A Book Of Tongues (33 page)

Faint tendrils of steam curled up from the silver thread, snake-ghosts dissipating slow on the heavy air. Chess stared at them like
the thread itself was a king rattler with its warning beads took off,
bare inches from his naked heel.

“Private Pargeter, as was,” said Pinkerton, his voice gone distant
and buzzy in the racket’s wake. “Seein’ we all already know
your
reputation, I’d like to introduce Joachim Asbury, late of Columbia
University’s division of — what’s the formal name, Doctor?”

“Experimental Arcanistry,” supplied Asbury, with a smile both
unsteady and forced. It came to Chess that Asbury maybe hadn’t
expected quite so violent a reaction himself. Then again, from the
glare she was sporting, neither had Songbird.

So this ain’t nearly as picture-perfect planned an operation as you-all
want me to think, is it? Left hand and right not talkin’ much?

“Though Mr. Pinkerton flatters me with the term ‘division,’”
Asbury continued, voice gaining strength. “With some experimental
proof of my theories, however, I’m anticipating considerably more
interest in the cross-application potential of individuals such as
yourself, Mr. Pargeter — and you, of course, Miss Songbird — ”

“Potential?” Songbird snarled something else in Chinese. “
Cong
míng de, chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo!
” (
Very clever, animal fucking
bastard.
)

Then whipped her hand backwards in Asbury’s general direction,
all five fingers tiger stance-clawed — and spasmed again, letting fly
another yowl of pain admixed with sheer disbelief, as whatever hex
she’d formed broke apart and crackle-sparked down into the silver
thread on the floor, vanishing out the window once again. Rubbing
her hand, Songbird glowered at Asbury with eyes full of furious
venom.

“Unkind,” she managed, eventually. “And . . . impolite, given our
current alliance.”

“As any wire of iron or steel grounds the galvanic energies of
lightning, or similar phenomena,” said Asbury smugly, “so a certain
alloy of silver, iron, and sodium in its metallic form serves to ground
magical energies where they manifest, conducting them away to
discharge harmlessly elsewhere. Which is why any further active
hex-working in this room — young lady, young sir — ” he bowed to
both Songbird and Chess, who shared an equally enraged glance
at the inappropriate familiarity of being thus linked, “ — will be
neutralized in the moment of its launching.”

Active
hex-working? Chess had no idea what that meant. A hex
was a damn hex, far as he was concerned. But he could still feel the
smugness coming off Asbury as the man droned on — and only all
the keener, now, with Songbird’s far more sophisticated spellbinding
self-evidently pulverized by the same device. With narrowed eyes,
Chess forced himself to focus in on it, willing himself to relax and
open up rather than lash out.

All at once, the smug buzzing transmuted, with shocking
suddenness — same way Songbird’s Chink-to-English inner babble
had, into genuine
words
:
A lifetime’s worth of unexpressed hexation,
and more. Clearly this young man has no idea of just how powerful he
could be . . . already
is
. And so we see why Reverend Rook chose to usher
him through his transition with such overblown violence. Because doing
so would allow him to keep control, stay the dominant partner in this
invert
ménage
of theirs, thus avoiding the sort of overt conflict which
might end in his own destruction. . . .

Chess couldn’t help but shy at the feel of it, so thumb-in-the-eye
pointed
as it rung, fair bruising his skull’s bony confines. His gaze
whipped over to Pinkerton, hoping for respite. But the crack only
widened further, damage irreparably done — he plunged headlong
into a burred Scots stream of words and images combined, oft times
so close-knotted as to be barely coherent.

Sly little sodomite/catamite, properly, if Morrow’s reported right/
wouldn’t trust him so far’s I could heave him, and that’d be some distance/
killer’s eyes/take what readings you need and fast, doctor, then distract
him/a bullet in the pan ought to do nicely/Madam Songbird’s hex enough
for our purposes, and you already have to keep her leashed/a mad dog/
for all your curiosity, can’t think even
you’d
be foolish enough to let
this
monster live.

Mouth open, Chess turned to Songbird again and slapped up
against an invisible barrier, hurting-hard — she’d locked down, no
doubt feeling his intruding thoughts creeping loose through her
brain. But after only a second’s concentration, he began to make out
shadow-show silhouette-cutter shapes moving
behind
those shields,
coming abruptly into clarity with black-edged focus.

