Unholy Magic

  Terrible. His body above her. More shouts. Wetness oozing through her sweater to her skin, and she knew what it was and what had happened and now she could scream, she pushed his heavy weight from her and could not stop screaming.

  His eyes were closed. His body was still. She picked up his hand, tried to get him to look at her, to talk to her, but he would not, and her mind refused to accept it and her eyes refused to see it and she heard wings, heavy wings, and she looked up and knew the birds had left her control.

  The hawk was coming.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Physical death is but a pathway to the City of Eternity; the psychopomp is an escort to a life of freedom and peace.

  —The Book of Truth, Veraxis, Article 66

  Its powerful wings stretched wide as it soared down, not in a hurry, ready to claim its soul. Terrible’s soul. He was dying, he was dead. The knowledge hit her so rough and deep it made the gunshot wound in her leg seem like nothing at all. She could not let this happen. Would not let this happen.

  Her hands didn’t shake as she reached for his gun, tucked into the waistband of his jeans against his still-warm skin.

  “Chess, what are you—”

  “Tulip, c’mon now—”

  Hands on her shoulders, gentle hands. They were trying to help, she knew, but they were wrong. They didn’t know how to help her. She shook them off, lifted the gun, pulled back the slide. He’d only let her shoot this one a couple of times, but she could do it. Oh, yes, she could do it.

  Oliver shouted again, but she barely heard it. Heard nothing but the beat of her own heart, pounding triple-time like she’d snorted a bagful of speed, as she raised the gun, sighted down the top just like he’d shown her, and fired.

  Missed. The hawk swerved off to the left, still coming. Any second now it would claim its prize, any second. Fuck, she couldn’t—

  She fired again. The hawk fell without grace, its head gone, its wings useless to stop its descent. It hit the pavement and lay still.

  “Chess! You can’t do this, you cannot—”

  Chess spun around, still holding the gun, and put Oliver Fletcher right in her sights. Gave him her eyes, let him see she meant it. The sound of the slide pulling back again echoed off the street. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  “You don’t know what—”

  “Fuck off, Fletcher.” It came out as a moan. How much time did she have? He was wasting her time. “Just fuck off.”

  “Chess, I know how you feel, fuck, you know I do, but you can’t—”

  She switched the gun into her left hand, grabbed her knife with the other. “I can’t lose him. That’s what I can’t do. I can’t—I can’t—”

  Her fingers scrambled at Terrible’s shirt, ripped it open. Blood on her fingers, blood on his chest. So much blood, she was too late, another psychopomp would be on its way, she had to hurry.

  Someone grabbed her arm, tried to pull her away. She yanked herself free—it seemed so easy—and dove forward, the point of the knife over his heart.

  “Chess, please,” Oliver said. “Please.”

  She ignored him.

  She’d studied that sigil, traced it with her eyes. Knew it by heart. The knife moved as if by its own accord, making the triangle, adding the runes, swerving over the top. She left out Oliver’s modification, used only the Church sigil, the one they used before. It was safe—surely it was safe—and if it wasn’t, she didn’t care, because if she lost him, she would die.

  “Kesser arankia,” she whispered, in a voice that barely sounded like hers. “By my power I bind.”

  Nothing happened. She heard wings. Too late. She was too late, she’d done it too late, she’d committed a capital offense in killing a psychopomp, and she’d done it for no reason at all because she was too late, and her entire body convulsed on itself and the knife fell from her stiff fingers and she couldn’t breathe.

  Terrible’s chest rose beneath her hand.

  The last person she expected to see by the side of her bed was Oliver Fletcher. At least, he was the last person she expected to see until she realized Roger Pyle sat next to him.

  “Hey,” she croaked. Roger grabbed the glass of water by her bed and handed it to her.

  “No, thank you,” he said, cutting off her next words. “For keeping my family and friends out of prison.”

  What?

  “He knows,” Oliver cut in. “About our deal.”

