Sacrificial Magic (36 page)

“I love you,” she blurted, a little louder, a little harsher than she meant to, but it didn’t matter, because she’d done it. It didn’t matter because he tightened his grip
on her, and it didn’t matter because she shattered over him, her voice mingling with the rain and thunder, and he didn’t take away his hand or stop shifting her hips so she didn’t stop bursting apart, again and again until he joined her.

For several long minutes the only sound in the car was the storm outside and their slowing breath. She didn’t want to start worrying. She wanted to feel peaceful, triumphant. He’d wanted it to mean something, and she’d been able to let it, and that was something to be proud of. She’d done something for him she’d never been able to do and she’d been fine, and that was something to be proud of, too.

And she was proud, as she sat there with her head tucked into the juncture of his neck and collarbone, with her hands on his shoulders and his arms still around her.

But the fact remained that they’d essentially broken up. Well, he said he wasn’t the one who’d ended it, but she certainly hadn’t, not as far as she knew.

So where they were going from there she had no idea.

He brushed her hair back from her face, kissed her cheekbone. “Ain’t guessin you hungry now.”

“Not really, no.” Relief washed over her, sharp and crisp. “But if you want to eat I’ll go with you.”

Pause. “Thinkin maybe we oughta get some straight, aye? What was on the other night.”

So much for relief. She pulled away from him, disengaged
herself. If they were going to have the kind of discussion that ended with her feeling like the world’s dumbest bitch, she’d like to at least have some pants on.

He pulled a couple of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit them up and handed her one.

“Said I ain’t give a fuck what you take,” he said after a minute, his gaze focused out the side window at the rain, “an I don’t, true thing. Only … I ain’t wantin take you to bed, look in yon eyes an you ain’t there, dig? Might as well be on my alones, iffen that’s what’s on.”

What? What did that have to do with trusting her? “What do my— I don’t, sorry, I don’t get it.”

He took a deep drag off his smoke, rubbed the back of his neck, folded his arms; discomfort oozed off him and hung heavy in the air. “Knew I ain’t could say it up right. Ain’t … just wanting … fuck. Just forget I say aught, aye? No worryin on it.”

“No, tell me what you meant. Please. I don’t want to fuck everything up again.”

“Aw, shit. You ain’t fucked up, Chessie. Ain’t you, aye?”

“But it is, I made you mad, I—”

“Ain’t made me mad, neither, not causen of that. Thing is … Fuck. You high like that, like you was on the other night, ’slike you ain’t in yon head, dig? Like—like you might could be any other dame. Only I ain’t wanting any other dame. Wanting you.”

“But … if you don’t trust me …”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, like he was trying to figure something out. Trying to figure
her
out. “What the fuck you think I’m wanting you for? Just wanna get my— Shit.” He shook his head. “Ain’t about trust, dig? Wouldn’t be here iffen I ain’t got trust in you, wouldn’t be takin you to bed iffen I ain’t trustin you.”

Oh. Oh, shit. It hadn’t even occurred to her before how that might make him sound, how little credit she
was giving him. How little trust that sounded like
she
had in
him
.

He wasn’t one of the dozens of rent-a-daddies or whatever who’d used her, who’d treated her like a toy. That was one of the reasons why she loved him, right, because he was so exactly the opposite of that, because he was safe?

It terrified her in some small weird way to think of it like that, but she had to, because it was obviously the way he needed her to think of it.

Wait, hold on. He wasn’t saying she had to give up her pills, right? That wasn’t what he seemed to be saying. Shit, please let that not be what he was saying, because she had no idea how she would reply to that or what she would do, and that fact, that knowledge, led her down a filthy, crooked path in her mind, one she did not want to explore.

Not an easy question to phrase, though, was it. “Um … so what does that mean as far as, I mean, what I take and stuff, do you mean I can’t—”

“Aw, naw, ain’t sayin that. You do what you need an ain’t try telling you no, but … takin you to bed, want
you
there, not just your body. An want you knowin it’s
me
. Love you, Chess. Dig?”

