She wasn’t Chess anymore, not entirely. She was someone else, someone with all of her power, all of her skills, someone whose life began the day she stepped into Church for her first day of training and for whom the cold hellish years before didn’t exist.
A Chess who didn’t need pills to get through the day. A Chess who lived on-grounds with everyone else, who could be part of that life because she didn’t sweat and shake at the idea of letting others know her, the thought of not having space of her own, or of not having privacy and distance because she needed it so bad. A Chess who was confident, happy, strong, who had lifelong friends and made new ones easily. A Chess who let herself be loved.
That Chess opened herself more, let more of that power into herself—hell, she didn’t let it in, she sucked it in, she pulled on it the way the old Chess inhaled Dream in the pipe room—until she blazed with it. She was a live wire humming there in the gloom, a shining golden light so bright it would blind them all, proud before the black hole opening between her world and the other side, before the endless sea of ghosts moving across the shore.
And she wasn’t even worried. Wasn’t even scared.
Instead of Aros’s knife she grabbed her own from her pocket—she’d been given it, hadn’t she? Who gave that to her? That had been the other life, the one she didn’t know anymore—and sliced the point, deadly sharp, across her left pinky, where earlier wounds had barely closed.
Droplets of blood fell on the skull. “I call on the escorts of the land of the dead. By my blood and by my power I call you. By my blood and by my power I command you. Take these spirits back to their place of silence, take them back to their place of rest.”
The skull began to vibrate. Somewhere behind her, noises, grunts and scrapes and yelps. A fight. She didn’t—couldn’t—care.
“I offer a sacrifice to the escorts for their aid.” More blood, faster now. The air before her rippled like heat rising off pavement. Wider and wider, taller and taller. The gateway opening.
“Let my power be pure,” she cried, and took the energy inside her, that immense incredible energy, and threw it into the gate. Fed it into the skull.
The gate exploded into being. The dog did the same, leaping off the floor, bones and skin and fur growing from it to form a body. Its eyes glowed green just like they were supposed to; it was silent just like it was supposed to be. Everything was working; everything would always work for this new Chess, who smiled with confidence as magic rolled from her fingertips, who kept smiling as she stepped back from the gateway.
The immensely powerful gateway. She was a conduit, and the power ran from the hole through her into the gate.
The dog bounded ahead, exactly where she wanted it to go. Too much life in her, too much power in her, and as it moved she realized she could control it. That psychopomp was her psychopomp; her blood and power had created it and she could make it do anything she wanted to.
It wasn’t even hard. It was like bending her fingers, so simple a child could do it.
She sent the dog after Slobag, considered sending it after Aros and Monica as well. No, it would be too hard to keep hold of one ghost while pulling a soul from a still-living body. The psychopomp might get confused.
So how to end that spell?
Monica and Aros had created a totem to hold their ghosts to the earth. But they’d used that totem in their ritual, had had it there because they were trying to direct the energy to it, and to Lucy as well as themselves. It was still there.
Where was it, what was it? What would they have that belonged to a young girl, a girl who dated lots of boys, who maybe even dated a teacher, what could be personal enough?
Jia and Maia had been holding a book that day when Old Chess had found them outside the school. A used-looking book with a cracked cover. A diary, a school notebook, whatever it was. That was it. That was the totem.
She turned her head, scanned the floor for it. Aros and Monica were digging around in a backpack; that could not be good.
But it was too late for them. They were going to lose, they’d already lost, because when people went up against New Chess that’s what happened to them. She ran toward them.
“Where’s the totem?” Her voice sounded so light and confident and cheerful. Almost not even like hers. Happy. It was weird, but only for a second. Then it was awesome, the voice she was meant to have.
Monica lunged for her. This time her skin didn’t burn, this time it didn’t hurt to touch her. This time Chess was the stronger one, the more powerful one, and she ducked Monica’s swing with slow calm ease, her voice still cheerful. “Where is it?”
Monica, in contrast, sounded like something about to be run over for the tenth time as she swung again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Chess caught her hand. All the power in her body, all that energy … she could sting Monica with it, let it hit her, and she did. Monica’s face paled in a way that would have pleased the old Chess. The new Chess didn’t want to hurt anyone.
“Yes, you do. Look, it’s over. Give me the totem, and I can end this, and you get to live.” For a while, anyway. But she didn’t say that. Monica didn’t need to know she’d be executed. “It’s that book, right? The flowered one, the journal, the diary? Where is it?”
“You can’t have it.”
“Where is it, Monica?”
Monica didn’t answer, but Chess didn’t need her to. While she’d been talking, Aros had started slinking off to her right, back to the remains of his circle where the book clearly sat beneath his firedish. How Chess had missed it when she was in that circle she didn’t know, but she hadn’t been herself then, had she? She’d been that old Chess. The losery junkie one.
A bark from behind her. The psychopomp had Slobag. It sat at the gate, looking at her. Of course. He was probably bound by the totem as well, since he’d been created in the circle. In fact, the spell might be bound to the totem, she might be able to end that spell by destroying it.
She was almost done. She practically flew over to where the circle had been; the book lay just around the corner of the post.