  “I could hardly help but find out something was going on, what with my wife and daughter being shot in my home, right? And the doctor told me about … well, that I’m going to be a grandfather.” Roger shook his head. So he still didn’t know Arden wasn’t his, then. “I still can’t quite believe that.”

  Chess had no idea what to say. He was glad his family and friends had worked together to trick and terrify him? On what planet was that good news?

  He must have known what she was thinking, because he said, “I know it’s hard for a girl like you to understand. But … they’re my family. They never meant to hurt me, they just couldn’t get me to listen to them any other way. I made a mistake, forcing them to move out here. They made mistakes, too. Just because you make mistakes doesn’t mean you don’t love someone.”

  Yeah. She knew that. She focused on the cup in her hands, wished they weren’t in the room so she could grab a couple of Cepts from her bag. The one good thing about the hospital was the free drugs. The bad thing was they were so damned careful in handing them out. No matter how much pain she pretended to be in, they wouldn’t give her the pills until exactly six hours had passed. Pedants.

  But she had a secret supply, courtesy of Lex. That meeting had been awkward, to say the least, but he’d come, he’d given her her pills, given her a kiss. What happened next they’d just have to see.

  And her leg and arm didn’t hurt that badly anyway. The only reason she was still there was her job. No way the hospital was going to take a chance on letting a Church employee go until she was completely healed.

  “I’m glad,” she said finally, because it seemed Roger expected a reply. “I hope everything works out for you.”

  “Me too.”

  Okay, this was kind of weird. Did he know why she’d agreed to let his family off the hook? Shit, they’d never even come up with a decent cover story—Oh, wait. She looked at Oliver.

  “We’re blaming it all on Kemp, right? And you’re here to tell me what you told them?”

  He nodded. “Basically. We’re saying Kemp summoned the ghosts for revenge, because of my involvement. I’ve already spoken to Thad Griffin. And you were at that house because of me. I begged you to go with me.”

  “And Elder Griffin was … He’s okay with that? I mean, am I going to—”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any problems with him, no.” His eyes held hers for a moment. No, he couldn’t mean that. Elder Griffin wasn’t the type who’d overlook a crime because of sex. She knew that. But a favor for an old friend? That she could see.

  “Thanks.”

  “Least I could do, I guess. Oh, and …”—he glanced at Roger—“Your friend … his bills are paid, okay? We’re taking care of it.”

  She bit her lip. Her friend … He’d pulled through. Been awake. Refused to see her. She’d tried twice the day before, but the first time the door had been closed and the nurse had told her he was sleeping, and the second time some buddy of his had shooed her away.

  He wouldn’t see her. He’d saved her life, and she’d saved his, but he wouldn’t talk to her.

  It had to mean something, though, right? That he’d saved her? That in that last minute he’d seen Horatio Kemp with a gun, and his thought had been to protect her, to shelter her? Didn’t that mean something?

  Oliver’s eyes showed he knew what she was thinking. Mercifully, he did not speak.

  “Anyway,” Roger said. “I wanted to come and say thanks. And you’re always welcome to visit, if you like.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t
travel much. One day, maybe—”

  “Oh, no. We’re moving back to L.A., but we’re keeping the house. We’ll spend summers here, I think. If you ever find yourself out that way, please feel free to say hello. I’d like that. I think we all would.”

  This kept getting weirder and weirder. “Okay, thanks.”

  He shook his head. “You gave me back my family. We’re talking again. You could have turned us all in, ruined our lives and our careers. Hell, you could have sold the story to a tabloid. You didn’t. I appreciate that.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him it hadn’t exactly been her choice, but closed it again. It was nice to think something good had come out of all this mess. That at least someone’s life had been improved. Her job didn’t lend itself to happy endings. Her life … well, that went without saying.

  They chatted for a few more minutes, then the men stood up to leave.

  “One more thing.” Oliver held something out to her. “I thought you might like to have these.”

