Sacrificial Magic (43 page)

She slashed at him with the knife but he was crushing her arm to her side just below the elbow so she couldn’t reach around. She dipped her head, slammed it back. His teeth hit her scalp, his grip loosened but tightened again. Shit!

Slobag grabbed him, started pulling him backward. Pulling both of them backward, because Aros wouldn’t let go of her. His face hit the back of her head again with a jaw-jarring crack. Slobag must have punched him in the head.

Screams outside grew louder. Monica. Monica frantic and hysterical. She thought she heard Lex, thought she heard Beulah. This was it, Slobag was free. Even if he didn’t get Aros off her he’d almost reached the wall of the circle, and if they could get out of the circle—especially if they could get Aros out of the circle—it might break, the spell might break, and they could end it all.

She threw herself sideways, hoping to shake Aros off that way, hoping Slobag could get an arm locked around his neck or something as she went.

Another gunshot. Aros’s hand tightened at her throat, she was choking, she couldn’t breathe—

Not his hand. That wasn’t why she was choking. She was choking because of the magic in the air, a thick black fog of it, rolling over everything. She was choking because the purple wall of the circle disappeared, because beyond it was darkness and power rolled out of that darkness, power that hit her hard, that clutched at
her, tried to absorb her. Aros’s screams of joy, the feral sound of his triumph, pierced her ears like spikes.

The power had been accessed, the spell completed, how the fuck did that happen, how had— Oh no. Oh fuck, oh no …

She turned her head on a neck that creaked and felt stiff. Turned it just in time to see Slobag fall, to see the jagged hole in his head. He’d been shot. He was dead.

They had lost.

It seemed to take him hours to fall, his eyes already blank and glazed, already devoid of life. As he fell, so fell Chess’s heart, lower and lower; as he fell, so did the power increase until it hurt her, clawed at her, made her head throb. Aros and Monica had all that power now, how the fuck was she going to stop them—

If she didn’t manage to get Aros off her, she wouldn’t. She leaned forward, her lungs bursting, her entire body screaming for air. Only one chance, if she didn’t manage this she’d pass out and that would be it. Explosions of red already popped behind her eyes.

She threw herself back as hard as she could, slamming Aros into the pavement with her on top of him. His hands loosened enough for her to take one breath, one clean sweet breath, and enough for her to move her hand.

She brought the knife down into his thigh again.

This time she didn’t let it sit. There was no time to be merciful. She dragged it up, shoved it to the side, the handle slippery with blood, her hand coated with it, hot and disgusting and stinking of copper and crazy.

Aros’s screams of triumph became screams of agony.
Chess barely heard them. How could she stop the energy from seeping up from the earth, what did she need to do?

If the spell ended, would it stop?

Aros let go of her, still screaming. She tugged the knife from his flesh and rolled away, pushing herself out of the glowing circle.

Wen Li lay dead on the stained cement floor. His was the only body—oh please let his be the only body—but where were the others, where had they gone?

“Chess!”

She spun around, already throwing herself to the ground, her heart recognizing his voice before her head did. Terrible, it was Terrible, he was there, but this wasn’t the time to look up. He wouldn’t have shouted like that except in warning.

The bullet flew over her head. Did Monica have a gun? What the fuck?

She did. Monica had a gun, and the metal caught the light and Chess rolled in the other direction, scrambled to run away. Terrible was on the other side of the low wall dividing the parking aisles. She caught a glimpse of him when he jumped up to look for her again—an ugly slash broke the right side of his face, cutting from cheekbone almost to his chin. Even in that quick glimpse she could see the blood soaking into his shirt. Even in that quick glimpse her heart flooded with relief.

She didn’t know where Lex and Beulah were. Had no idea if they knew their father was dead.

Didn’t matter. She ducked behind a pillar where she could see the wall Terrible crouched behind and as much of the rest of the garage as she could.

The magic didn’t lessen, that awful magic that felt like the screams of tortured souls. The energy was taking over. The spell was ending; it didn’t need the spell anymore. How was that— Oh. It had to be the fight. All
that energy, all that violence and death in the air kept feeding the spell, kept it going, dozens of sacrifices as the circle faded.

And that power, that unimaginable power that was the whole reason for the spell: Was Aros absorbing it, letting it sink into him? What was he doing with it, what was he going to do next? It was so strong, so heavy, it was everywhere. It thrummed against her skin, tantalizing, strong and dark.

Changing. As though it knew her, knew what she wanted. It could be anything she wanted it to be. It could save her or it could kill her; maybe they were the same. It could be the flaming pyre she rode into her own destruction, could take her all the places she tried so hard to go, to that place where it was quiet and peaceful, the place where she didn’t exist anymore.

For one long moment desire paralyzed her. She wanted it so bad, so fucking bad, she could erase everything, erase herself, no more pain and shame, no more memories, no more fear and cold and uncertainty. Her fists clenched until her nails dug into her palms. She could have it, she could have all of it, the nothing she craved. The nothing that was everything.

But that nothing didn’t have Terrible in it. He wasn’t there and she wouldn’t have him if she gave in, and when that realization slipped into her head the bonds holding her snapped open like worn-out buttons and she could think again, move again, see through her eyes flooded with tears. The power was still there, still deep, still clutching her, but she could breathe. She was herself. She didn’t belong to it.

