A Book Of Tongues (28 page)

Pinkerton nodded. “
Hell
I know, same as every other man,” he
said at last. “‘Gods,’ well — no such except the Almighty, in my book.”

“There
are
more books than
the
Book,” Asbury pointed out,
mildly, in return.

You’re right about that,
Morrow thought.

But he had no dog in either fight — and Asbury was already off
again in any event, theorizing out loud.

“As for the idea of ‘gods,’ Mister Pinkerton, consider them
as magicians writ large, truly cosmic predators. The bloodshed
perpetrated by Maya and Aztecs in veneration of their pantheons
is, indeed, legendary. In fact, some credit the entire fall of the
Mayan Empire to their religious excesses: killing whole generations
of beautiful youths and maidens, destroying forests to build pyres,
polluting rivers with entrail, ash and gore. . . .”

“And
that
’s what-all this woman of Rook’s aims to bring about
again — that right, Morrow?”

“Far’s I know? Yes.”

Enthralled with his visions, Asbury just kept on going. “‘Gods,’
then, would be the sum of Expressed magicians plus worship, as a
system of human sacrifice channels both the power inherent
in
such
sacrifices — chosen without doubt from amongst the Unexpressed —
and the power of human faith, of sheer zealotry and credulousness,
into the ‘deities’ in question. A fascinating equation indeed.”

Pinkerton smacked the table, sharply. “
Doctor
Asbury,” he said.
“Seems to me Mr. Morrow has not finished his account, some of
which I gather may still be of interest to you — and
all
of which has
earned him, at the least, courteous attention.”

To Morrow: “Now then. Where did this Lady Ixchel take you,
precisely?”

Morrow took a deep breath. “She called it the Moon Room.”

The arch itself was perfect and smooth as any cathedral’s, the
rock in which it was set raw, rough and dripping with lichen. Above
the arch, at its apex, sat a gouged half-circle curve, an inlaid sickle
of flint splotchily patterned with dark stains: a moon shape, fit only
for shed blood, mirrored in the yellow-black sky above by an almost-full real moon — skull-bright, a burst lantern.

This is the Moon’s House,
said Lady Ixchel.
A door between
worlds and ages, poised to open. Be honoured, my kings . . . and
you too, o blood-guards, my husband’s retinue. For this is where
the old age will come anew.

They entered.

Inside, the moon seemed to loom closer still, making a pitiless
roof that blocked the rest of the sky entirely. Under it sat that same
black disk from Songbird’s, re-grown to full size: ten feet in radius,
from its ragged-punched central hole on out, its circumference a
smaller, bleaker, reverse-coloured parody of the painfully white orb
above.

Their boots clopped dull and dead upon the round black stone,
as if swamp-thick air swallowed the noise, though to the lungs
the cavern’s air felt breath-hitchingly thin and dry — the painful
draw of a mountaintop. The men ranged themselves around the
stone’s circumference without even being told to, an instinctive
movement — the circle of the tribe in wordless wonder, agape at the
blackness of the infinite night sky.

At the centre of the circle Lady Ixchel stood, hands uplifted and
her hair stirring about her in a great black cloud, as if she floated in
invisible water. To the right and left of her stood Rook and Chess,
facing each other like bride and bridegroom. Between them, the
hole in the centre of the stone yawned, so empty it went beyond
black into something that seared with anti-light, anti
life
— as sight-sore to look at directly as the sun.

Against that emptiness, the power in all three figures blazed,
actinic and flashing. Morrow had to shade his eyes and fight not to
double up, retching, to try and cough out the acrid stench of magic.

Rook lifted one hand, stroked Chess’s jawline as if memorizing
its feel. Then smiled, and murmured: “Skin off, darlin’.”

Without a second’s hesitation Chess flung away his hat, shrugged
off his vest, blank face empty. His hands moved entirely of their own
accord. But it wasn’t until the gunbelt hit the stone with a clatter —
until Chess’s guns themselves went spinning away — that Morrow
finally found the strength to protest. “You son of a bitch,” he choked
out. “Just what the hell you fixin’ to do to him? He
loves
you.”

Rook didn’t look around, as Chess finished stripping down.
His eyes seemed to shine in the murk — a tear, or just the gleam of
power-lust? “Guess he really must, at that,” he said, wonderingly.
“The Lady tells me this wouldn’t work, otherwise.”

