Stacia Kane - City of Ghosts

Lauren nudged him with her toe, pressed a button on the phone. “We need a wagon. Yes. Yes. Corner of Fifty-fifth and Brand. Yes, Downside. Yes, you will. What do you want me to do, put him in my car? Get your ass down here.”

She snapped the phone shut. “They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile …” She nudged him with her toe again. “Hey. Hey, you. What did you think you were doing down here?”

The Lamaru witch moaned again. Lauren’s mouth twisted. “I asked you a question.”

“Lauren, maybe he’s not—”

Lauren glared at her. “He’ll talk.”

“Why don’t we see if he has ID or something first? You know, what we can find out on our own?”

Chess didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to dig her hands into his bloody pockets, to make contact with the evil hovering over him like a cloud of locusts.

But she did. The sigil on her forehead blazed on her skin, the wards in her tattoos ringing like fire alarms. She jerked away. “He’s Hosting.”

“What?”

“Look.” She forced herself to touch him again, ignoring the stinging sensation, and tilted his head so Lauren could see the silvery cast of his one open eye. Blood clung to her hands, made it hard to breathe.

Lauren loomed over her, leaning to peer down at him. “How the hell did his Bindmate escape my psychopomps? Shit. Let me call them back and let them know.”

“Sure, I can Bind him down on my own,” Chess muttered. Luckily the supplies she’d grabbed earlier were still within easy reach in her bag; she dusted the broken Lamaru with asafetida and graveyard dirt, added a little salt and power to keep whatever he had inside him until it could be Banished at the Church. Squatting in pig blood next to an evil piece of shit—and Lauren, too—was bad enough without having to summon her psychopomp and take care of it herself.

Lazy, sure, but then given the type of investigation this was, the Church would probably want to get a look at the thing themselves anyway.

She had to move him to get into his pockets; he shrieked when she did. His right arm flailed, narrowly missed her face.

Lauren grabbed it and slammed it to the ground, eliciting another shriek, while Chess opened the slimy wallet.

ERIK VANHELM said the driver’s license. Below that was an address in Cross Town. Erik was awfully far from home—if he actually lived at that address—but then he would be. Nobody would try to pull shit like this in one of the decent parts of town, where the Black Squad actually patrolled and the neighbors actually cared.

She pulled out her notebook and scribbled the information down. Never hurt to keep your own notes, especially not when working with the Squad. Or with anyone, for that matter. One of the reasons Chess chose Debunking was so she could work alone.

Lauren held her hand out for the wallet; Chess slapped it into her palm, aware again that they were being watched. Aware too that she had to get home. He was going to show up, she knew it. If she was right about Bump owning something near here, which she had to be … yeah. Arriving with a member of the Black Squad and poking around was not going to win her any points in the Bump’s-best-pal contest.

Would he talk to her when he came to get her?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. She was sure she wouldn’t have a choice.

Pace, pace, pace. Her body still buzzed, woozy from speed; she desperately wanted to take something to come down but didn’t dare. Couldn’t fall asleep. Needed to be sharp when he got there.

Lit another cigarette. It made her queasy on top of everything else, but what was she supposed to do? She’d rushed through her second shower of the night, dried her hair, put on makeup and a red top she knew he liked, even as the little voice in her head told her there was no point. She took another couple of Cepts to drown it out and kept pacing.

Tried to read; the words swam on the page. Tried to watch TV; the people wandered around, saying and doing insipid things—well, that wasn’t just nerves and drugs, that was TV no matter what—until she wanted to throw her knife through the screen. She’d snapped it off and the silence blasted her from her chair. None of her CDs sounded right, were what she wanted to hear. She finally shoved in Radio Birdman just to fill the apartment with sound. Just so her misery had some company.

Where was he? It was after three. Surely he hadn’t just … forgotten about her? Did he hate her so much he didn’t even care what she’d been doing there?

Maybe he didn’t need to know. Maybe he was just going to kill her. She glanced at the stained-glass window that made up one wall of her apartment. Her building had been a Catholic church once, back before Haunted Week and the rise of the Church of Truth. Most churches had been razed during that week when the dead walked the earth and took millions of souls with them—and in its aftermath—but the Church had decided her building had some historical significance and was aesthetically pleasing, so it had been allowed to stand.

There were buildings across the street. Their windows looked into hers. Was he over there with a gun? Just waiting to—

From the street came the low rumble of a car. Of one particular car. Her heart stopped; she ran to the window, looked down in time to see Terrible walk up the steps.

One last pat of her dyed-black Bettie Page hair; one last slick of lipstick over her too-dry mouth. She couldn’t do anything about the rest of it. She was pale and shaky, her entire body clammy with nerves.

When his heavy knuckles hit her door she was ready, standing beside it. Her hand flew to the knob, but she caught herself before she turned it. Bad enough that she’d made an ass out of herself the last time she’d seen him. He didn’t need to know she’d been hovering here by the door, waiting.

The makeup was a mistake. So was the top, and the high-heeled boots. It was all a mistake. What did she think this was, a fucking date? How much more obvious did she want to make it? Maybe when she opened the door she could fall to her knees and start crying, too, just to complete the pitiful picture.

Another heavy knock. Okay. Deep breath time. She twisted the knob, stepped back, and pulled.

Nobody filled a doorway like Terrible.

Her mouth opened. What should she say here? Hi? How are you? Come to bed with me? Yeah, that would work. Fuck! What was she—

His eyes met hers. For one second she saw something in them. Something like what she used to see, a ghost of what had been.

Then it was gone. He jerked his head to the side in a short “Come on” gesture, turned, and walked back down the hall. No need to say anything; they both knew why he was there, where he was taking her.

Her heart fell into her shoes. It was no more than she expected. No more than she deserved. But it still hurt; fissures inside her she’d thought were starting to heal cracked back open and pumped deep-blue misery through her veins.

Breathing past the lump in her throat, she grabbed her bag and followed him, pausing only to lock and set the wards on her front door. Her arms felt awkward, her hands too big; she shoved them into her pockets, took them back out, folded and unfolded her arms as she tried to keep up with his long stride. Down the stairs, across the wide lobby and through the huge double doors, out into the cold early spring wind.

Out of habit she paused by the passenger door, waiting for him to open it, but he didn’t. Right. She grabbed the icy handle herself, felt it bite her palm as she lifted it and let herself into the dark, smoke-and-leather-scented interior. Other scents lurked there as well: bourbon and beer. He’d been drinking. She didn’t blame him. She could have used a drink herself just then. Would have been smart to grab a beer from the fridge.