Stacia Kane: Unholy Ghosts

“Terrible? Could you come here?”

He did, silent across the grass. She handed him the speed. “You might want more of this. Just to be safe.”

“He ain’t shown up yet. Think he off putting people to sleep?”

“Yeah, I think maybe he is.”

His eyes flickered over her little altar setup. “Everything ready?”

“Looks like it. I’m going to cast the circle now, light the candles, and then hopefully we’ll get this over with.”

“Not hopeful, aye? It will get over.”

She bit her lip. “If…if something goes wrong and I don’t make it, you need to go to Doyle. He might be an egotistical shitbag as a human being but he’s good at his job. He knows some other guys who’ve seen the thief, maybe they can get the Church to act, but either way they’ll finish it. Only do me a favor. Don’t—don’t tell him how I got involved. About Bump, I mean.”

He didn’t try to talk her out of her fears, or discount them. Just gave her his eyes, nodded. “He don’t need to have knowledge about you. Ain’t his business.”

“And my apartment. There’s…there’s some stuff there, the Church would take possession of everything.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Chess.” He shifted on his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. “I been thinking—”

Shouts from the far corner cut him off, Bump’s men. Chess leapt to her feet, craning her neck to see as Terrible spun away from her to take back his place. Guarding her, the last line of defense. If he…if he fell, so would she.

The Lamaru had arrived. Time to get started.

Salt poured through her shaking fingers, creating as heavy a line as she could to mark the edge of the circle. She didn’t always do a full cast, but this spell required it absolutely. No chances could be taken.

Power crawled from the ground under her feet, oozing over her skin. Her tattoos heated. Her hair stood on end. The ultimate rush, the ultimate high, more power than she’d ever felt before. Certainly more than she’d ever raised on her own, so much she didn’t know if she could contain it. Fear joined the party, tingling up from her stomach to pool in her chest. She felt her lips stretch into a shaky grin as she whispered the words she needed, calling the escorts of the dead.

When she’d finished the circle was visible, a deep glowing blue, shimmering in the air so bright her eyes ached.

The wind died. Good. The wall of light was working.

She walked the septagram again, lighting each candle in turn with a fresh match, dropping the used sticks into the firedish. Each candle got another word, another physical expression of energy expended with each spoken syllable. Eratosh, Astagosh, Bidamosh. Ligorosh, Hapmalosh, Kolabosh , and Septazosh . On Septazosh the flames blazed, shooting sparks up to disappear into the glowing roof of the circle.

Shouts and the sound of flesh against flesh filtered through the circle, but far away. They weren’t close yet, but that could change any second. She moved faster, forcing herself to use the fear, to give herself to it. A second of decision, a relaxing of the boundaries of her mind, and she slipped through.

Her heart still raced, but it was pure high now, clean and sparkling. She wasn’t Cesaria anymore. She was power. She was the gate.

Slipknot’s cold, squashy fingers didn’t want to close around the lump of silver she placed in his palm, covering the now-unreadable runes carved there. No surprise, nor was the muffled thud of his squashed-looking heart. She felt it, too, that extra power. The connection to the Dreamthief, tugging at her, refusing to let her forget even for a moment that he was there.

She pulled a length of twine from her bag and looped it around his fist, tying it securely but gently. With the black chalk she drew the passport she’d designed for him directly onto one of the few usable spots on his arm.

Into the smoking cauldron went asafetida, pungent and slightly greasy in the still air. Then ajenjible, and finally a handful of the corrideira Edsel ground for her earlier.

Smoke plumed in the air, twisting and curling, forming shapes she couldn’t identify but saw with eyes in her soul, whispering words she felt but did not hear. The skull shifted, as though the ground beneath it had trembled, but did not move.

“I call on the escorts of the City of the Dead,” she murmured, slipping her ritual knife from its case. “To set this man Slipknot free from his mortal remains. To take him to his rest. To sever him from his worldly prison and the power keeping him here.”

The skull moved again, but did not rise. The shouts outside the circle grew louder.

Chess held her left hand low over the top of the skull. “I offer an appeasement to the escorts for their aid.”

With the sharp tip she sliced the skin of her left pinky finger, a quick, deep cut. Blood dripped from the wound, purple-black in the bluish light. It spattered on top of the skull, tiny droplets sparkling as it flew into the air.

Something thumped to her left. Inside the circle. Slipknot’s heart sped up as energy filled his soul. Her own kicked up in reply. On top of all the speed, she felt like she had a freight train in her chest, barely contained by bone and muscle. Chess twisted back to the cauldron and dripped blood into it, then added a hair plucked from Slipknot’s head.

“Escorts, I call you!”

The last ingredient went into the cauldron, powdered crow skull. The smoke turned black, exploded from the wide iron mouth, and rolled to the roof of the circle, blocking the pure deep blue.

Smoke entered her lungs, insinuating itself into her body through her nose and mouth, curling around her arms. Her tattoos tingled and ached as if they were being recut into her skin.

Through the dark haze she saw the skull lift, move. More bones appeared, sketched out behind, built by and black from the thick, acrid smoke.

The shouts outside got closer, louder, as muscle and sinew grew on the bones, weaved itself together. Coarse black hair poured itself over the raw flesh. The dog’s eyes burned purple-green, iridescent, feeding on the same power that ran through Chess like a bolt of lightning. A long, low growl left its throat and crawled up her spine. Psychopomps shouldn’t growl like that.

With shaking hands she sprinkled the remaining powdered crow bone over the ruined body on the pallet. Energy blew back at her, dark and feverish, invading her body. Her voice creaked like a rusty hinge. “Set this man free, cadeskia regontu balaktor !”

Slipknot’s heart beat faster, louder, pounding arrythmically in her ears. Her own heart tried to syncopate but couldn’t, her chest ached. This was too much, too much, she couldn’t handle it…

Thin, high screams filled the air and she realized they were hers, hers and Slipknot’s as his soul escaped from the wreckage that used to house it and saw what it had become. He screamed, black eyes wide in his pale face, his mouth a gaping dark tear, screamed in terror and freedom and the horror he’d experienced.

She spilled water down her front as she forced some into her mouth, chasing away the awful smoke-and-speed drymouth.

“Slipknot, go! I call on the escort to take you to the City, I order you to go!”

The dog leapt. Slipknot’s screams turned shrill, so high-pitched she could barely hear them. This was wrong, she was losing it, too much energy circled around and her body couldn’t control it all, she was falling, she could feel him pulling her, sucking her with him through their connection…