  It was a flat, square package, thick as a magazine. The pictures—another set, she guessed—or maybe she hadn’t managed to grab them all at the Pyle house that night. She nodded.

  “If you ever need anything, give me a call. Please. My card is in there.”

  “Yeah, okay. And thanks, really.”

  They shook hands. Oliver leaned over and kissed her forehead, and the men left.

  She opened the package. Yep, the pictures. All of them. And the memory chip. Nice of him. Of course, he had a lot more than that to hold over her head at that point.

  At the bottom were two copies of one photo, a close-up enlargement. She and Terrible, the night they’d gone to Bump’s place, just before he’d knocked on the door. Joking with each other.

  Their bodies were so close they almost touched, so it was hard to tell where he ended and she began. The breeze had lifted her hair from her shoulders and brushed back her bangs so her eyes looked larger, totally focused on him.

  And he was smiling down at her, that grin that changed his entire face.

  Tears stung her eyes and she brushed them away. Two copies Oliver had made of this one. Maybe she felt like getting up and going for a little walk anyway.

  She slid off the bed and sneaked a couple of pills. Maybe this was a stupid thing to do. It probably was a stupid thing to do, but she didn’t care at that point. What difference would it make? She’d already made a total ass of herself, sobbing and screaming and telling a crowd of men—one of whom she was fucking—that her life would end if Terrible died.

  Terrible’s room wasn’t far from hers, just a few doors down the hall. His big, tube-ridden body dwarfed the bed.

  He looked okay, she thought critically. Not too pale. Whether that meant anything, she wasn’t sure.

  In her stocking feet she padded over to the bedside, listening to him breathe. Listening to the steady beeping of the IV machine in the corner. What she’d done … it had been worth it. Totally worth it, despite the possible consequences. She’d killed a bird. If that was discovered, she’d be in prison for a long time, possibly even executed. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care at all, because he was alive.

  She reached out and brushed the hair back from his eyes, half wanting him to wake, half hoping he wouldn’t.

  He stirred, mumbled something she didn’t understand, but didn’t wake up. That was fine, too.

  He wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t talk to her. That hurt far worse than the hole in her leg. So did knowing that this might be the last time she’d ever touch him, maybe even the last time she’d ever be this close to him.

  But she’d be dead now if it weren’t for him. When it came down to it, no matter how angry he was, no matter how badly she’d hurt him, he’d used his own body as a shield. Sacrificed himself for her.

  And she’d done the same in return. That had to mean something, right? That no matter how it might feel, their story wasn’t over?

  And right now, that was enough. What she would do about Lex she didn’t know. What the consequences of that sigil on Terrible’s chest might be, she didn’t know. Hell, there were lots of things she didn’t know; she never had.

  But right now she knew Terrible had died to save her. Some part of him, no matter how small, still cared about her at least as much as the rest of him still wanted her. And she still wanted him, more than she’d ever thought she could want anyone, and she wasn’t scared.

  So that was a pretty good start.

  She set the picture on his bedside table, where he would see it when he woke up, and padded back down the hall to her own room. It was his move now.

  She just hoped he would make it.

  Her bed waited for her; she climbed up, ignoring the twinge from her healing leg. The nurses would be by in another hour or two to give her more pills; she had a stash from Lex, a TV bolted to the wall, and a stack of books Elder Griffin had sent. She was alive. Nobody was going to take her job away. Nobody was spying on her anymore.

  Maybe it wasn’t a happy ending. But it was a hell of a lot better than she’d expected.

  Yearning for your next Unholy fix?

  Read on for a sneak peak inside the next

  novel in Stacia Kane’s dark and sexy series:

  Coming soon from Del Rey

  Chapter One

  Not all of your duties will be pleasant. But that is the sacrifice you make, for as a Church employee you must always remember that you are privileged above all others.

  —The Example Is You, the guidebook for Church employees

  The guillotine waited for them, its blackened wood dark and threatening against the naked cement walls of the Execution Room.

