Stacia Kane - Sacrificial Magic

“I have a case for you.” He opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a slim manila folder. Yes! Awesome, she could totally use a case. A real one, not chasing air for Bump.

A case would leave her less time for that, but she’d still have enough. Wasn’t like she was the only one looking for the rat, either. Bump and Terrible would probably suss him out within a day or so, and they could all move on. She hoped.

“The decision was made this morning to give the case to you, and I concur with that decision. You know I have always had the deepest belief in your abilities, and your discretion.”

“I know.” Yeah, he had. And now she’d get some different Elder, who didn’t know her, didn’t care. He’d probably hate her; he’d see through her to the filth inside, and he’d know everything, and he’d hate her for it.

“Good. This case was previously given to Aros Burnett.” He looked up at her gasp, the tiny sound she tried not to utter but which slipped out before she could stop it. “Yes. Aros found it … particularly difficult, and he gave it up. Gave up his post in Triumph City as well, as I see you remember.”

Her neck practically creaked as she nodded. Of course she remembered. The halls had barely stopped buzzing about it; it had only been eight or nine days.

“Aros was unable to give us a satisfactory solution. You’ll see his notes in the file. They become rather—jumbled, near the end, I’m afraid. But we feel strongly that you will be able to bring us an answer. We have seen the Fact and Truth of your skill many times. I look forward to seeing your resolution.”

“Thanks.” The file hovered in his hand, just over his desk; she took it and started to open it. “Where is it?”

“Well. That is another reason you were chosen, in truth. ’Tis not too far from your residence. You are familiar with Mercy Lewis Second School? In Downside, on—”

“Twenty-second,” she finished for him, barely noticing her own rudeness as she cut him off. Barely noticing anything except that address, staring at her from the original report in the file. Twenty-second and Foster.

Right in the middle of Slobag’s territory.

The dead invaded the schools, hiding in the shadows inside to turn the students into soldiers of death themselves.

— The Book of Truth, Origins, Article 57

The parking lot outside Mercy Lewis Second School hardly looked like a parking lot at all. If not for the four or five battered cars parked at odd angles among the gravel and weeds, Chess would have thought it was just a vacant lot like any other.

Four or five battered cars, and one sleek shiny coupe, gunmetal gray, the same color as Chess’s new car, although hers wasn’t as stylish. Or as expensive. As unobtrusively as possible she wandered over to where the car sat, pretending to be interested in the view on the other side of the rusty, torn chain-link fence, and committed the license plate number to her temporary memory. She’d write it down as soon as she got inside.

Despite everything else—and really, given its location and the fire the night before, this case couldn’t have been worse for her—her spirits lifted as she headed up the cracked concrete path to the large front doors. Working again. Something else to focus on, something she could actually do something about, something with actual procedures to follow and clues she was trained to understand. That felt good.

Mercy Lewis Second School—formerly an embassy for some South Pacific country, she thought—was clearly a product of that phase of architecture that had believed bland was better. It just … sat there, dull and brown, staring out at the dirty streets and crumbling buildings with an air of resignation. Whatever had happened to it, whatever changed in the world, it would remain, glowering at them all, suffering the crowds of teenagers abusing it every day.

It could join the damn club. She made her way to the graffiti-covered entrance, pulled open a heavy door that gave a loud shriek of protest. Great. Well, good to know, anyway. When and if she came back at night with her Hand, this was not the entrance to use. She made a note—writing down the license number of the too-expensive car in the lot while she was at it so she could let it drop from her memory—and followed the faded signs to the office down the hall.

The itching started when she’d made it about halfway down. Not withdrawals—not even possible, she’d dosed up right before she got out of the car—but something worse, something that told her three Cepts wasn’t going to be enough and made her wish she’d washed them down with a couple of shots, too.

Second school. Any school. She couldn’t say the worst memories of her life came from schools—far, far from it—but the ones she did have weren’t fucking good, that was for sure. The memories she had of when she’d gone; when she’d been forced to go. All of her foster parents made her, because if her attendance dropped they wouldn’t get paid anymore, but none of them gave a shit if she actually learned anything, and her teachers hadn’t either.

Those voices still echoed with every step she took. Just the air in the building, that particular chalkboard-antiseptic-dust-and-despair smell of school, reminded her where she was, made her remember how it felt and how much she’d hated it. The cold metal lockers lining the walls watched her, considered her, as her boots clicked on the polished concrete floors. She didn’t care what they thought, or what anyone she was about to meet thought, but she still felt that invisible cloud of judgment that seemed to hover near the ceiling of every school, ready to descend on anyone unlucky enough to walk beneath it.

Whatever. She’d never gone to this school, and it wasn’t her prison now. She was an adult, she was a fucking Churchwitch, and someone in this school was trying to scare people and scam some money out of the Church. So she would catch them. It was as simple as that, and she knew it and believed it as strongly and purely as she knew Facts were Truth.

Although … who would get the money, if the Church ended up paying a settlement? The Church owned the school, of course, and ran it, at least ostensibly. The Church wouldn’t pay a settlement to itself. So … another note in her pad. Who profits?

The classroom doors she passed were closed. Through the narrow windows in each of them she caught glimpses of chalkboards and teaching Goodys standing before them, the occasional slice of backs bent over desks. Boredom and sadness seeped through the walls.

Finally she reached the end of the hall, another closed door. administration was written on it in peeling black letters, with “Fuck the” scratched into the glass above it. Heh. Without knocking she pushed it open, got a good visual snapshot of three women standing around chatting before they stopped to look at her.

The one behind the desk, an enormous woman—she had to be close to six feet tall, and solidly built—with thin, frizzy brownish hair hanging limp from the top of her head, gave her the sort of disapproving smile Chess thought people with minor authority must practice in front of mirrors. Inexpertly applied red lipstick made her mouth look like a wound. “Can I help you, Miss?”

The other two stepped away from the desk, almost in a flanking motion. Had they been Downside kids and not school ladies Chess would have thought they were getting ready to jump her. Then again, maybe they were. Just not physically.

“I’m Cesaria Putnam.” She didn’t offer her hand. “From the Church. I’ve come about your haunting.”

A moment of silence, as if none of them knew what to say. What the hell? They had to be aware of the procedure, they’d had another Debunker out there already. Then one of the women outside the desk, petite with red hair and a horrible baggy plaid dress, gave her a tentative smile. “Of course, yes. Please come in and sit down. Can we get you anything? Coffee, tea?”