Thunder broke through the silence following his words, low and thick. Her skin still tingled from the storm in the air.

Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was finally starting to know what he meant, and being scared of that because—well, shit, of course it scared her. If that was what he wanted, if it was about her, who she was inside and not her body, that meant the entire relationship hung squarely on that, on her. That he thought she was important, and special, and who she was inside mattered, and if that mattered …

If that mattered, if that was what he cared about, then she could never, ever let him know the truth, let him know how little she deserved that. “I’m sorry. I’m really, I didn’t know. I’ve never done this before, you know, I’m not very good at this …”

He nodded. “I ain’t good with the explains, dig, know I fuck it up tryin.”

“You don’t. I don’t listen very well.”

“Guessin we all set up for trouble then, aye?” He smiled at her, sending those happy little wings fluttering in her chest again.

“I … So you don’t want to not be with me anymore, I mean, you still want to?”

“Told you, weren’t me ended it. Never wanted that, neither. Never.”

She didn’t quite trust her voice; it felt clogged with grateful words, with probably way too sappy words, just like the ache in her forehead told her it was furrowing, the sting in her eyes told her she was about to make an ass of herself.

What else was new? She leaned forward, buried her face in his chest to try to hide it, but she was pretty sure he knew anyway. “I didn’t want it either. I thought, I thought you were sick of me and you hated me, and it was awful, I felt awful.”

He held her for a minute, his hand tight on the back of her head, pressing her closer. “Aye, weren’t … weren’t good for me neither.” He cleared his throat. “Mean it, though, on trust. Ain’t can do this iffen you don’t trust me. So … maybe you oughta give that one some thinking, causen if you always waitin for me to do a run-off, hidin shit from me … ain’t good, aye?”

And there was the terror again. This time she did understand what he meant. He wanted all of her, wanted her to stop being scared and nervous all the time, to stop doing things like assuming his lack of desire for sex one
night meant he didn’t trust her and was done with her completely. Or that it didn’t matter if she was practically passing out in the middle of it. Wanted her to believe he really loved her.

She wanted that, too. She really, really did. But if telling him she loved him the first time had been like jumping off a cliff, giving him that kind of trust … that was like jumping out of an airplane, and it was a demand she honestly didn’t know if she could meet.

Her silence sure wasn’t making him feel more secure, she knew, but she didn’t know what else to do, aside from squeezing him harder and hoping he knew that meant she was trying.

“Well. Just … just have you a think on that one, aye?” He gave her a final squeeze before shifting her so he could take the wheel. “C’mon, Chessiebomb. Let’s us get ourselves outta this rain.”

   She’d thought—she’d hoped—that “getting out of the rain” would mean heading back to his place, or to hers, and spending the rest of the afternoon in bed.

No such luck. She sat next to Terrible on Bump’s hideous scarlet couch, the cacophony of reds in the room throbbing at her.

He’d rearranged some of his awful “art” as well. Directly opposite Chess hung a stylized, luridly colored painting of several naked women bent over a sawhorse. Chess pressed her forehead into Terrible’s upper arm rather than look at it, let her right hand rest on his thigh. She had to admit, Bump’s place did have that advantage. She could touch him there, kiss him, hold his hand.

And she could look at him all she wanted, and he could look back at her so their eyes met and heat raced through her body. It kept racing even after he turned away; she watched his craggy profile sharp against the red walls, reached up with her left hand to stroke the
line of tiny bruises on the side of his neck, from her teeth. She liked seeing it almost as much as she liked the ones he’d left on her, the little marks and bruises she ended up with when he got carried away—which was often—as though he’d branded her. As though he’d written his name on her skin. Maybe Bump could leave the room for a bit? They still had so much catching up to do, after all, it had—

“Ladybird, you fuckin got the hearing on? Gots the fuckin askin for you, wanna tell up?”

