A Tree of Bones (36 page)

What he looked most like was one of those old-time preachers whose Word Rook had liked to cite, back under the Lieut’s command–Preparers of the Way sent out into the desert to await God’s view-halloo, fed on honey and locusts, harassed by titty-shaking devils. Like those left behind in War-Heaven, however, Love bore the marks inflicted by his last go-out with lamentable clarity. That powder-burnt hole in his temple, for example, cracks starring out all ’round, with what rougher-yet damage the bullet had made coming out on the opposite side no doubt well-hid beneath his mane.

“Hadn’t looked to see you here,” Chess told him, studying for its traces — and vaguely recalling, as he did, how that might well have been the exact same thing he’d said to him when they’d met up at Yancey Kloves’ wedding, all that time ago . . . or not
so
much, maybe. Hard to Goddamn tell, down here.

But the Sheriff didn’t seem to notice. “Where else would you have thought to find me, ‘Private’?” He answered. “Judgement, once met, is swift, and terrible; when released from the flesh, all men resolve to their proper places, and stay there long as the Lord deems fit. Though, that said . . .” He looked Chess up and down. “. . . you obviously haven’t exactly resigned yourself to whatever fate He threw
your
way. Have you?”

Chess raised a brow. “You expected any different?”

“Given your nature? Not really, no.”

“Huh. Very . . . Christian of you, I guess.”

Nearby, Oona — frostbit feet miraculously returned to their normal hue — straightened up, buttoning Chess’s jacket closer about her, and tapped one hand impatiently on her still too-much-revealed thigh. “So ’oo’s this, then?” she demanded, of Chess. “’Nother of your God-botherer fancy-men?”

Chess almost spat, at that. “
Hardly
,” he managed.

“Well, I’m not likely t’know, am I?”

“You sure ain’t. So why don’t you keep your mouth shut and let me get my bearings, after which we’ll move on?”

Oona made a huffing noise, and tossed her red hair like a colt. The Sheriff, on the other hand, regarded her at first with interest, then outright startlement.

“Pargeter,” he said, at last, “is . . . that a
woman
?”

“What gave it away?”

“I — hadn’t known you to keep female company, is all, aside from Missus Kloves. And I know
she
isn’t yet in our same situation.”

“Yeah, and how’d that be, I wonder? No, wait, I got it . . .
God
told you.”

Too much fun entirely, almost, to twit this great fool, now he’d recovered his vaunted reason and charitableness along with his salt-free skin. And yet — Chess had to admit it didn’t bring quite the charge it once might’ve, under different circumstances. The stakes were just too high, too immediate, to be worth indulging himself over something so . . . petty.

“God doesn’t speak to me,” Love said, at last. “Not any more. Not — yet, anyhow.”

To which Chess had no earthly idea
what
to reply, in all frankness. So they simply stood there a minute, glancing elsewhere, ’til Oona finally put in, “I’m ’is mother, in case you was wonderin’.”

Again, Love gave half a moment’s face-slapped double take, before rallying himself. “
Really
,” was all he replied.

Yeah,
really
. Think I dropped out of the air full-made, preacher-man, or came up a-bloom from perdition’s own root?

The usual quick connective spark between those words buzzing ’round Chess’s skull and his own sharp tongue, however, seemed to have gone fallow, making it lie surprisingly quiet in his mouth.
Indeed, he had to rouse it somewhat to simply say, in return:
“Sheriff . . . I’ve been thinking on this a good long time. . . .”

“Do tell.”

“Rook did you wrong at Bewelcome, and I helped. That-all at Hoffstedt’s Hoard, though — that one’s on you.”

“I know it.”

“But half of it’s my fault, too. And
I
know it.”

“Well. You do surprise me, Mister Pargeter.”

“Nice to know it can be done.”

And here, there occurred something utterly unexpected, something so strange in even this hundred-Hells world that Chess could only blink dumbly at it. Love looked away, shook his head . . . and
smiled
. A worn look, its bitterness muted only by long weariness, yet honest in its mirth as in its rue — and that mirth self-mocking, too. Then the smile died, and Love’s eyes went bleak, looking off into the distance.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I’ve been humbled here, in many ways. So any startlement brought my way by you is nowhere near the worst.”

