A Rope of Thorns (10 page)

“Uh huh. Good thing that with you there, nobody ever remembers
me
.”

“You feeling ill-done by,
Mister
Morrow?”

“Not hardly. But they do got my name, even if there wasn’t room left for my mug, and five grand for any as brings me in. . . .” He trailed off. “But not alive,” he finished, stomach abruptly cold.

Oh, he’d
known
his bridges were well and truly burned, but somehow the sight of that explicit figure—black typeface smeared on crackling yellow paper—had finally brought it home how there really was no going back. Because those men he’d once counted closer than his own brothers really would gun him down if they felt they had to, rather than take him upright.

Chess’s eyes were on him now, sharper than he’d looked to find them. “You know,” he offered, “once I’m ace-high again, I could glamour
you
up some too, you wanted to stick ’round. Wear a new face, take a new name . . . get jobs, even.” At Morrow’s startled snicker: “Hey, might be I got skills you’re not privy to. Running a faro table, for example.”

“Faro’s a nincompoop’s pastime.”

“’Course it is—the crookedest game around. But seein’ how I was raised up, I
can
deal it, in a pinch. We could take these up-stood fools for everything they got.” Chess glanced sourly out the window. “The whole lot of nothin’
that
is.”

“These’re good citizens, Chess. You got no call to twit ’em behind their backs.”

“Oh, these fine law-abiders can kiss my queer ass, Ed—yours, too. Hell, I could probably make ’em.”

“I’d take it as a personal kindness if you didn’t,” Morrow said, stiffly.

Chess grinned at that, brief but dirty. “What’ll you trade me?”

And soon enough, Chess was dripping whiskey-turned-absinthe in Morrow’s mouth, those deft shootist’s hands busy on every part of him—doing things he’d never looked to, but certainly couldn’t claim he wasn’t enjoying, now circumstance had put him in their path.

A minute or so in, however, Chess drew back—sat up straight in Morrow’s not-uninterested lap and regarded him, somewhat sadly.

Morrow blinked up at him. “What?”

“Who is it you’re trying hardest to convince here, Ed? Me, or you?”

Morrow flushed, half-insulted, half-guilty.
It seem like I’m uninclined?
he wanted to retort. Yet he still recalled Chess saying, of Rook:
He ain’t queer all the way to the bone, like me.
Dismissive, but with a sort of rueful hurt hid underneath. An understanding that no matter how fast he and the Rev cleaved together, there was always a possibility they might yet be cleft apart—rent from each other by sheer distinction of nature alone.

As, indeed, had happened.

But she’d been a special case, had dread Lady Ixchel. No regular siren, no mere provoking drab. The Rainbow Lady pulled hard, over unfathomable distances—and those she called
came
, without delay, or recourse.

Maybe Chess
would
meet a man entirely like him, one day—like enough to help, yet not too alike to hinder. God knew, pretty little fellows didn’t seem to be any more his meat than pretty little ladies.

“Just tryin’ to help, is all,” Morrow said, finally.

“Aw, Jesus—” Chess rolled his eyes, torn between laughter and irritation. “Well, thank you kindly. But . . . it’s more than simple frolics ’tween us these days, ain’t it? You’re a pal, Ed, close as I’ve come to in my whole life. A good man.”

Which was . . . flattering, in its way.

Thought the Rev a good man too, though, once upon a time. Didn’t you, Chess?

Chess looked at him again, green eyes gone dull. “Don’t,” he said.

A sliver of ice, just touching Morrow’s pulse to its quick:
Never forget he can
hear
you, Ed—whether he wants to, or not.

He brought his mouth back to Chess’s, then—anything to keep from thinking further on that subject—renewed his efforts, doing as he’d been taught Chess enjoyed, by experience and example. And when the vibrations began to roll up both their spines, he let himself enjoy them, in that brief moment it still felt merely like nerves firing at the smaller man’s skilled touch . . . right up ’til he realized he was
hearing
the juddering quivers as well, a buzz emanating from walls, ceiling, floor at once, as if the whole room was a reed in some gigantic instrument.

Startled, he pulled back. “Christ, what the—this an earthquake?!”

Chess stared at something past Morrow’s head, mouth open. “I don’t . . . think so.”

Morrow twisted, and gasped.