The air was so thick with magic now that Morrow almost felt he
could
see
the cord of Rook’s geas: a shimmering tension like a glass
rod glimpsed in flowing water, running taut from Morrow’s head to
a point inside Rook’s coat, the pocket where the mojo-bag rested.
He sucked in the deepest breath he could and grabbed for the line of
power — felt it quiver against his palm, a ghost-wire of air and static.

“No,” Morrow ground out — and pulled on the geas, hauling
himself a step forward, into the circle. It hurt like yanking his own
brain out through his eye sockets. But Rook winced too, and put one
hand to his head as if pained by a too-bright light.

Slowly, Chess’s staring eyes blinked.

Lady Ixchel did not move, her rapturous gaze holding fast upon
the gigantic overhanging moon. But a wavefront of fury struck the
circle in a sandstorm, hot and stinging; the men cried out, dropped
to their knees. Given that Morrow was already half-mad with pain,
however, it didn’t make much never-mind to him: he hunkered
down and pulled himself another step forward. Two more, and
Chess would be within arm’s reach. . . .

Rook sighed, and brought his hand to the nexus of the mojo-bag,
stroking his coat. Every nerve in Morrow’s body went dead in an
instant. He crumpled — slack, but for just that moment so blissful
with numb release he didn’t care at all, tears smearing over the cold
black stone, as he gasped out sobbing breaths.

“Now that . . . is truly something special,” Rook said. “Never once
occurred to me you could pull on a binding from either end. Never
thought anyone wasn’t already a hex’d be fool enough to try.”

“Ash . . .” Chess turned his head slowly, drunken. “Ash, I can’t . . .
can’t move, Ash. Whuthah . . . fuck . . .”

“Shhh.” Rook cupped Chess’s face in his hands, and cold-kissed
his forehead. “’S’all gonna be all right, darlin’. I wouldn’t do nothin’
to cause you real harm. I love you.” Holding Chess’s eyes with his
own: “You believe that, right?”

“. . . shouldn’t I?” Chess’s glance cut sideways, to the dark woman-thing nearby, and blazed with fury. “Oh, ’course I should. ’Cause you
been
so damn nice
to me, lately — you, and her. . . .”

Rook smiled. “Hex can’t stay true to hex, Chess. You saw me with
Songbird — I paid her price, fair as fair does, and she tried to kill me
anyhow. Just ’cause she knew damn well just exactly how nice it’d
feel, if she did.”

“The fuck’s that . . . got to do with . . . you and me? I ain’t no — ”

“You
are
, darlin’. Always have been. Not awake like me, not yet —
but you been wakin’ slow and sure these past years, and once you
came to full flower, wouldn’t be nothing left for us but to feed. On
each other. ’Til one of us was dead.” Rook’s voice roughened with
sorrow. “’Cause that’s what hexes
do
.
”

“You been . . . feedin’ . . . on me?”

“Since always, darlin’. I’d have left you a long time back, it weren’t
so — and even now, I still want to
eat
you.
So damn bad.
”

“No.” Chess’s eyes went wide, all fear and desperation and rage.
“I won’t hear this. You’re better’n me, always have been — you’re a
good
man.”

“Flattering, darlin’ — but in this case, I’m afraid, you’re much
mistaken. Because — on this whole wide earth, there’s nothin’ worse
than a bad man who knows the Bible.”

“You . . . think . . . I’m scared?”

At that, the gleam in Rook’s eyes showed itself after all: tears,
runnelling down. “Never, Chess Pargeter. That’s what I like about
you the most. You ain’t afraid to kill, or to die; you ain’t even afraid
of pain.”

And here the Rev kissed him savagely, drawing power deep, so
intense Morrow could see it swirl like inky water between them.
“But don’t try to fight me, sweetheart,” he said, panting, when he
broke off. “You ain’t strong enough for that, not yet.”

“Fuck off!” Chess writhed in his invisible bonds, unable to
see his own aura surging black. “
You’re
a damn hex, you cheating
motherfucker. I ain’t! I — ”

Rook, covering Chess’s mouth with his fingertips: “But . . .
you
will be.
”

A blink, and the Lady was abruptly between them — pressing
Chess down hard with both hands, all but
grinding
herself against
him. Though Chess fought her, it did no damn good whatsoever,
that Morrow could see.