Not much caring to think on Love’s purgatorial tribulations, Chess cleared his throat, looking ’round. “So — where exactly is ‘here,’ anyway, if I might wrangle you away from your penitences for a moment or two? And while we’re at it . . . don’t suppose you know a back way out?”

“Are you two pursued?”

Chess snorted. “Always, Sheriff.”

Love gave a nod, once more as grim as ever. “Others here have called this place the Anchorhold, after those Papist hermits who brick ’emselves into walls, to better serve God undistracted. Which fits, since from what I’ve gleaned, it’s for those who need to contemplate their sins — to think on what they’ve done, before going on. As for how one leaves, however — ” A shrug. “Might it be you’ve come bearing repentance in your heart for
your
crimes, Pargeter? All of them?”

“Fairly certain that’d take longer than we have to spare, even if I felt like tryin’.”

“At least you’re honest, in your fashion.”

Beside them, Oona hooted softly; Chess shot her a glare.

“I looked for a way out of the ’Hold at first, and never found one,” Love admitted. “Yet new souls do arrive — and some who were here when
I
arrived have gone, though none saw them go — ”

Chess cut him off with an impatient wave. “Yeah, yeah, suffer, be purified, get saved,” he spat. “No offence, Sheriff, but that’s for them’s been killed true and final. I still got a body up there, and I aim to get it back. And given who-all’s holding its reins right now, I was kinda hopin’ you’d have something a bit more helpful to offer me.”

“Who would it be you think I share your antipathy for, exactly?”

“Old friend to us both, I’ll wager
he’d
say; a certain big black motherfucker, got a mirror for a foot. Ring any fuckin’ bells, Sheriff?”

Love closed his eyes, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea, Pargeter,” he asked, after many moments, “how long I’ve prayed God to quench the hatred in my breast? And now you storm through, and blow all my heart’s ashes back to Hellfire in a second. For that alone, I’d have you gone — back home, to another suffering gallery, even Heaven itself, little as you merit it. But to tell me that creature, that — ”

“Enemy,” supplied Chess.

“ — that the Enemy still walks the world, using
your
flesh for his vessel? Where my Sophy and Gabriel dwell, and me powerless to help them . . . how can I forgive, or be forgiven, knowing
that
?”

“It’s a conundrum, for certain.”

Love shook his head. “You terrible little man,” he said, without rancour. “Is there any one place you’ve ever appeared, where trouble hasn’t followed?”

Now it was Chess’s turn to look down, own head shaking in response. Because, Goddamnit — he didn’t know.

The Anchorhold’s air had been so quiet thus far, but for their voices, that the sound which next intruded — a splintering crack, as of ram-smashed stone — made them all start, even Love. Oona yelped in fright, reeling away; Chess spun, just in time to see the wall at his back bulge out, white-edged fractures webbed all across the dark granite. Before he could react, the rest collapsed, pouring down ’cross the floor like sand from a cracked hourglass. Cold white light spilled in, glittering with windblown snow so white it burned blackly, reflected off of Love’s narrowed eyes.

Once again, Chilicothe was the first man to step through — lurching stiff-legged, punctured hamstring braced with the stock of his own useless rifle, strapped to fashion a crude splint. For all that the morbid lack of expression on his face did not change, Chess yet felt the lifeless gaze transfix him, a lamprey-like force locking on.

What is it you think you’re fixing to do to me, you dead-ass motherfucker? Don’t even recall your first name, if I ever knew it.

He drew in a slow illusion of breath, wondering in turn what tricks he had left to work which might throw the dead man back — ’til, without warning, a long, tall back transposed between. Chess jolted awake once more, catching Oona by the arm; Love looked back over his shoulder, head jerking sideways to indicate a potential path of escape, even as he brought fists up pugilist-style.

“Go,” the Sheriff ordered. “If this is truly not your time, Pargeter, then there may be an exit for you, and the lady — find it, while you can. These, on the other hand . . . being damned like myself, they hold no terrors for me. I doubt I can hold them for long, though, without aid.”

“But — ”

Love squinted down at him, fiercely. “No buts. Do you swear you’ll oppose him, up top, with whatever might you can lay hand to? The Enemy?”

“He’s mine as well as yours, and everybody’s, so . . .”

