Stacia Kane - Finding Magic

Eric’s ghost grabbed a knife and turned toward Mark. Maybe he’d—no. No, because Mark set Jillian’s gun down on the counter and grabbed something from his pocket. Chess figured it was graveyard dirt and asafetida, just like Jillian had used—just like all Church employees, or anyone who could do any kind of ghost magic, used—and she was right. Mark flung it at Eric’s ghost almost lazily, and Eric froze.

Chess took her chance. She scrambled along the floor, trying to cross the distance to the mouth of the hallway as quickly as possible, trying to cross it before Mark saw her—

And failing. Pain erupted in the back of her head as Mark grabbed her hair and pulled it hard, lifting her hands off the floor, yanking her to an upright kneel.

“Oh, no,” Mark said. The gun waved just before Chess’s eyes, its nozzle a dark tunnel straight to the City. “You’re not going anywhere. I need you.”

Needed her?

Before she had a chance to figure out what that meant—she certainly wasn’t about to ask—the living room ghosts appeared, hovering in the doorway, their faces twisted with rage. Shit. Yeah, Mark could apparently freeze them, but again, it wouldn’t last. What was he doing? What was he planning to do?

Tracy Ross launched herself at Mark. He let go of Chess’s hair, giving her a second or two of blessed relief before another gunshot broke the air, made Chess’s ears ring. Another dead body, another ghost. What the fuck was he doing? Did he plan to fill the fucking house with ghosts?

Not to mention that their presence made Chess feel queasy. Something made her feel queasy, anyway, and she was pretty sure that was it. Without any markings on her skin, either the tattoos all Church employees were given as protection and power enhancers or the sigils and runes Jillian had scrawled on her earlier on the train, the ghosts’ energy beat against hers. Of course. That was why she’d been uncomfortable earlier, just before the ghosts had appeared. She’d never been around a ghost without being marked; the Church instructors were very careful about that. So it was good—or at least worthwhile—to know.

But knowing that didn’t help. She turned in a vain attempt to head down the hallway again, but Mark caught her just as quickly as he had before. This time he dragged her—again by the hair, ouch—over to crouch near Jillian, who still moaned softly as she clutched her bleeding shin. “Stay right there. If you move, I’ll shoot you. Understand?”

She managed to nod. He grabbed something out of another pocket: a small canister. Church salt. Of course. Chess watched as he dumped it in a thick line, blocking the ghosts from entering the kitchen, and then in another line that separated himself from Chess, Jillian, and the ghosts of Eric and Tracy. Eric was still frozen, but Chess could already see signs that the freeze was lifting, and Tracy’s blank eyes had focused on Jillian. Shit.

Mark opened the kitchen door—the back door. Beyond it Chess made out the dark shape of a black van. The van, idling on the grass, with ROSS TRANSPORTS painted in white on the side. A typical van no one would notice as it made its way through quiet suburban streets.

“Come on.” Mark waved the gun at her, at Jillian. “Get her up. Let’s go.”

Tracy swiped at Chess’s head; it was like having someone drive an icicle into her brain. Not fatal—Tracy couldn’t kill her by touching her—but fuck it was cold, and fuck that made it painful.

And that was nothing compared to what Tracy could do—would do—when she figured out that touching wasn’t going to work, and picked up a weapon.

Jillian spoke up from her fetal position on the floor, the words broken and punctuated by gasps. “The other Squad members know we’re here, Mark. You won’t get away with this.”

He snorted. “I certainly hope they do. An idiot would figure it out.”

Chess spoke before she thought of it. “You wanted them to know. You want them to come here.”

“I want them to know everything.” His lips curled into a snarl. “I want them to know I’m on to them. I want them to know what I think of them. And you bitches are going to help me. Now get up and get in the van.”

Chess glanced at Jillian. Jillian hadn’t moved. So … did that mean Chess shouldn’t, either, or was Jillian just trying to gather her strength, or what? If it were up to Chess she would get up, try to act compliant, look for an opening to attack, but for all she knew Jillian was planning some kind of attack already, or she’d managed to actually call someone while Mark was trying to rip Chess’s hair out at the roots, or whatever.

Mark sighed and checked his watch in an exaggerated fashion. “In about eighty-nine seconds, the dynamite I’ve placed around the foundation of this house is going to explode. So you have your choice. You can get in the van, or you can try to run for it. Personally, I don’t think you can run that fast.”

He hadn’t finished the sentence before Chess was up, hauling Jillian to her feet and pulling her over the salt line. Yes, she could try to run, to a neighbor’s house or into the middle of the street or something, but this was Northside. One of the more expensive neighborhoods in Northside, which meant the nearest neighbor was a good fifty yards or so away at least, and Chess somehow didn’t think she could drag an injured Jillian that far in a minute.

Hell, she didn’t even think they could get that far by van, but it looked like her only chance, didn’t it?

So she threw herself forward, hauled Jillian along with her, and leaped into the van’s open door. Before she had a chance to even consider closing it behind her Mark was there, his body repugnant against hers as he pushed her further in and put the van in gear.

The van’s engine roared, and it lurched forward. Jillian yelped in pain; Chess gritted her teeth. How much time did they have left, how far away did they have to get, how powerful would the explosion be?

Really fucking powerful, was the answer. The air around them went white and orange; the van jerked sideways as it turned onto the street at the end of the long driveway. The van didn’t have back windows, but Chess saw it through Mark’s window, saw his profile outlined by fire, saw wood and stone and chunks of unidentifiable materials fly into the night sky. The noise was deafening, horrible; the light seared her retinas so when she blinked all she saw was bright, fierce green.

But Mark had already reached another bend in the road. The last image Chess saw was the plume of vicious fire against the darkness before it really hit her where she was, who she was with, and she closed her eyes in despair because she had no idea how she was going to escape this one. No answer presented itself as they drove along the highway, back toward Downside—so she assumed—and Mark’s home. No bright ideas sprang fully formed into her head, no clever plans appeared. Instead she just felt miserable, and she fought back the terror threatening to overwhelm her. She was trapped. Trapped in a moving vehicle by a man holding both a gun and a grudge, and she was apparently part of some plan of his, and she didn’t want to know what it was.

Jillian’s quiet sobs grated on her. Why wasn’t Jillian thinking, why wasn’t Jillian coming up with a plan? Why wasn’t Jillian holding her hand, trying to reassure her, instead of just clutching at her leg and huddling against the van’s door? Jillian was the fucking Squad member, the fucking adult. Chess was eighteen. In training.

But then, when had any adult, ever, in Chess’s entire life, bothered to take any responsibility when it came to her, bothered to act like an adult at all instead of like a selfish bag of shit? So why should Jillian be any different.