She murmured, “My brother will ride you well, little warrior,
once your flowers are brought to bloom. Husband of my husband,
little light, little meat-thing.”

Chess spat. “Screw
you
, you hex-Mex hellbitch!”

Lady Ixchel simply crooned back at him, tutting slightly, stroking
his fever-flushed cheek — and Chess melted under her touch, losing
energy like she’d popped a spigot on his soul. Beside her, Rook had
finally withdrawn the Bible from his inner pocket and stood flipping
through it, searching (no doubt) for some relevant passage to soothe
Chess with . . . but that was when the whole of it burst into flames
in his hand, each page going up like flash-paper and vanishing, with
not even ash — his namesake — left behind.

“You will need that no longer,” she told him. “We will write a
new book together — a book in stone, and blood, and gold. A Book
of Tongues.”

The phrase ran through Rook, Chess, even Morrow, in a silver
skewer. They shivered and nodded, as one.

“Now . . . kill what you love.”

“Why?” Rook managed.

That is YOUR sacrifice.

Open your heart to me, darlin’. ’Cause there’s no more time, at all.

But it was Rook who opened
Chess
up, skin-first, blood
spraying — and Chess who screamed at the feel of it, high and harsh
and sounding far more in rage than pain, though Christ knew it
had
to hurt. His flesh went flying — and as Chess spilled his blood on
the stone it began to shine, its image humping up by parts so each
section peeled and tore itself free and
added itself
to Ixchel somehow,
making her huge, terrible, inhuman. Rook plunged his axe-blade
hand under his lover’s breast-bone, plucked out his beating heart
like a dripping carnal jewel —

Jaguar Cactus Fruit, from which all of us will grow anew. . . .
— and gave it over to Lady Ixchel, who chawed it down, ate it
whole, smashing it against her mouth ’til her lips ran with his blood.
Then kissed Rook right in front of Chess’s betrayed eyes — a kiss like
clashing swords, like split skulls. A kiss with teeth.

“My little kings,” she said, beatific, fond as any other mother.
“My . . . husbands.”

Screw all this for a game of Goddamn soldiers
, Morrow thought,
drawing his gun. And before Rook could maybe think to stop
him — but would he even want to, seein’ what she’d made him do? —
Morrow’d already fired directly into the back of that dark and bloody
goddess’s head, blowing a gaping hole right where skull met spine.

But: The rest of her head spun ’round, a Satanic whipping-top,
to roar full in his face, her mouth so wide, inside it a tangle of other
tiny people screaming, rows on rows all
red
, and
—

the earth quaked

the Moon Room walls rocked

the air went foul and full and stiff

darkness everywhere, all but where something blue sizzled, some
awful coal-pot set atop a monster’s skull and

an irregular chopping noise infecting it all, a sluggish wooden
heart beating, getting

closercloserclosercloser

—
but then it was four weeks later, and Morrow was already clawing
his way back up, alone but for Chess Pargeter’s broken body clutched
one-armed to him — reaching out in the dark by blindest drive alone
and catching hold of
somebody else’s hand
, tiny and cold, its brass-hard nails curved and sharp as a harpy’s — screaming out loud as he
was dragged inexorably upwards, out into the light.

Where a hearty Scots voice greeted him, burred and blessedly
familiar: “Damnable good to see you again, Agent — even under
these sad circumstances.”

Cries, screams, shrieks and Spanish oaths formed a howling,
incomprehensible music around them, as mobs of panicked men,
women and children rushed everywhere. Dust clouded the sky in
a choking, shadowy veil. Amid broken brick, splintered wood and
fractured stone, Pinkerton knelt over the disgusting ruin of what
had once been Asher Rook’s lieutenant. Songbird, who’d plucked
him from the hole, had taken up position on Pinkerton’s left hand,
and was shielding her albino complexion with an incongruously
dainty parasol of red-lacquered paper. And here came Asbury,
toddling along in the rear, examining some sort of trail snaking —
crack-like — up through the dirt.

Morrow glanced back at Chess, and immediately wished he hadn’t:
the man lay there flayed and gutted, only recognizable because
his jaunty earring was held on by a few threads still, tenaciously
attached to that slack flap which had once been his earlobe.

“Well,
he’s
good and dead,” Pinkerton remarked, while Asbury
looked disappointed.

But Songbird, whose pale eyes saw more than either of them,
simply shook her head. “Perhaps . . . not.”