Stacia Kane: City of Ghosts

A pig. Not from the slaughterhouse, but closer, right on top of them, right across the street.

The Lamaru had been waiting for them. How the fuck had they known?

Lauren’s eyes widened; the whites gleamed red around black pupils the size of BBs. Chess only caught a glimpse of them, of the other woman’s terrified face, before she dropped to her knees and ripped her bag open. Running to the car and getting the fuck out of there was tempting, but she couldn’t consider it. Didn’t consider it. There were people in those empty building shells, people hiding and watching, and if she was right about what was going on behind that wall of evil, she’d be condemning every one of them to a messy death, and she had more than enough on her miserable conscience as it was without adding that.

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.

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.