Stacia Kane - Finding Magic

Elder Griffin must have made a sound, or a face, or something. Or maybe the roaring in Chess’s ears simply overwhelmed anything she would have heard, the noise like waves of rage and pain washing over her and drowning out everything else.

That was it, then. All the hope she’d had, all the hope she’d been building, collapsed into a sodden pile of wasted dreams at her feet. She wasn’t going to create a life for herself, wasn’t going to make something of herself. She couldn’t escape, would never escape. Everyone knew who she really was, what she really was, that she was sick and shriveled and twisted inside, and they could all see it. Even when she thought she was hiding it, they could see it.

And Jillian actually thought she’d liked that sex spell. That she’d liked feeling what it made her feel, liked having it forced on her.

Just like the rest of them had. She would never escape.

Jillian went on, too, digging Chess’s grave deeper with every word. “But Trent and Vaughn would have found the connection once they started really processing the evidence. She saved them some time, yes, but it isn’t like she cracked the case or anything. She’s not stupid, she’s not a terrible investigator, but working with her just isn’t, well, enjoyable. Like I said, she’s not a team player.”

Elder Griffin’s voice was sharp. “You doubt her loyalty to the Church? To the Truth?”

“Oh, no. No, I can’t say that.” Well, that was something, at least. Jillian would throw her to the wolves but not to the angry crowds at the stocks on Holy Day, or to the executioner. Wow, that was something to be grateful for. Actually it was, but at the moment Chess felt too ill to have room for much gratitude. “She seems very loyal. I just doubt her ability to handle working with other people, or to work effectively under a regular chain of command. There’s no room for disobedience in the Squad, sir, as I’m sure you know.”

“I do.” Paper shuffled. “Well, thank you, Jillian. I appreciate your coming to answer my questions.”

“No problem, sir. I’m happy to help. I was wondering if, while I’m here, we could …”

But Chess wasn’t listening anymore. She was walking away as silently as she could, heading for the bathroom at the end of the hall. No, she shouldn’t do it, and it was yet another sign of how fucking weak she was, how little she deserved the chance she’d just lost, but her eyes stung and her chest hurt and their voices echoed in her head, all of those voices, and now Jillian’s and Elder Griffin’s, too, beating into her mind, and if she didn’t manage to dull them somehow she was going to scream. It was too much, and that embarrassed her and made shame pound through her body just as hard and fast as her blood in her veins.

Into the bathroom, into the stall, her hand already in her bag, finding the cool steel of her flask and yanking it out at the same time as she slid the door bolt home. Her fingers shook as she unscrewed the cap; her arm did not shake as she raised it to her lips and drank, one long swallow, then another, the burning heat of the vodka chasing away the icy lump that had formed in her gut. It was wrong but it didn’t matter, it was wrong but who cared, because her career at the Church was over, anyway.

She’d never worked before, not a real job, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d already realized how big a part politics could play in success at the Church; hell, she’d been trying so hard to be—to be friendly , to not let on that she couldn’t stand to have anyone touch her, that they freaked her out when they wanted to talk to her or ask questions about her life, that sometimes when she was in a group of her classmates she had to clench her fists to keep from panicking because there were so many of them and she felt so exposed.

And she’d thought she was doing a good job. Apparently not.

Warmth spread through her body, warmth and that familiar dull muscle ache she sometimes got from alcohol. Not that it mattered. It was better than the pain of her feelings; it was better than nothing, and she’d take it. Willingly. Gratefully. She didn’t want to, didn’t want to want it or need it, but what the fuck ever. She might as well.

For a few seconds, maybe a minute, she just stood there, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. So much better. Jillian’s voice, all of the voices, retreated enough for her to breathe, enough to let her focus again.

The cinnamon candies tingled in her mouth, elevating her mood a little further. Was it possible to build up some sort of Pavlovian conditioning with those? And eventually they’d do for her what the shots did?

She shouldn’t need either, she reminded herself as she flushed the toilet and headed for the sinks. She shouldn’t need something to get her through the day. She shouldn’t need any help.

But she was quickly coming to realize that “shouldn’t” might as well be “fat chance.” A second or two of honesty—all she could bear—reminded her that she hadn’t managed to go a day without the flask for over a month, and that wasn’t good. That was, in fact, Bad, capital “B” and all. The kind of Bad that would get her caught; booze wasn’t that easy to hide, and sooner or later the candies would stop working or they’d catch on some other way.

But wasn’t it ironic that she couldn’t make herself feel too guilty about it, couldn’t make herself worry too much about it just then, because her body was warm and the sharp edges in her brain were softened ever so slightly, and Jillian’s disregard had faded in her mind just enough for her to handle it?

The next day. She’d make it through the next day without a drink, she would. She could do it. It wouldn’t even be that hard.

She didn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror as she rubbed on a little lip gloss and gave her clothes a cursory glance to make sure she hadn’t spilled any vodka on them. Nope. Good. Time to go pretend she hadn’t heard anything, to pretend Jillian was her respected mentor, to pretend she had a future.

Good thing life had taught her a lot about pretending, or she’d have been in real trouble just about then.

Gloria Waring’s Cross Town two-story looked peaceful in front of the preparing-for-sunset sky. A long porch, a tidy lawn, sleepy-eyed windows watching the world go by. Calm.

A direct contrast to how Chess felt, which was like someone had wired her up to an outlet of electricity and misery. She hadn’t asked Jillian and Elder Griffin about the names she’d written down, the ghosts who were Summoned. Not after that whole She goes off on tangents and isn’t a team player and is sexually frustrated bit. The last thing she wanted to do after hearing that was walk in with another special request, another “tangent.” It wouldn’t make her look on the ball and ready, it would make her look disobedient and like a fucking creepy nymphomaniac or something.

So she’d kept her mouth shut and responded to Jillian’s chitchat in the car with what she hoped were normal-sounding responses. Jillian accepted them, but then, she would, wouldn’t she? Rather than just tell Chess flat out that she was a failure?

Of course. And really, Chess was grateful, because now she knew Jillian wasn’t to be trusted, either. Just like everyone else.

Gloria Waring answered the door, her eyes red and tired, her face pale. Only to be expected, really. She stood back to grant them entry. “You have news?”

“We have more questions,” Jillian said. “Just some background stuff. We hope this is a good time?”

Gloria shrugged and waved them into a yellow-and-blue living room littered with toddler toys. And a toddler, a little boy in overalls putting a Barbie doll into a tow truck. Cute.