Behind the bed’s headboard, the wallpaper’s calm pattern was sliding like unfired clay, blurring from a vague mesh of curlicues to a daguerreotype-sharp tangle of leaves which began to twine even as they resolved, adding a steam-engine hiss to the walls’ bass thrum. Red flowers blossomed and withered, strewed shrunken petals, as grinning skulls pushed themselves up out of the print’s white gaps.

Smell of bruised greenstalk, flowing sap, a meaty sweetness, honey brewed from carrion: sticky edge-of-stench perfume, signalling growth and decay. Birth. Rebirth. Morrow felt it chime in his pulse like it was trying to get out, reverberating through Chess’s empty chest like a great bell’s tongue, a hollow chigger-skin cocoon.

Prince of Flowers,
Songbird crooned, in both their ears.
Does your new skin itch?

And yeah, he found—
him
, or Chess?—it did. Just a bit.

Rip it off, then—run naked, green-bleeding, through this awful world. Run
free
. . . .

But the vines were stilling now, voice and buzz alike winding down to silence. Morrow gaped down at Chess, both of ’em breath-caught with hearts hammering, equally off-put.

“Did . . . all
that
. . . just happen?” He asked.

Chess opened his mouth to answer; God knew what, but the point proved moot. Instead, a knock at the door caused him to swear, vociferous as ever. “Shit-fire! What damn
now
?”

Without asking permission first, the Colder girl sat down on their single rickety chair, legs neat-crossed at the ankles—almost laughably prim-looking, given the circumstances. Then again, Morrow supposed it was more
her
room than either of theirs, and always had been.

“’Fore we go any further, might it be possible for Mister Pargeter to, uh . . . reassume his shirt?” she asked Morrow, keeping her eyes firm on his.

Chess hissed. “Oh, all things are ‘possible,’ gal,” he said, and a single finger-snap saw him safely “decent” once more; so much so as a mere set of clothes might make him, any road. In return, the girl just nodded—hiding her reaction damn well, if such casual miracles weren’t her daily bread.

“Thank you,” she said, simply. Chess shrugged.

“What
I’d
most like to know is how you spotted us, in the first place,” he replied.

“Should’ve picked a better fake family name than ‘Chester,’ might be, you wanted to stay inconspicuous.”

“Might be; Ed ain’t all too quick on the draw, sad to say, when it comes to mendacious matters. But that’s not the whole of it—is it?”

She took up a fold of her skirt, drew it between two fingers. “It’s true how when first I checked you two in, you and him—” she nodded at Morrow “—seemed just about the same height, same colour hair, eyes, and whatnot. Same arrangement of whiskers, even. But something tickled me even then, and I recalled a tip my Mama taught me. . . .”

She held up one hand—her left—and slipped the slim gold band off her little finger, a ring custom-made for one whose bones must’ve been even more delicate.

Holding it up, she explained: “Look through one of these, sidelong, and it shows things as they really are; magical creatures, or those you s’pect may be so. That’s ’cause matrimony’s sacred bond peels away all falsehoods.” At Chess’s grin: “Go on ahead and mock. But when I did, first thing I saw was
you
, Mister Pargeter, the tin-type of all she’d warned me ’bout. A Judas-head with poison eyes, walking widdershins through this world, whose wishes all come true. A man with no shadow.”

“I got a shadow.”

“Not all the time, you don’t.”

This last revelation didn’t seem to surprise Chess quite as much as Morrow might’ve thought it would. Instead, he stopped short—appraising her with simple objective interest, all other passions momentarily suspended.

“What
are
you?” Chess asked. “Not a hex—not quite. But still . . . something ’bout you I recognize. A . . . taste.”

He sniffed hard at her, mouth halfway yawned open—as though she smelled so delicious, he wasn’t sure
what
-all to do. Yet she just faced him down, resolute.

“Different, is all,” she said. “No good trying to feed off me, though. I know
that
much.”

“Oh no?”

A tiny head-shake. “All’s you’d do is kill me—that’s what my Mama always said. Wouldn’t like the afterglow too much, either.”

“Sounds like a lamentable smart woman, your
Mama
.”

“I like to think so.”

“All right. Then . . . what do you see
now
, lookin’ at me full-on?”