“What? Um, sorry. My mind wandered for a second there.”

“Oh, yay? Ain’t even woulda fuckin guessed up on there.” He glared at her with his pale eyes narrowed. Impatient. Well, if he was so damn impatient he could start talking then, instead of just staring at her like she’d suddenly grown horns.

Or he could do what he was doing, which was stand up—he’d been in his customary lazy lean against his desk, the better to display the loud red, pink, and purple Nehru shirt—fucking
Nehru shirt
—he wore with bright orange pants. What the hell was the deal with badly dressed people and her current case? For a second she contemplated the idea of getting Bump and Monica into the same room. They’d either blind everyone or make them all ill.

His gold toe ring flashed as he oozed around the desk, then back to her. In his hand sat a small wooden box.

Chess’s heart gave a cheery skip. That box was Bump’s private stash, the stuff he didn’t sell to anybody. Hey, there had to be some fucking benefit to being his personal witch, right? Aside from the obvious one sitting beside her.

He set the box down on the coffee table in front of her. “Now mayhap you quit givin Terrible the fuckin slurpy-eyes an give Bump the listening, yay? Thinkin
you can? Gots some fuckin chattering wants doin, needs you fuckin head on straight up.”

The words should have embarrassed her. Probably would have, if he hadn’t given her that box. That dealer-junkie dynamic again; he could say what he wanted and she would take it, because he held the keys to the kingdom and she needed them.

But then, too, she
had
been giving Terrible the slurpy-eye, and she didn’t give a shit if Bump saw it or what he thought of it, either.

She would have paid attention anyway once the discussion actually started, but this was even better. So she opened the box, slid out the little bag and blade and got started chopping herself a couple of lines. Not easy to do, because Bump’s stash was so pure it clumped. Awesome. “Go ahead.”

“Aw, I fuckin allowed to? Givin you the fuckin mighty thanks.”

Whatever.

“What knowledge you fuckin givin Bump on the now-time? New shit, fuckin hopin so, yay? Something on the fuckin use-type side, get that fuckin scum Slobag down.”

Slobag hadn’t looked at all like he recognized the
hafuran
, the magic that Jia Zhang had been killed for. She’d believed he didn’t know anything about it. Hell, she’d told Terrible he didn’t.

“Are you sure it’s Slobag’s witch? I mean, really sure?”

Bump looked at her like she’d just suggested they all paint themselves pink and perform ballet in the Market. “Ain’t no fuckin chance-game. Slobag’s witch. Bump got the fuckin knowing, yay, no fuckin maybe-nots. Got we the fuckin proof on.”

Hold on. If Bump had proof it was Slobag’s witch doing the murders … holy fuck. Looked like she wasn’t
the only Churchwitch who’d found demand for her services with Downside’s drug lords.

She opened another drawer in the box, both to give her a second to process that and to pull out the short gold straw. Just like Bump; tacky and pretentious, but necessary.

“The witch’s name is Aros,” she said, holding the straw. “Aros Burnett. He used to be Church, but he went kind of insane and quit, and I guess now he’s working for Slobag.”

“Ain’t got the know you can fuckin quit that Church, yay, how that one fuckin possible.” Calculation flashed in his eyes. Dream on, Bump. She’d never quit the Church to become his personal witch.

No point bringing that up, though. “Of course you can. Usually they do a ritual when you leave, a pretty major one that … sort of makes you forget your Church education. They laser off tattoos, too, the most powerful ones. And then they keep tabs on you the rest of your life, they check up on you.”

“That happen to that dude Riley pussed out on you th’other night? He getting him mind erased out?” Terrible asked.

“If he decides to leave the Church, yeah, instead of just taking a job in a different branch.” He even remembered Riley’s name. Amazing. “But Aros didn’t leave the usual way. He just took off. I guess—I mean, I assume—he met Slobag somehow while he was working on the case at Mercy Lewis. The case I’m working now.”