Stacia Kane - Chasing Magic

Chess held her hand over it for a second. She hadn’t touched the body at all since drawing the passport on it back in the circle. She didn’t particularly want to touch it now, but she had a feeling she was going to have to.

This time she wouldn’t forget her gloves.

Energy slammed into her palm, anyway, thick dark energy that set off a horrible ringing sound in her head, as if her ears had been boxed. Whatever the spell on the body was, it wasn’t pleasant.

But, then, she hadn’t expected it would be.

“What you think, Ladybird?” Bump drawled from behind a fur scarf. “What kinda fuckin witchy shit be this time?”

She hated to admit it in front of him. “I don’t know.”

Silence.

“I can feel the spell, whatever spell it is, and I can feel that it’s male—the spell caster is male, I mean—but I have no idea what the spell is. It feels like ghosts, too.”

“Be him soul inside him fuckin body do the magic, yay? Like him gone an died, then give a fuckin try to coming back.”

“Ghosts can’t cast spells,” she said, only half paying attention. “Do you know who he is? Who the body is, I mean.”

Bump dug something out of one of the pockets in his floor-length white fur coat. “Got us him fuckin wallet here, dig. Be Gordon Samms, it tell. Ain’t knowing him, I ain’t.”

“Had some owes,” Terrible said. He stood at her side with his arm around her shoulders, helping to keep her warm. “Lost he some lashers on the card games, were payin slow.”

Bump’s thin reddish eyebrows rose. “Yay? How much?”

“Six hundred, now. Won heself a game on the other night, paid he a hundred then. At the tables all the time, dig, ain’t could stay away.”

Gambling. That was one thing she’d never seen the point of, one addiction she’d never picked up. Good thing, too. She’d really be broke if she had.

Terrible glanced at her, then back at Bump. “Burnjack say him were yellin when him come onto the street, just jumped him on Yellow Pete, started beatin him.”

“Yellow Pete was the dead guy? The dead guy killed by this one, I mean.”

He nodded. “Were a street dealer, dig, down Seventieth.”

“So why was he near my apartment?”

“Ain’t knowing on that one. Could be him live there, maybe gotta dame there, family, ain’t know.”

Right. It didn’t matter anyway, did it? “Does Burnjack know what the ghost was saying? Did he catch any of it?”

“Asked he on that one, too. Said him only caught a word or two, thinkin be a name. Agneta. Agneta Katina. Be a dame, he said.”

Hmm. “Girlfriend? Wife? Daughter?”

“Naw. Ain’t married. Ain’t sure he likes the dames, dig. Never seen him with any.”

“Oughta give Berta the fuckin ask, yay.” Bump poked at the body with the tip of his cane, for no good reason Chess could fathom. “Do her got one onna street that fuckin name? Maybe her got some fuckin knowledge on it.”

Terrible nodded.

Okay, this wasn’t getting them anywhere. She hated to do it, didn’t want to do it, but she didn’t think she had a choice, either. “I need to get his clothes off.”

Bump snorted. “Ain’t had the thinking you into the fuckin dead ones, Ladybird.”

Chess gave that remark the response it deserved—which was none—and reached for the tattered, singed remnants of the shirt on the body.

Terrible was faster. He always was. “Ain’t you do it, Chess. Lemme, aye?”

His eyes caught hers. Warmth rose in her chest, spread through her whole body. Looking into his eyes—into him—was a high she could never get tired of. Bump disappeared, the mutilated corpse on the table before them disappeared, the icy air around them disappeared. It was just the two of them, standing so close the warmth of his body caressed hers.

She reached up to touch his face, meaning to pull it down to hers so she could kiss him, when Bump cleared his throat. Loudly. The moment ended.

“Thinkin we fuckin get on the move this fuckin night? Maybe you quit on the cuddle-ups, get some attention on the fuckin job, yay?”

Asshole.

Terrible reached out for the buttons on the shirt. And fell.

Chess was already moving when his eyes started to roll back in his head, thrusting her arm in front of him over the body. She couldn’t catch him, couldn’t stop him from falling, but she could at least keep him from face-planting into a corpse.

Or she could quit fucking playing around and figure out a way to make it stop happening. Another good idea might be to get her damn head together; she’d felt the magic, she should have known it would affect him. She’d been so busy getting mushy she hadn’t been focusing, and that was a Bad Thing.

He was out for only a second. That was usually the case when he touched something— Wait. What the fuck?

The body on the table—Gordon Samms’s—was empty. The soul inside it was gone. So there shouldn’t be much for the magic to work on, it shouldn’t still feel as strong as it did. Yes, she should feel it, of course, but not that much. And it shouldn’t be strong enough to do that to Terrible.

Nobody spoke as Terrible stood up. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t need him to. The color rising up his neck, the stiffness of his movements, spoke clearly enough, even if she didn’t already have a pretty good idea what he would say.

“Okay,” she said finally, tossing the word into the silence as if it didn’t matter. “So I’m not just feeling residual magic, I guess. Whatever the spell is, it’s still—there’s still a bag on him or something, there’ll be something there. Bump, you have his wallet, did anyone search his other pockets?”

Bump shook his head. “Figured on letting you have the fuckin job, dig, you the one got the handle on it.”

It was so cool the way he was always thinking of her. She suppressed the eye-roll and dug around in Gordon’s front pockets, stopping at the left one when she pulled out a spell bag about the size of a walnut. Darkness rolled up her arm in waves. Not good; of course it wasn’t, what did she expect?

She set the bag on the table near his feet, to check when they were done, and kept searching. Nothing else. Just the spell.

So why did his body still radiate magic, why did it still make her tattoos itch and sting the way ghosts did?

Terrible started to reach for Gordon’s shirt buttons again, then stopped. “All cool now?”

“No.” Her first instinct was to grab his hand and pull it back, but not only would he really not like that one bit—how childish did she want to make him look? She didn’t see it that way, but she knew he would—but she didn’t want to touch his skin with anything that had touched that spell. Like her gloves. “There’s something in the body, still.”

His face darkened; he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, still not meeting her eyes.

For a second she considered asking Bump to help her, but … yeah, like that was going to happen. No, lucky Chess got to strip the corpse all by herself.

Naked, it was even more pitiful—and gross, but she’d expected that.

What she hadn’t expected was the faint teeth marks—dog teeth marks, psychopomp teeth marks—on Gordon’s upper thigh. What she hadn’t expected was the familiar milky-blue cast on his skin, the coloring she hadn’t seen on his face and hands because they were mutilated or dirty.

“Oh fuck.” She jerked back, her hand automatically going to cover her mouth; she caught it just in time. “Shit.”

“What?”

Her stomach roiled and shifted. It didn’t matter, she tried to tell herself. Gordon Samms had to die, she’d had no choice, there’d been nothing else she could do. …

That was Fact, and Truth, and she knew it. But her throat still ached as she forced herself to speak. “He was alive. He— I thought it was a ghost stuffed into his body, that he was dead before he attacked Pete, even, but he wasn’t. He was alive. He was still alive.”