Miz Colder inhaled delicately, let her eyes drift from his as the lids slid faintly to, mimicking the bare beginnings of what quack Spiritualists called a trance. And suddenly, Morrow felt the same prickling chill he’d had on first coming face-to-face with Asher Rook, more than a year ago—like watching a snake slide slowly ’cross your path: This was no mere confidence-show, some drab provoking ghosts for profit, telling sad and frightened folk what they most wanted to believe, but the truth behind a thousand pretty lies made flesh.

For years, investigating frauds at Pinkerton’s behest, Morrow’d heard tell of people who saw things both true and inexplicable, secrets too painful to sell but too accurate to ignore. Those who saw trouble coming in dreams, or talked to God, and actually seemed to get
answers
. . . like Rook never had, but long-dead Sheriff Mesach Love—once champion of Bewelcome, itself turned not exactly miraculously to salt in Rook’s wake—had claimed to. Not hexes, but nowhere near normal folk, neither.

Seemed like Miz Colder’s absent Mama must’ve been one such rare creature—and if so, no surprise her daughter shared those same gifts. For blood did tell, they said.

(Yes, soldier. Indubitably.)

Once more, he braced himself internally against that awful rib-slat noise.

But heard only Miz Colder’s voice dim down, shedding its humanity by cold degrees, saying, “. . . somebody . . . standing behind you.” Only a hint above a whisper, yet the room so abruptly silent her words struck low, toneless notes, like rag-muffled hammers on a Chinese gong. “Yes. In the dark, behind the Black Mirror—his name a door, unlocked. Opening.

“
Tez
. . .

cat
. . .

li . . .

poc
—”

Without thinking, Morrow leaped forward and slapped her ’cross the face, hard enough Chess actually started; the girl herself staggered back and blinked, holding her jaw. But when her eyes found Morrow’s again, they looked more bemused than angry.

Morrow flushed deep. “Ma’am—I’m very sorry. But I just didn’t feel I could let that go any further.”

“No,” Miz Colder agreed. She massaged her jaw a moment, grimacing, then added: “I understand, I think. Though . . . you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I don’t thank you for it.”

“Son of a bitch never told
me
his damn name,” Chess muttered, at the same time, half to himself. ’Cause it always had to be about
him
, Morrow thought, exasperated.

He glanced back Miz Colder’s way a moment later, and was shocked to see her drop a tiny little shrug, as though in sympathy:
Oh God, here’s another one.
But no confirmation followed, one way or the other; she simply took a further moment, avoiding his eyes while working blood lightly through the fine skin ’long her profile with two fingers, so it’d be less likely to bruise.

Before starting over, eventually: “Well, be that as it may, Messrs. ‘Chester,’ though those downstairs may not read much,
I
do, and daily. That’s how I ascertained what your real names might be, and how I know something you might not already’ve figured out, likewise . . . that—rumours and superstition aside—the Weed really
must
follow people, since it’s sprung up overnight in just about every place you two’ve been reported.”

Chess stiffened. “Not here, though,” he countered. “Think I’m right, on that account.”

“No. Not
yet
.”

Not much to say to
that
, though knowing it’d never stopped Chess anytime previous. Still, when he went to rebut, Morrow shushed him; Chess cast his eyes up, and let him.

“We’re listening,” Morrow said.

“First choice—I don’t guess you know how to send it on its way again, do you? Rumour has it you can kill Weed by spilling blood. That true?”

Chess laughed harshly. “For all the good it’ll do your pissant little town, yeah. In a manner of speaking.”

The girl’s mouth thinned, and Morrow jumped in. “It’s a pagan working, a prayer in tribute to that thing you saw: let blood in the name of the Skinless Man, and the Weed turns brown, green grass
grows fresh over wherever it’s spread. But . . .” He heard his own voice crack, and forced it steady. “I’ve seen it happen. It’s . . . no natural thing. Better it never comes to that.”

Miz Colder considered, and nodded. “All right, then. Second choice—you need to get out of here, just as bad as all of us need you gone. So let’s work on that a minute.” She rose, hands clasped, and began to pace. “I’m not too like to report you to the authorities, since odds are, you’d do damage on your way out. I don’t want that. You either, probably.”

Chess snorted. “Hell, I don’t mind. Ain’t like we ain’t shot our way free before.”

“Maybe. But what you probably don’t know is there’s going to be a wedding all day tomorrow—Marshal Kloves’, town law, with all his friends come in to celebrate.”

Morrow rubbed his forehead. “Aw, God damn . . .”