Stacia Kane: Home

A little blue sportscar sat out front. That must have been the vehicle that annoyed Mrs.

Brent, although Chess couldn’t figure out why. She supposed it looked like some sort of superfast threat, but only to someone who didn’t know anything about real cars. What it actually looked like was a midlife crisis. Terrible’s Chevelle would leave that thing in the dust.

“When they had their parties, people parked all over the lawn. Our lawn, too. Sometimes they’d leave tire marks. And—”

“Parties? They do that a lot?”

“Almost every weekend until a month or so ago, I think. Sometimes they have their parties in the dark, too. If you know what I mean.” Mrs. Brent’s mouth twisted in disapproval.

“They were having…adult parties?”

“I suppose you can call them that. All sorts of people, about a dozen, and they’d play music for an hour and then the lights would go off, and all we could see was maybe a little bit of light. And then everyone would leave a few hours later. I’m not complaining, but you tell me what normal kind of party only lasts until ten or eleven at night.” How the fuck would Chess know? She’d never been invited to a party in her life, at least not as a guest. As a child—before the Church found her and made her a witch, made her one of them, gave her a real life—she’d been the entertainment at a few, sure, but she’d stopped looking at the clock early on, when she realized the hands only moved slower when she paid attention to them. And in Downside, where she lived, eleven at night was practically dawn. Things were just getting started.

“Is there anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Brent? Have you noticed any strange sounds coming from the house? Have you experienced anything—chills, things moving without you having moved them, feelings of being watched, that sort of thing?” Mrs. Brent shook her head. “How can I keep that from happening? I have two children, Miss Pitman. I don’t want them in danger just because the Solomons live like hedonists.”

“Putnam. And I’m afraid there really isn’t, no. They don’t tend to drift much, though, not when they’re on their own. If there’s a ghost—”

“If? I’ve seen it. I know it’s there.”

“If there’s a ghost, it’s probably there for a reason. Some sort of connection to that house or that piece of land. That’s what we usually find, anyway. So chances are it won’t drift over here.”

Mrs. Brent followed Chess back down the stairs. “So when will you get rid of it? How long will that take?”

“I have to prove its existence first.”

“But I know it’s there. I saw it. You know, my husband went to school with Javier Ramos, the Elder, and I’m sure when he tells Javier about your refusal to—” That was it. Chess stopped short on the stairs and fixed the woman’s plastic face with a dead-eye glare. “Mrs. Brent. I am following Church procedure, and Church procedure in these situations is very clear. Elder Ramos will tell you that himself. I assure you I’m going to do everything I can to keep you and your family—and the Solomons, and everyone else—safe. But it can’t be done in a day. Okay?” Mrs. Brent sniffed. “Well, that’s fine, but I hope you have a resolution to this soon. I have a very important dinner party the week after next and I can’t risk something happening that night.”

Right. Never mind the possible deaths or anything. Never mind that ghosts were basically just killing machines and if the Solomons had one it was only a matter of time before the thing built up the strength to attack them, Mrs. Brent’s social standing was on the line. Another typical thing about this typical woman, and Chess was starting to choke on the thick fog of snobbish conformity polluting the air.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her mood didn’t improve until she got three Cepts into her stomach and her body into a warm shower to wash off the smell of suburban self-righteousness. Ugh. What a pain in the ass.

But, then, it was better than alternative pains in the ass. Certainly she was glad no one was trying to kill her and that she wasn’t having run-ins with powerful lunatics performing ritual sacrifices, like on her last case. That was something to be grateful for.

The other thing to be grateful for was sitting on her couch when she got out of the shower. Terrible. Her smile was so wide she felt like it stuck out past her cheeks.

She couldn’t help it. He was there, and she didn’t get to spend enough time with him—

no amount of time would be enough—and they had the whole night. That was something to smile about, so she was going to.

He smiled, too, his smile that changed his whole face. Once—before she got to know him—she’d thought he was ugly, with his many-times-broken nose and harsh features and scars, his thick mutton chop sideburns and those dark hooded eyes that threatened so many people. Now she knew better. He looked like himself, and she loved him, and she could stare at his face for hours and not get bored. He looked better to her than anyone else in the world ever had.

He started to get up when she padded barefoot down her short hall into the living room.

“Hey, Chess. You right?”

She pushed him down and plunked herself onto his lap. “Right up, yeah.”

“Aye?”

How did he do that? How did he manage to kiss her so little shocks ran through her body, so she felt warm and soft but electrified at the same time? However he did it, she hoped he’d never stop.

He pulled away, tugging at the towel she’d tucked around her. “Gots me an idea, now.

Whyn’t you come on into bed with me, let me give you it.”

“What exactly is it that you want to give me?” He gave a snort of laughter, but his mouth was busy on her collarbone, the base of her throat, where droplets of water still clung to her skin. “Give you whatany you want, Chessiebomb. Anything.”

“You don’t want to head out? We’re already late.”

“Be fast, aye?”

“No.” With effort—a hell of an effort, actually, because his hand had slipped under the towel and found one of his favorite spots—she slid off his lap back onto the couch.

“Come on. I know you want to see the band, and—”

“Oh, aye.” But he pulled the towel completely open to fall on the cushion behind her, started kissing her neck again, right where he knew she liked it. Without her meaning it to, her head tilted to the right, giving him better access.

“You’re the one who said—”

His hand slid up her ribcage, over her breast, so lightly she felt it all the way through her body. “You so fuckin pretty, you got that?” The hand moved lower. “So pretty everywhere.”

She swallowed. Her mouth had gone so dry it was hard to talk. “To you, maybe.”

“Aye.” His lips moved further up her neck until he pulled away enough for their eyes to meet. “Aye, to me.”

This time the kiss was deeper, more forceful, more demanding. A demand she really had no desire to oppose.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Well…there’s an opening band anyway, right?” Five hours later they stood together outside the Solomons’ home, the heavy-hot summer air damp around them. They’d left the Chevelle a block over so as not to attract attention, and even that short walk made Chess’s Bettie Page bangs spiky with sweat, especially after the oven-like heat inside Chuck’s. Chess hated summer.

“What you want? We head in, or do a check out here?”

“Just outside, tonight. I don’t have my Hand to deepen their sleep, and I didn’t get to check the doors and windows and stuff earlier since it was still light out.” Their feet made faint rustling sounds through the tidy grass—shorter on the Brents’ side than the Solomons’, she noticed, the line of demarcation sharp and obvious. She imaged Mr. and Mrs. Brent tsk-tsking. Snobs.