Big man in a flowing coat, shredding under a stream of flying shapes
. . . Ash?

Same man, standing atop a mountain with a web of black strands
tying him to a hundred, a thousand different figures everywhere, a great
dark shadow rearing high behind him . . .

Ash, yeah . . . binding every hex in Arizona to him, maybe, like
he’d said. And was that
her
, now, in the back? Or . . . Smoking Mirror?

A bearded man and a balding one, sinking down, with black blood
flowing from their mouths. . . .

Pinkerton and Asbury, snared fast in whatever revenge Songbird
had planned for their double trespass, their malfeasance toward her.

Oh, you stuck your damn hands in the hornets’ nest for sure, boys,
cuttin’ a deal with that one . . . but then again, maybe that’s why you ain’t
too inclined to want to do the same with somebody like
me
, anytime soon.

He slammed the door shut himself, cutting off the triple influx
of soul-talk at its root. Jesus Christ, was this the sort of shit Rook’d
had to deal with all the damn time? How’d he stood it? Panting,
Chess made himself straighten. It all seemed to have gone by far
faster than actually
hearing
the same “words,” out loud. Indeed,
Asbury himself was still talking, clearly having noticed nothing
amiss at all.

“. . . how the scientific study and deployment of your powers
would offer vast benefit to our war-weary nation. Not to mention,
of course, the spectacular opportunities for profit, for yourself. . . .”
Asbury gave him what was clearly meant to be a sly, coaxing smile.
Chess met it grimly. Nobody ever really got that it had never been
about the money, did they?

I did what he wanted, and he returned the favour, in spades. ’Cause
that’s what a marriage of true minds is: loyalty. To hold fast and stay
true.

Wasn’t though, was ’e?
that
other
voice murmured, far too deep
down inside to ever be shut out.
Not really. Not when it bloody counted.

But they’d settle that little point of difference later, when he’d
caught up with Ash Rook once more. When he and that Mexican
ghost-bitch’d had their fun, and the score’d been settled rightwise.
When Chess finally had his boot laid right on that big bastard’s
rope-scarred throat, ready to stomp and
grind
the End-of-the-World
Bible-foolery right out of him. That, or go down fighting, whichever
way the chips might chance to fall.

One way or the other, he was never gonna throw his hat in the
Pinkertons’ slimy ring — a damn gang like any other, for all they
had that staring sleepless eye-totem to watch over them, and drew
their cheques at the same government trough as the Bluebellies. No
matter how nice one particular agent might feel while all up in a
man’s business.

Here his bitter train of thought derailed. The true pain of his
situation rushed back in, pouring him brimful with soreness and
futility. Like getting your goddamn
heart cut out
by the same bastard
you thought’d finally proved Ma wrong, who’d taught you love
did
exist, that you really were worth something more than a blow-job
for a bullet, an extra gun at a knife-fight, or any other sorta flyin’
fuckin’
fuck
. . . .

Think you can pull
my
strings with greed, gentlemen and
“
lady
”
?
Think there’s any tune whatsoever you can play will make
me
dance?
Think there’s a thing on this whole damn earth you can tempt me with,
now the one damn thing I ever
wanted
is gone forever?

He snorted, loud and harsh, and saw Asbury frown, Pinkerton
redden. Songbird’s ghostly eyebrows lifted in an odd sort of respect
. . . which frankly only made him want to punch her all the harder.

You got
nothin’
I want, the none of you,
he thought, knowing at
least
one
of them could hear him.
So fuck you kindly,
very
kindly — or
rather, not. Fuck
all
y’all.

To Asbury, with a smile so sunny it gave the lie to itself, curdling
atop the acid ill-hid in every syllable: “Got something you maybe
want to
ask
me, doctor, under all that syrup and sociability? Then I
suggest you do it straight out, ’cause we’re burning daylight.”

Asbury coloured, thrown off his born pedant’s stride. “Mister
Pargeter,” he began, stiff and direct — before slipping sidelong again
into inquiry: “By the by, is ‘Chess’ your entire given name, or . . . a
mere sobriquet, perhaps?”

“What exact part of ‘get the fuck to it’ was it you didn’t understand
most, mush-head?”

