Stacia Kane: Finding Magic

She met his gaze with her own, willing her muscles not to twitch, her voice not to shake. “I know you can. So why not do it? Instead of just talking.”

Mark got up. He grabbed Jillian, shoved her at Chess, and started hustling them both across the room. Toward the other exit. She’d done it.

What else she could do, what else she might be able to accomplish … that was another story.

Down the metal staircase, across the empty floor. Past the lockers where Church employees put their clothing and stuff; did he know about that? Did he know about the rules about taking foreign objects to the City, how dangerous it was?

She hoped not.

Jillian lifted her head. “Hey, can’t—s’posed to be naked, can’t—”

Chess dropped her. Jillian hit the floor in an ungainly heap; her yelp echoed around them.

Mark turned back. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, she’s just so heavy.”

He shook his head and pushed the button for the elevator. It was waiting for them; the doors opened instantly. Chess got in, trailing Jillian like a spaced-out afterthought. This was it, then. Going to the City again, and this time alone. Or, not alone, but she might as well be. Alone with a psycho and a sleepwalker. And she had no idea if her vague plan was going to work, and even if it did, that was no guarantee she’d survive.

She wanted to talk during the six-minute ride down. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

They hit the train platform; the cold fear in Chess’s throat intensified. She didn’t want to go back there, didn’t want to even step inside the City again. Didn’t want to die, and especially didn’t want to die there, where she’d have to stand looking at her own corpse until one of the Liaisers finally came down and discovered it. Didn’t want to be one of them, one of the mindless dead.

The train doors opened. They stepped inside. The cold iron, the pale blue light, the slow movement beneath them. Her heart pounded even through the syrupy happiness still weaving its way through her system; she didn’t think she could possibly be more grateful for that, either, because without it she’d probably be frozen in terror at the moment, probably wouldn’t be able to give Mark a conspiratorial smirk and say, “This is awesome. I can’t wait to see you at work.”

“I bet you can’t.”

Man, he was an asshole. But then she already knew that.

More hauling Jillian around when the train finally stopped. Chess’s heart beat in her throat and everything seemed so … so clear, so sharp, like everything she was seeing might be the last thing.

Which it might be. If her plan—which was admittedly shaky—failed, it would be. She’d never see this side of the City door again, never leave it again, never see the sun or the stars or buildings, never eat a hamburger or a chocolate bar, never have sex or dream. Ever.

She held Jillian up while Jillian fumbled with the lock. This time she watched what Jillian was doing, not because she needed to but because she was right there anyway. Watched Jillian turn the key a few times, felt energy push through her—through both of them—and back into the door.

It opened. And for the second time in a day, Chess walked into the City of Eternity.

It hadn’t changed. Well, of course it hadn’t. But this time she was at least prepared; it still looked horrible, ugly and cold, and it still made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and made her throat and chest tight, but at least her stomach was okay.

Maybe that was the pills, too.

Mark’s faced paled; even in the awful blue light she saw it. “This is—this is it? This is what it looks like?”

Chess smiled; it felt like an unpleasant smile, and she imagined it looked that way, too. “Yeah. Isn’t it peaceful?”

That he apparently had the same reaction she did didn’t surprise her; hadn’t she already realized she was just as sick as he was, or vice versa? So it was only to be expected. It still made her feel worse, though, down deep where the pill hadn’t quite reached. See, that was how bad her reaction was; it was the kind of feeling only a sick fuck would get. Normal people saw something completely different.

And here they came, the dead. Their glowing forms advanced, fast, even faster as they saw what Chess knew they would see: their clothing. Their weapons. Mark’s gun still in his hand.

Mark started to turn back to the door, but Chess was ready. She leaped at him, tackled him.

The gun went off. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Didn’t matter. She hadn’t been shot, that was what mattered. Mark bucked beneath her, knocked her to the side; cold hard dirt beneath her as she swung at him. And missed.

He knelt beside her. The gun in his hand, pointed at her, his finger ready to pull the trigger.

She kicked at him, managed to hit him in the side. Dirt flew beside her head as his next shot landed there; he’d just missed her. Shit!

And her kick hadn’t done much to him, hadn’t knocked him over or even—apparently—hurt him very badly.

She rolled away, tensed for the bullet she wouldn’t hear, the short shock of pain before this life ended and the next one began. Dimly she was aware that the light around her had changed, had brightened; dimly she knew the ghosts were coming, they were almost there, and any second one of them would pick up her bag and start braining her with it. It was heavy enough, with a book and her flask and her pens and all of the other shit she carried, that she still wasn’t trustful enough to leave in her room.

She grabbed the strap, intending just to protect it from being taken, but even as she moved she decided to use it as a weapon, too. A hard jerk of her arm shot the bag itself into the air; it hit Mark in the side of the face. Thank fuck, that was lucky.

And the ghosts had arrived. Icy hands slipped through her head, her body; icy hands wrestled with her for the strap of her bag. Another gunshot, and another, as Mark did what any idiot would do and tried to shoot at the ghosts.

Good. If he was focusing on them, he wouldn’t focus on her. She managed to get up, clutching her bag, fighting as hard as she could but knowing that if another ghost or two found her—found it—she wouldn’t be able to hold on anymore.

Jillian was still on the ground, out cold. Mark was flailing a few feet away. The door was still open, the ghosts trying to get through the iron-chain curtain and jerking back in pain. Shit, when—if—she managed to get through it, some of them might follow. Unless she could slam the door fast enough behind her.

Mark’s screams echoed so loud in the space, drilled into her brain and hurt. The gun went off again, and again, and his screams ended in an abrupt gurgle; she glanced over and saw him clutching at his throat, saw a ghost readying the gun to swing again. Obviously the ghosts found the noise just as irritating as she did, or maybe that one just liked to hit people in the throat.

No matter. She grabbed Jillian and hauled her to her feet. More glowing hands grabbing at her and failing, more glowing hands solidifying around her bag and pulling. Something hard hit her in the back of the head; she stumbled and almost fell, but managed somehow to stay on her feet. The door was only a few feet away, just a couple of feet.

Another hand grabbed her jeans. A real hand. Mark’s hand. Blood streamed from his head; his eyes begged her for help as his mouth worked soundlessly. Shit, that face, those eyes, the plea in them—

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t because he’d killed so many people. He’d shot Jillian. He’d planned to kill her. And the penalty for what he did would be death anyway; he’d be tried before the end of the month and dead within another month or two after that.