Monica shrieked. Yes! Heck yeah, that was it, she had it, time to clean up this mess.
Over to the gate, that glowing strong gate so wide and ready like a starving mouth about to be fed a gourmet meal. It was ready, the dog was ready.
Slobag was ready. She saw his face, saw him looking at the two people, the man and the woman, standing on the ramp watching him. Funny, she didn’t see hatred in his eyes, or the violence she’d normally see from a ghost. Perhaps because of the talisman, the spell’s power, maybe it had helped him hold onto some vestige of humanity. Chess didn’t know.
But she did know that when she threw that talisman into the gate, he would follow it. He had to, because he was bound to it.
The old Chess might have worried or wondered if it would work. Now she knew it would.
With one confident stroke she flung the book through the gate.
Monica’s scream hurt her ears. Monica’s body slammed hers into the cement. Monica’s fingers curled in her hair, yanked her head up. Oh no, Chess braced herself, stiffened her neck to keep Monica from driving her face into the cement. She needed to flip over. She’d still be beneath Monica, but if she could flip over she could at least hit back.
Slobag and the psychopomp disappeared through the gate. The skull fell to the ground before it. Chess felt the gate shiver, felt it react. The gate had her power and was connected to her, and she felt it do its job. Some of the earth energy from the spell started seeping into it, going back to where it came from, so slowly.
Too slowly for her. She felt so … good. So great, and she didn’t want to waste a second. Once she got this finished she could leave, leave this stinky place and head back to Church, where she belonged. Where she could be happy—could keep being happy, of course she was happy, why wouldn’t she be?
Monica’s palms slapping her, the back of her head, her back. “You fucking asshole, let me
go, I’ll kill you—”
Chess ignored those hands, and those uncouth words. With one mighty shove she flipped herself over, catching Monica’s face with her open palm and knocking her to the floor.
That spell had to stop, that energy had to stop cycling. Chess felt the gate again, reached for it in her head, reached for it with her power, and pushed more into it. It was strong, it was big, but it needed to be stronger. It needed to pull. She twisted it a little, tweaked it somehow, and the vacuum increased. Yes!
Stronger and stronger. The energy followed the book. The hole was strong, the gate was strong, and all of that was connected to Chess. She was the strongest.
Monica jumped up. Her scream pierced Chess’s ears. “Lucy!”
She started running, running toward the gate, and Chess reached for her even though she knew she was too far away. “Monica! No, don’t—”
Monica ran through the gate.
Light. Blinding, searing light, brighter than the fire outside. Chess bent over, shielded her eyes. The heat of it warmed her chilled skin.
But it wasn’t a good light. It was an impact, a back-draft, and the heat faded and she opened her eyes and saw blood everywhere, blood and hair and bits of things she didn’t even want to know what they were, scraps of horrible fabric.
Monica had exploded. She’d crossed the line into the gate, and she’d exploded.
The thought barely had time to skip through Chess’s mind before it happened. The power. The power of the hole, the magic of it. The hole wasn’t closing, hadn’t closed yet. Instead it was feeding from the gate, they were feeding off each other, forming a circuit of magic. A circuit that ran right through her.
The power wasn’t leaving anymore. She assumed that meant the spell’s connection to the talisman had disappeared, which was a reasonable assumption to make. And probably correct. She knew how magic worked, after all. She’d been doing this job a long time.
But being right didn’t always mean being glad about it, and in this case she didn’t think she was. The power was equal, running through her, and the energy didn’t have to go anywhere as long as both were open, and the spell wasn’t ending.
It needed to end, and she needed to end it.
She reversed the circuit through herself. Took from the hole to give back to the gate, more and more. Watched it shrink.
A disturbance in the power behind her. Aros. Aros limp-shuffling like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, his bloody knife—the one he’d used to stab Slobag—dangling from his hand. Hatred blazed in his eyes, hatred aimed at her. Darn it, she didn’t want to have to fight with him, too.
She didn’t. Instead a man leaped from the shadows, a huge man with black hair. He knocked Aros down with a horrible splatty thud. She knew him, didn’t she? Her heart somersaulted, but her mind … couldn’t quite seem to grasp it.
Terrible. That was his name. What kind of name was that?
Whatever. What mattered was ending the spell.
She could close the gate now, end the spell herself. And she knew in that strong part of herself, that big well of hope and joy and confidence and magic, that big well that looked forward to the next day and the next and the next because only good things would happen to her from then on, that she could close them easily. They wanted something in order to close, and she had something to give them.
But she could keep whatever of the power she wanted.
And she would. She’d keep it. She’d hold on to it. That old Chess, the addict Chess, the one who hated herself and whose life was one long story of pain and horror? She was gone, just a vague memory like a movie Chess had seen once and hadn’t enjoyed. She could be gone for good, she didn’t need to come back. She wouldn’t come back unless Chess agreed to bring her back. Eventually she’d forget it had ever existed, ever happened. She’d forget all of it, and by forgetting, she’d make it so it didn’t happen.
She’d needed to sacrifice something to open the gate, needed to let go of something. It still waited for another sacrifice. To close the gate, to close the hole, she had to give it some power, some piece of her. Something.