“Sir! I must protest, volubly — ”

A brief flash from Morrow:
Jesus Christ, please don’t
, with a side-order jolt of nasty amusement — from over Songbird’s way.

“
Mister
Pargeter, if you please,” Pinkerton amended, laying
in thick with his battle-captain’s knack of making his voice fill a
room without seeming to shout. “For all you may find Dr. Asbury’s
methods a tad, eh . . . offputting, I think we’ve still one offer you
might find of interest, nevertheless. Would you care to hear it?
Given what seems to have occurred during your sojourn down in
Hell’s belly, for the good of America, if not the whole world — we aim
to
destroy
the Reverend Asher Rook. And . . . we want your help.”

“
Need
it, you mean,” Chess snapped back, without thinking.

Pinkerton didn’t much like his tone, that was clear — would’ve
been no matter what, even without the accompanying in-rush of
damned puppy/queerbait bastard invert/how DARE
. . .

And — didn’t it scare Chess, somewhat, how used to that he was
getting?

Pinkerton, cold but calm: “
Need
, then. If you’re willing to give it.”

“Why would I be?”

“The way he’s betrayed you, humiliated you, torn you stem to
stern and then left you behind, for your worst enemies to pick up?
Why
wouldn’t
you, would be
my
question.”

“Why indeed,” Chess repeated. “But . . .”

Was that Morrow at the back of his head, now, slicing in all of a
sudden from behind him, and probably not even thinking he was
doing so? Showing Chess
himself
, slant-viewed, in ways he’d never
previously dreamt on. How he maybe wasn’t quite as black as he was
painted, not even now, with Smoking Mirror’s pitch-smeared face
lookin’ down over his mental shoulder.

Ask yourself why Chess does so much of
any
damn thing, overall, and
it’s always pure contrariness — Oh, you think you KNOW me? Think you
know what I’m capable of, which way I’ll jump? Think the fuck again! —
That’s what Pinkerton don’t care to understand, and Asbury just ain’t
even halfway equipped to reckon. Though Songbird probably knows it, or
I’d be much surprised.

Jesus,
Chess thought, head swimming,
and we only lay down
together the once, too. Who knows what-all the Pinkerton son-of-a-bitch
might’ve found out, Rook’d only stayed away a few nights more?

He buckled without warning, eyes wide, and puked another
splatter of hot and coppery blood that hissed as it struck the char-smeared wooden floor. Songbird’s mouth tightened in distaste —
then slackened, as Asbury gasped and Pinkerton’s eyebrows rose,
when the thickened mass inside the blood stirred, pushed upwards,
swelled into a floral bud of the same carnal colour. In the silence
of astonishment, the faint cracks of roots working their way into
the floorboard’s grain was clearly audible. Leaves unfurled along the
stem. the bud grew further, spreading out red petals. With a dancer’s
grace the blood-flower revolved to face Chess, opening wider as it
did, as if yearning for the sun.

Its central petals irised apart, revealing a bell lined with lamprey
teeth that pulsed and tensed, a swallowing and hungry throat.

“My . . . good God,” breathed Hosteen.

Chess made a sound too sharp and harsh to be a laugh. “Oh, you
think
, Kees?” He rounded on Asbury. “Fuck your money, Doc, and
fuck your mission too, Pinkerton. I’ll find Rook, all right — but not
for you. He’s
mine
. ’Cause . . . that’s just the kinda bitch I am.”

Songbird leaned slightly in Asbury’s direction, and murmured:
“I told you so.”

Pinkerton drew himself up to his full height, mind hardening
and darkening. Behind Chess, Morrow tensed. The two currents
met queasily in Chess’s midsection. “You’ll not earn the dignity of a
second chance from me, Pargeter, if that’s your only answer.” Then
his scowl skewed to puzzlement. “What in God’s name is
that
?”

His eyes went to the nightstand. Chess turned — to see the thing
he’d always thought was Morrow’s pocket-watch (Asbury’s famous
Manifold
, he plucked forth — all unsummoned — from that same
gentleman’s over-hot brains), the device now eating all trace of
magic from the air, come alive once more with its trademark chatter-whirring, ramping up ever louder and faster. More thought-stamps
followed — from Morrow, a new surge of alarm and fear. Asbury’s
mindstink cloud had frozen up too. Chess could taste the old man’s
slimy terror in his own throat, bile mixed with blood.