Stacia Kane - City of Ghosts

“He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t do something like—”

“Something like what? Like pretend to be raped in order to get a rise out of somebody? What the fuck, Lauren? You unbelievable bitch.” She stared at the gun. Watched it, forced herself to remember it was there so she wouldn’t jump off the couch and attack. Lauren had lied. She’d actually made that shit up . Just to cause her pain, just to fuck with her. “What were you—”

“I wanted you to trust me.”

Chess stared at her.

“What? I thought, if we had something in common, if I opened up to you, you’d—”

“Oh, for—Whatever.” Stick to the case, she reminded herself. Get some answers, so that on the off chance she managed to escape she could do something about it. “Look. Vanhelm is dead. How many of you have died? How—”

“You should know. Who did you tell? Who have you been reporting to?”

“What?”

“Who did you tell?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” A jolt of pain shot from her wrists up; shit, the Binding. It kept her from telling … and it forced her to tell.

Like she’d told Terrible and Lex both, in a roundabout way. Oh, fuck, no. No. She would not give them up to Lauren, absolutely not. All the Lamaru would need were their names; five minutes asking questions in Downside would be enough for them to find both men. And as much faith as she had in them and their ability to survive …

Lauren’s eyes narrowed; she’d seen the flinch, knew what it meant. Fuck! “You’re lying.”

“I can help you, Lauren. We can help you. Come with me to the Church, we’ll tell Elder Griffin, he can—”

Lauren laughed, a genuine laugh. One that would have been pretty if not for the edge of hysteria lying beneath it. “Are you serious? You think I don’t know what the Church will do to me?”

“This is different, you’re a Church—”

“It’s not different, and you know it. What mercy does the Church show? What mercy did it—did you —show Randy Duncan?”

Lauren swept past, toward the door. Chess didn’t turn around, didn’t bother to remind Lauren that she hadn’t killed Randy Duncan. The Dreamthief had killed him. So she’d been right: This little plot wasn’t just about psychopomps and the Church. It was about her. It was revenge.

That was how the Lamaru had known to show up on the corner that first night, the night Lauren had taken her to the vacant lot where the parts had been found; Lauren had told them where she was. It answered her question about why they hadn’t come after her yet, when they knew who she was and where she lived. They’d wanted to torture her first, fuck with her. If she died, fine; if she didn’t, they could fuck with her some more.

“You’re the Grand Elder’s daughter, for fuck’s sake. Why would you … Why are you doing this?”

Lauren gave a harsh laugh. “You don’t know anything about me, Cesaria.”

The slow tingle of magic crawled over Chess’s skin, etched in darkness. A jolt of power went through her. Blood magic. Blood wards. Lauren was locking her in, more effectively than even the most hardcore deadbolt could.

Tires squealed outside; Lauren relaxed. “Good, they’re here. We can get this over with.”

“Yeah, great.”

“Oh, come on. Look.” Still holding the gun, Lauren edged across the room and into the little open-plan kitchen, opened a drawer; when she brought her hand out of it she held a syringe. “It won’t be bad. I promise. This isn’t poison or anything painful. They wanted to—Well, after Randy Duncan you’re not exactly popular with us. But you did save me in that fire. When that freak we got supplies from bombed the place and I couldn’t get out, you came for me. So I convinced them to do this instead. I don’t forget when people do things like that for me, so even though you have to die—”

They were outside, whoever was coming; Chess heard car doors slam in the parking lot outside. Warding hexes or not, gun or not, she had to try now. Now!

She vaulted herself off the couch, back toward what she assumed was Lauren’s bedroom. There would be a window there, she was sure of it, Lauren’s apartment was only on the second floor, and she’d take her chances—

Fuck, ow! Her head jerked back and she leaned into it, trying to loosen Lauren’s grip on her hair; shit, it felt like her scalp was coming off. The gun hit the tile with a dull slap, but she couldn’t see where it landed.

She drove her elbow backward into Lauren’s stomach. The pressure on her hair lessened for a second, long enough for her to gain a few feet. If she could just get into the bedroom she could lock the door, she could scream, surely the neighbors would call the Squad—

Right. Lauren was the Squad. They’d call her first, and she’d use her authority to tell them everything was fine, and they’d believe her.

Lauren shouted something behind her and pain, pain like Chess’d never felt before, shot up her arms from the marks on her wrists and blood spattered from the rough edges of them and she fell, it hurt too much to stand.

Footsteps thundered behind her and shook the floor. Hands tangled in her hair, yanked her up onto her hands and knees. A heavy-booted foot caught her just below her throat. It felt like he’d kicked through her chest, through to her soul, they picked her up and she struggled against them, fighting their hard hands, fighting the horrible pain and the helpless dread creeping into her mind. They had her, five or six of them, big men, their skin crawling with filthy power as they dropped her on the couch.

She scrambled back off it, only to be surrounded by legs; they towered over her like a human cage. Without thinking she crawled backward and pressed herself against the wall, wedged herself into the dusty space next to the TV cabinet. She couldn’t get out, she was stuck. She couldn’t get out . For a second she contemplated flipping the cabinet onto them but discarded that idea almost instantly. She wasn’t strong enough to move it.

But there had to be something she could do. Even six Lamaru men and Lauren … well, fuck, no, six Lamaru men and Lauren could turn her into a grease spot in less than a minute. But they might make a mistake. They’d already made one, involving Baldarel. And she just bet they were pissed about that.

But did they know they’d made it? Did they know that the man they were apparently taking orders from, letting mastermind their plan and informing of their every move, was the same man trying to kill them? That they were little more than puppets, servants to whatever plan he had?

She didn’t think so, judging by how Lauren had referred to Maguinness. She just couldn’t be sure, and she couldn’t get it straight in her head, couldn’t get the words and thoughts to focus properly.

“Cesaria.” Lauren’s voice cut through the panicky haze. She didn’t want to panic. If she was going down, she wanted to do it with dignity; if she was going down, she’d do her damnedest to take them with her. The thought calmed her.

She couldn’t get out. Whatever she faced now had to be faced; she had no choice.

“I’m sorry, I really am. It was … interesting, meeting you. Working with you. We’ve all wondered about you, you know.”

“I can help you—”

“Oh, come on. You’re not going to help us, and we all know it. No. Everything is in place, and we worked too long on this—but you can take comfort in something. You’ll certainly be remembered.”

“What—” Chess started, but she didn’t get to finish.

“We need you to tell us now who you told. What you know.”

Okay. Take a deep breath. Try to sound confident. “I’m not telling you shit.”