She could get rid of all the pain. She could throw Old Chess onto the fire and rise like a phoenix fresh and new, start the rest of her life—the life she should have had—that very minute.
One simple movement, and nothing but happiness from then on. All of her hopes and dreams coming true. What the heck was she waiting for?
The pieces of that old Chess—not pieces, more like images, quick flashing images that didn’t make a lot of sense, at least not to her—raced through her head. All so miserable, so painful. This was hardly even a sacrifice, it was a mercy killing.
She stood there staring as those images flashed in front of her. The last memories, the last vestiges of that other girl who’d been in her body. She owed it to her to watch them, didn’t she?
“Chess?” Not a familiar voice, not really. Not to her. But it should have been. It meant something.
The images in her head slowed, and she turned to see that big guy standing there, an uncertain look on his craggy, bleeding face. “You right, baby? Be a problem?”
Terrible.
He never called her baby, though. Did he? That didn’t seem quite right, baby.
Movement to her right. The man and the woman— Lex and Beulah were their names, right?—and they looked so sad and shocked and pale, and she remembered them, too. Slobag was their father. Lex … she’d slept with Lex, hadn’t she? Gee, she’d really been kind of a slut.
But then, she could see the attraction. He was a handsome guy, even though he looked awful at that particular moment. But the old Chess still had those memories, saw him at his best. Saw him laughing. Saw him naked—well, that was interesting—saw him sleeping and smiling and smoking and being her friend, saw him fighting at her side, being fond of her. Liking her.
And Beulah. A new person but one who actually seemed to like her, too, who she actually sort of seemed to understand, didn’t she?
What difference did it make? She could get new friends. She didn’t need these people, who were they? They certainly weren’t good people by any normal standard. Not by the standards of decent, proper people. Lex sold drugs or something, didn’t he? And she thought she remembered him killing people. And Beulah was kind of a bitch, right, and—she was an adulteress, if Chess remembered correctly. She was sleeping with a married man, in violation of the law. Shameful.
And Terrible … he was just a thug. A violent thug at that. And he had something to do with drugs, too, and prostitution and all manner of other things. He was not a good person. What redeeming qualities could a person like that have?
No. She didn’t need those people. None of them were worth her time. She could move on, she could find new friends, have a new life, the one she’d always dreamed of. It would be so good, so darn good, fun and happy and easy, and she could leave all the bad behind once and for all and really live.
Decision made. She gathered it all up, all of the memories and thoughts and tics and habits and everything else that made up Old Chess. Gathered it in her head like a bundle in her arms and got ready to throw it, to cast it into the hole and close it for good. And when it closed and the power left, the gate would close on its own.
“Chess? What’s troubling?”
He loved her.
It came to her in a flood then, one huge hot rush of jumbled memories and images. But not like last time. Not painful ones, not rough ones. These were … they were security and warmth and happiness, and they were even brighter because of the contrast. They were safety and kindness. They were feeling cared about and special and protected, caring about someone and protecting him and feeling that together they were unbeatable, and its being all so amazing because it was new. And— Whoa, some of those memories were pretty intense, too, intensity that made heat rush to various parts of her body that kind of embarrassed her.
All of the bad stuff came with it. All of the horrible memories and pain, the insecur
ities, the hatred of herself and the rest of the world, the exhaustion and the drugs and everything else.
But Lex came with it, and Beulah came with it. Elder Griffin—she remembered him, he cared about her, too—came with it.
And Terrible came with it, and those long nights lying in bed barely able to breathe because she thought her happiness would choke her as his chest rose and fell beneath her head. Or the mornings when she woke up and he was looking at her, watching her sleep, and there was something in his eyes that she knew was hers, just hers, that nobody else in the world had ever seen before.
With that came the uncertainty, the fear. She’d been terrified, hadn’t she? Somewhere inside her she’d been terrified every minute of every day that she’d lose him and go back to being alone, only worse because she’d know what she’d missed.
But somehow the knowledge that if she threw it away now, threw it into the hole, she wouldn’t actually remember, wouldn’t know what she’d missed, didn’t help. She didn’t want to forget it. She didn’t want to lose it. Even if it ended, even if she ended up with her heart broken into thousands of pieces, she couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting it. She’d fought for it, she’d fought so hard, she’d earned it. It was hers and hers alone, the only thing in the world that really and truly was.
Her power was hers, yes, but she wasn’t the only witch in the world. She wasn’t the only Churchwitch in the world, or the only Debunker. Not the only addict, not the only one with pain, not the only one who hated and feared and felt sick and wanted to die but didn’t have the guts to do something about it. Not the only one who listened to the music she listened to, drove a car like hers, wore her hair in that dyed-black Bettie Page cut. Not the only woman in the world who dressed like her, ate the same foods, drank the same things, read the same books. She wasn’t the only one of any of those things; yes, she was unique, but only in the mundane way that everyone was unique.
But she was the only woman—the only one in the entire world— Terrible loved. And he did love her; the new Chess could see it so clearly, how obvious it was, how obvious it had been for so long.