“Don’t equivocate, fornicator. Swear.”

Oona was tugging at his arm once more, while Chilicothe grinned both their ways over Love’s dusty shoulder. Around them, the retreating rows of devotees sat frozen as ever in their cabinets, seemingly unaware of what further hell might be about to rain down. Then again, Chess guessed, they were probably used to blocking such distractions out; so engrossed were they in chasing after their penance, they were determined to let nothing intrude. Love had been one of their number, but he’d broken his vows — put out a hand to help Chess, help Oona. Now he was back to square one, on their account.

“I swear,” Chess told him, voice gone dry, as understanding of what Love had given up on his and Oona’s behalf made
something
at his vision’s limits pulse and throb. Feeling it deep-set, whatever
it
might be and no matter how little he wanted to; unable to ignore it, as he once would have, without thinking twice.

Because I’ve changed too, I s’pose. Little as I ever wanted to.

“Then
go
; take your dam. I will block their way, so long as God allows me.”

Love spread his arms, and when he spoke again, his growl held a thunder beyond anything Ash Rook had ever produced. “H
ow is the faithful city become an harlot! it was full of judgement; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers!
” More stone fell from the edges of the breach. Chilicothe leaned into the words as into a harsh wind; behind him, the rest of the Dead Posse screamed, imprecations dissolving into one frustrated wail, over which the blast of Love’s voice lifted like a cyclone. “T
herefore saieth the
LORD,
the
LORD
of hosts, the mighty
O
ne of
I
srael,
‘A
h,
I
will ease me of mine adversaries, and avenge me of mine enemies
’!”

Oona grabbed Chess’s shoulder and shrieked something at him which he couldn’t hear; didn’t take much thought to guess the meaning, though. He nodded, scrambling back as Love threw the weight of his voice against the Posse, holding them out.

“
Are you not ashamed of these oaks ye have desired?
” Love bellowed at them, over the tumult. “
Are you not confounded by this, your chosen garden? Vengeance is God’s alone, lost souls!
”

But despite initial balking, those set against him had rallied already, their din only growing louder, as they listened. So, turning tail — and God Almighty, was he ever getting sick of
that
particular manoeuvre — Chess broke into a lope, chasing after Oona while she scarpered up the passageway, away from the breach.

The ’Hold’s corridor turned, crossed over another (equally endless, from what Chess could glimpse), then another, and so on. Every wall stood studded with alcoves, figures hung blind and motionless, faces abstract as masks, like those paintings on
arroyo
cave walls he’d rode under; the smooth-polished stone itself gave back their pursuers’ racket, shaking each coffin-cabinet visibly, without ever once rousing those pinned inside.

As they chose turn after turn at random, none leading anywhere useful, Oona cursed. “Place is a
maze
, worse’n bloody Whitechapel! Christ, to get all this way and stopped
here
— ”

“Some damn navigator you are! What happened, you lose track of that thread you been clingin’ to all this time?”

“We’re
in
it!” Oona screamed back, waving at the walls. “Woven into this ’ole place, it is — warp and woof! Can’t even see a direction to it, now — like this ’ere ain’t even part of the rest of things, like — ”

She stopped; but the same thought had occurred to Chess, wildfire sparking from mind to mind:
Like maybe we’re already outside
. Chess turned to the wall and, without even taking a second to think or doubt, punched it as hard as he could. It shattered under his fist, no more substantial than hollow plaster, powdering away — yet nothing emerged; no crack, nothing beyond. His hand sunk deeper on the next few punches, to wrist, to elbow, ’til he reared back, and started kicking.

Ankle. Calf. Fucking . . .
knee
, Goddamnit. Like sinking into custard, or quicksand.

Not enough.

“Gettin’ closer — we want t’leg it, so’s we don’t end up trapped!” Oona yelled, from behind. “Come on, you bloody tosser! ’Ow many times you need t’go at it, ’fore you figure out you’re done?”

“Speak for yourself, woman! I done enough running for today — don’t aim to do more, if I can help it.”

“Fine words. ’Cept you
can’t
, can ya?”

Chess pivoted, locking eyes with her — green to green, equally sharp. “Well, if you want it to go faster, maybe you should put your
own
shoulder to the wheel, ’stead’a just standin’ there yapping!”