. “After all, the Church is what keeps all of us alive.”

  “Of course it is. It’s not like ghosts weren’t always vicious and attacked people, right? It’s not like it was a very unusual event that suddenly brought them up and made them want to kill. It’s not like that’s a suspicious thing to have happened, or like anyone would have had a motive to do that.”

  Great. Beulah bought into conspiracy theories. What was next, UFOs? Drugs in the drinking water? Too bad that one wasn’t true. Save her some money.

  But it wasn’t. “You’re right. It’s not. And they’d never appeared in such numbers before. For all we know, they were plotting and planning their revenge on the living for years.”

  “Right.” It was said a little too slowly, the vowel sound drawn out, pulled just to the cliff edge of sarcasm but not quite tipping over and falling into the valley of rude.

  Irritation like wiggling fingers inside her chest. “So lots of people use that office, correct?”

  “Yes. It’s a catch-all.”

  “Would you happen to know who’s used it in the last couple of weeks?”

  “I don’t keep track, Chess. And I’m not here every day, either. You should ask Monica about it.”

  “Sure, I will. Thanks.”

  Beulah said something, probably some sort of sarcastic version of “You’re welcome” or “See you later.” Then again, it was so mumbled Chess wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was actually “Go fuck yourself.”

  And she certainly did feel fucked at the moment. Two days of investigating and all she’d found was a bit of illegal magic, some probable ectoplasm, a falling catwalk, and the inside of a trunk.

  The catwalk hadn’t been an accident. Neither had the trunk. But the point was that she’d spent five or six hours in that damned place and hadn’t learned anything of use, except that people on this side of town didn’t think much of the Church. Wow, that was news. She might as well cut herself her bonus check with that inside information. Chess Putnam, Ace Detective.

  The filing cabinets were indeed locked. Good thing she had picks.

  With the door securely shut behind her she put those to use. Even easier than she’d imagined; the locks on those things might as well have been made of foam.

  Student files. Her heart jumped in her chest, then fell again when she saw the dates. BT student files, from Before Truth, before the Church. Some from the year or two after Haunted Week.

  Actually …

  The BT files seemed to have come from whatever schools students attended before they switched to Mercy Lewis. And those from right after Haunted Week, from the very beginning of the building’s reestablishment as a school … those could be useful indeed.

  Her fingers skipped over the tabs, looking for Mc. McElroy, McMasters, McNabb … McShane, Lucy. Excellent. She yanked the file from its spot, flipped it open, ready to at least get some kind of lead.

  Except the folder was empty. Not a single slip of paper, not a list of grades, not a picture—did they put pictures in student files?—or a class schedule or anything else. Certainly not any information about the girl’s death, suicide or not, and nothing about any kind of ghost or haunting rumors.

  Nothing at all. Odd, that. Chess had a very distinct memory of a third-grade teacher finding a note she’d written about another kid in class and telling her it was going to be put into her Permanent Record, so everyone at any other school she attended, and the Church hierarchy itself, would see it and know what a horrible person she was.

  Her hands didn’t seem quite under her control as she stuffed the folder back into place. She glanced at the clock, hoping enough time had passed that taking more pills would work, that she’d actually feel them.

  She would. Awesome. Her supply was getting a bit low, but she grabbed three and shoved them into her mouth. Her water bottle lay tangled in a bunch of other shit in the bottom of her bag. Of course. She dry-swallowed the Cepts, grimacing at the bitterness somehow sticky in her mouth, then finally tugged the bottle free to wash them down. She could really use another Coke or something.

  What she could really use was some speed, but given that she’d already felt something ghostlike in the theater that day, she couldn’t have any. Coke was the next best thing.

  The file put away, the cabinet relocked and the door unlocked, she headed for the soda machine at the other end of the Administration room, opening the small pouch she used to hold change. Two dollars for a Coke. Almost as bad as the prices in the Market.

  A hint of movement behind her. She turned, expecting to see Beulah standing there with her irksome smile, but it wasn’t Beulah. It
was Wen Li, and the look on his face told her he wasn’t pleased to be anywhere near her.

  He gave her the barest possible nod, more of a twitch than an actual greeting. Oh, he was an asshole. And she was in just the kind of annoyed mood to want to provoke him.

  “Mr. Li, how lovely to see you again.” She smiled her biggest, fakest smile and turned to face him, still holding her money in her hand.

  He glanced at it, then up at the slot on the machine. “Miss Putnam.”

  “I was wondering if you had some time to talk? I have some questions for you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t at the moment, no.”

  “Are you sure? It’s really important.”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I’m terribly busy.” Again his gaze traveled from the money to the machine, the machine to the money. Was he sweating? He certainly didn’t seem normal, but then how would she know? She had no idea what was normal for him.

  But he did seem … He reminded her of a speedfreak riding a comedown: the darting eyes, the fidgeting—he flicked his fingers across the bills in his other hand over and over—the shifting of his weight from foot to foot and the tightness of his pose, like he itched everywhere but couldn’t scratch.

  She doubted he was actually a speedfreak. If he was, he wouldn’t be so husky. But something was obviously making him nervous, and it most likely had something to do with her.

  “Oh? What are you doing?” Annoying people wasn’t something she usually got off on, but she had to admit it was kind of fun when the subject showed their irritation so obviously.

  Not to mention when they were such pretentious, self-important pricks.

  “I don’t feel comfortable discussing that, frankly.”

  “Should I ask Monica what you’re doing?”

  Another twitch. Hmm. What did that mean? “What? Why would you do that?”

  She was quite thirsty, too, but this was too interesting to stop. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”

  “No, of course not.” His tone indicated that the very idea was ridiculous; he laced it with so much scorn it practically soaked her skin. Obviously fake.