Stacia Kane - Wrong Ways Down

He tried seeing it through her eyes as he opened the door and watched her walk in. Cement floors—he’d bought a plain rug to cover it in the section he used for a living room, but still—and bare walls. He ain’t hung anything on em or any like that; what would he put up? Pictures of cars or dames in bikinis or some shit? Sunsets? Maybe scary-looking kids and cats like Callie’d had on her walls.

Besides, Chess ain’t put shit on her walls neither. But she had stuff . Magic shit on her bookshelves—he only had one of those, and the rest of his books were just stacked against the wall—and little things she’d collected, and more than two towels, and … just stuff. Her place looked like a real apartment. His was a warehouse floor with a couple walls stuck up to divide off the kitchen and bathroom.

And he ain’t had made his bed.

Chess barely even looked over at it, though. He couldn’t decide if he was glad on that or not. She just walked in, headed for the couch and sat down. “How long have you been here?”

He had beer. He had water, too. She weren’t drinking the beer she had—it were still almost full—so she’d probably rather have water, but if he gave her one it might look like he were tryna say what she oughta have and he ain’t wanted to do that. So he grabbed both along with another beer for himself and brought them back with him to the couch. “Ten years, thereabouts. Since leavin Bump’s. His building, dig, were just empty.”

Except it was his now, or sort of his. It—along with a couple others—belonged to the fake name he had just for Katie’s bank account and the will he had, too, meant everything would be Katie’s when he were gone.

Chess took water. Up close he could see her eyes under all that black make-up—shit she was sexy—looked glassier than they had, less focused. What the fuck had happened that day? Or was it just memories crowding out the happiness. He wished he could fix it some way, or make her feel better. Take care of her like she deserved.

“So you don’t have any neighbors here,” she said.

“Got a couple, work for Bump.” Dirty-work men, muscle men. Like him. Timmy Vee lived downstairs, and Bailey below him. Technically Terrible guessed they worked for him, since he gave em orders usually, either shit he wanted em doing or orders passed on from Bump, but he couldn’t really say they worked for him .

He drank his beer, a little faster than he had the other ones. Because he was home, so he could.

What he couldn’t do was ask what was bothering her, not really. Not direct, like asking flat out. Be invading her privacy. But he could ask general questions, see what she said. “What you do this day? Any happening? You had work today?”

“No. I mean, I went in—there was a mandatory ritual this afternoon—but it wasn’t work, really. There’s no cases or anything.”

“Gets boring, aye? Nothin to do, feels like it ain’t got a point.”

Her eyes lit up a little. “Yeah. Nothing to do but sit around. One of the other Debunkers is having a post-new-year thing tonight, like a hangover party, but … ”

That were it, he guessed. Or part of it, anyway. They hadn’t talked much about what kinda reaction she’d got at work after that Dreamthief thing, but he’d picked up on at least part of it. And that he could ask on. “They all still talking on that Randy dude?”

She shrugged. But she ain’t looked at him. Aye, that were it. He’d hit it.

He cleared his throat, tryna waste time to think of aught to say. “Ain’t got shit in them own lives, aye, gotta talk on some else’s. All pissed up causen they know you better’n them.”

Her eyes flashed toward him then, just a quick glance while color rose on her cheeks, and he could see how she wanted to believe it.

But he could also see that she already felt exposed just saying what she had, letting him know what was troubling her. He could see her wanting to trust him with it and not have to explain it more or chatter on it. She wanted to forget it. And he knew how that felt. So he changed the subject, fast. “You cold? Know it ain’t so warm in here, aye, ain’t got much heating.”

“I’m okay.”

His phone beeped. A text.

From Sela. “Home alone. Bored and lonely.”

He knew what that meant. She probably already had her clothes off; she usually did, when she sent texts like that. Specially when she’d been drinking some, which he guessed she had been with them shrieky dames she hung around.

“Something wrong?” Chess asked.

He glanced at her, glanced at the phone, and set it back down. He could tell Sela he was busy when he got it, be why he ain’t answered. “Naw, naw, just sayin no problems this night.”

“So what’s happening with that?”

He hesitated. He had to be careful what he told her, causen of what Bump might say, and causen he ain’t wanted to give her anything might upset her, when she already weren’t in a great mood.

She mistook his hesitation, and said real fast, “I mean, if you can talk about it. I know—”

“Naw, naw, ain’t that. Just ain’t got more to say on, dig. Almost done up. More worried on Slobag, him sneakin over here make trouble, dig.”

“He’s getting past the border streets? I thought you guys had people watching for that.”

A second’s calculation, before he made the decision. Ain’t like it mattered. Chess kept she mouth shut. And she weren’t gonna try going down there sheself; witches ain’t liked the downs. Ghosts were more powerful underground, she said. “Using them tunnels. Run all under everywhere.”

She hesitated with the water bottle right in front of her lips. The way she held it made her shirt gap at the neck; he ain’t could see the bite-mark anymore. Make-up, maybe, or maybe she did some spell or something to hide it. She could do shit like that. She could do anything. “I thought those were a myth.”

“Naw. Them real. Only no point starting fighting over em, aye? Just keepin eyes out. Figure one day we use em. Til then letting Slobag an they think them got one over, dig.”

She smiled. Aye, whatever she took were hitting her. “Are you ever not having to think about every little thing you do, and have strategies in place and shit like that?”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Like you ain’t do the same.”

“Yeah, but only when I’m working.” She looked at him, caught the raised brow, smiled bigger. “Or, well, okay, maybe not only then. But at least sometimes I’m not working. You always are.”

“Not here.” He glanced around, wished again his place were nicer. It suited him fine, and part of the reason he’d picked it was the lack of walls, the lack of places people could hide, but still. And it was cold, he thought; the back of his neck felt cold, and he reached up to cover it. “Only place I ain’t gotta do shit, aye? An ain’t gotta look over my shoulder, see who’s comin up behind, who’s giving me the try. Only place I’m relaxing, dig.”

“Yeah,” she said. Softly. All of the sudden they ain’t were teasing anymore. “I guess you have to be really careful, huh. The second you let your guard down … You never know what people are planning to do.”

He nodded. His turn to feel all awkward, he guessed. Never could decide if it made him feel good or embarrassed when she knew what he meant so fast on shit like that. When she understood what he meant. Like she knew him. She knew him better than anybody else, he figured, cepting Bump. Maybe even better than Bump.

And she were still there. Still happy to talk to him, to come over his place, to sit next to him and spend time. Made him so fucking lucky.

“Hey,” he said, “you hungry? Or wanting see a movie or whatany? Could put on some music, if you’re wanting. Ain’t gotta sit here in silence.”