  Chess limped past it, trying not to look. Trying not to remember that she deserved to kneel before it, to place her neck on the age-smoothed rest and wait for the blade to fall. She’d killed a psychopomp. Hell, she’d killed people.

  Only the death of the hawk meant automatic execution.

  But nobody knew about that. At least, nobody with the authority to order her death knew about that. She was safe for the moment.

  Too bad she didn’t feel safe. Didn’t feel the way she should have felt. The dull ache in her thigh with every step she took in her low-heeled Church pumps reminded her of the almost-healed gunshot wound; her limp reminded everyone else, drew attention to her at a time when she wanted it even less than usual.

  Elder Griffin’s hand was warm at her elbow. “You may sit while the sentence is read and carried out, Cesaria.”

  “Oh, no, really, I’m—”

  He shook his head, his eyes serious. What was that about? Granted, an execution wasn’t exactly a party-it-up event; very few Church events were. But Elder Griffin looked even more solemn than usual, more troubled.

  He didn’t know, did he? Had Oliver Fletcher told him about the psychopomp, about what she’d done? If that bast—No. No, she was being stupid and paranoid. Oliver wouldn’t have told him. When would he have? As far as she knew, the two men had only shared one conversation since that night, the night she’d killed the psychopomp, the night Terrible had been—

  Her breath rasped in her chest. Right. This wasn’t the time, or the place. This was an execution, and she had testimony to give, and she needed to calm the fuck down and give it.

  So she sat on the hard, straight-backed wooden chair, breathing the disinfectant stink heavy in the room, and watched the others file in after her. Elder Murray, the rings painted around his eyes as black as his hair, almost disappearing against the rich darkness of his skin. Dana Wright, the other Debunker who’d been at the bust at Madame Lupita’s, her light hair curling around her face.

  For Lupita herself, no one came. Any who might have cared about her, who might have wanted to be there for her in the last moments of her physical life, had either already been executed themselves or were locked in their cells in the prison building.

  Last—last before the condemned woman herself—came the executioner, his face obscured by a heavy b
lack hood. On his open right palm rested a dog’s skull—his psychopomp, ready to take Madame Lupita down to the spirit prisons. Clenched in his left fist was a chain, and at the end of that chain was Madame Lupita, her legs and wrists shackled together with iron bands.

  The door thunked shut behind them, the lock popped; it would not open for half an hour. Time enough for the execution to take place and the spirit to be taken to the City of Eternity. The timelocks had been instituted in the early days of the Church, when a series of mishaps had led to a ghost opening the door and escaping. Like everything the Church did, the timelocks made sense, but Chess couldn’t help the tiny thrill of panic that ran up her spine. Trapped. Something she never wanted to be.

  The executioner fastened the chain-end he held to the guillotine and began setting up the skull at the base of the permanent altar in the corner. Smoke poured from his censer and overpowered the scent of bleach and ammonia; the thick, acrid odor of melidia to send Lupita’s soul to the spirit prisons, ajenjible and asafetida, burning yew chips to sting Chess’s nose. The energy in the room changed, power slithering up her legs and lifting the hair on the back of her neck, that little rush that always made her want to smile.

  She didn’t, though. Not today. Instead she pressed her teeth together and looked at the condemned woman.

  Lupita had changed since Chess saw her last, in that miserable, hot little basement that stank of terror and burned herbs and poison. Her big body seemed to have shrunk. Instead of the ridiculous silver turban Chess remembered, Lupita wore only her own close-shorn hair; instead of the silly sideshow caftan, her bulk was hidden beneath the plain black robe of those sentenced to die.

  But her eyes had not changed. They searched the little crowd, found Chess, and glared, hatred burning from their depths so hot Chess almost felt it sear her skin.

  She forced herself not to look away. That woman had almost killed her, slipping poison into her drink; had almost killed a roomful of innocent people, summoning a rampaging, violent ghost. Fuck her. She was going to die, and Chess was going to watch.