Her gaze flew over the garage floor. The rain had started falling hard again, slanting through the open spaces. Water streamed across the cement, formed puddles that reflected the blackness. The circle faded, and Slobag’s body appeared, crumpled on the floor.

Beulah started screaming. She screamed, and screamed, and her voice sliced through Chess and stung her already burning eyes. That was Beulah’s father. That was Lex’s father. She couldn’t imagine how they felt, she’d failed them, she was supposed to save his life and she’d failed.

Monica ran across the empty space to Aros’s side, tried to help him stand. The water on the floor mixed with blood where he lay, where Slobag’s body lay, red streaks of it in the dark water.

More noise behind her, more men making their way up the ramp, a few of Slobag’s men with rifles who apparently planned to start shooting the crowd below. They caught sight of Terrible, and she practically saw lightbulbs go off over their heads.

Even as she turned to say something, do something—she didn’t know what—she saw the pale shape rise from Slobag’s body. His spirit. His ghost. It had been trapped by the circle, his psychopomp hadn’t been able to come for him, and now he was trapped.

“Daddy!” Beulah’s voice shrieked across the empty space. Chess turned and saw her struggling to run, to reach her father, with Lex holding her back. His lips formed words Chess couldn’t hear, words she thought were probably not her business to hear.

Then gunshots. Shot after shot after shot, again and again, and Chess looked up from her place on the floor and saw Beulah shooting, over and over, Lex’s gun flashing in her hands. Lex just stood and watched, unmoving; he made no attempt to stop his sister.

Chess understood that very well. She saw the look on Beulah’s face as clearly as he did. If he tried to take that gun back he’d get blasted in the head, and he knew it.

Bullets flying everywhere, chipping the cement on the poles and the ceiling and the floor; it rained down on her, caught her skin in tiny, painful cuts.

She didn’t know how long it went on. Ten seconds,
ten minutes. An endless eyeblink of a moment while Beulah screamed and shot the world. Chess knew exactly how that felt. She did that deep inside herself every minute of every day.

Finally it stopped. Complete silence. Dead silence. Whether it was because they all stood still, barely breathing, waiting for something to happen, or because her eardrums were completely fucked and she couldn’t hear anything—maybe never would again—she didn’t know.

Then Beulah’s sob broke it, and she knew. With that sound came a sort of exhale, as though they’d all been waiting, and the world snapped back, everything snapped back. Lex had his arms around Beulah again, pulling her away down the ramp, and she was going with him. Terrible had jumped Slobag’s men. She couldn’t see their guns anymore but they all had knives. That fight would not end soon. Fuck!

She couldn’t leave Slobag like that. For the moment he simply stood watching, but he wouldn’t stay like that for long. Not all ghosts wanted to kill, just almost all. Ninety-nine point nine percent. And sometimes they managed to hold on to their humanity right after death. Some of them even managed to hold on for several minutes, but not usually any longer than that. She couldn’t leave him there, couldn’t condemn him to that, not with Lex and Beulah so close. She couldn’t let them see him like that if he turned—when he turned.

Chess didn’t see any weapons lying around, either. Her fingers still curled around the knife, so tightly it hurt. Everything hurt anyway, her heart hurt, every inch of skin hurt from power and fighting and worry. Monica had a gun and Chess didn’t, and she had to find a way to beat Monica and stop the spell while heavy magic confused her thoughts and made her sick.

No time to salt a circle, not to mention that trying to
do so would probably get her ass shot. She’d just have to hope her lousy luck changed and her psychopomp didn’t go rogue.

When the psychopomp came it opened a passage to the City. A metaphysical passage, one that made a small, weak vacuum. One weak enough that the psychopomp could easily carry the spirit through it, but if she could jack it up, if she could feed extra power into it …

She knew how to do it, too.

Her bag was still in the circle. She’d need to get it, fuck, it was about three feet away from where Monica and Aros hid behind the pole.

How many bullets did Monica have left?

Did it matter? Chess didn’t have a choice, right? Right. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Go!
GoGoGoGOGO!

She flipped herself around the pole and ran toward her bag. The power from the earth emanated icy gray death-breath toward the remains of the circle that made her gag. She wouldn’t make it without them seeing her, she knew she wouldn’t—

She was right. Just as she ducked to reach for the strap of her bag, someone grabbed her hair. Grabbed it and yanked it, hard.

She hit the cement. Didn’t even have time to feel the scrape on her elbows, the pain of impact; wouldn’t have felt it anyway because the pain in her head canceled it out. Canceled out everything. The hand kept pulling, dragging her by the hair, fuck, pulling it out of her head, and there was nothing she could do without making it worse.

Except twist enough to see their legs. Monica’s legs. Maybe Aros was too injured, maybe he was bleeding out behind the post. Maybe someone would shoot Monica. Maybe both of those things would happen. She could only hope.

Hope—and grab Monica’s legs just below the knee and tug as hard as she could.

The knees buckled. Monica went down. Chess went with her, lunged on top of her. Yes!

Punching Monica in the face felt better than anything that had happened to her since she’d climbed out of the Chevelle that afternoon. The pain of it shot up her arm and vibrated deep in her bones; glorious pain, almost a sexual thrill from getting to do what she’d wanted so badly to do.

But Monica was too powered up. Just touching her skin was like sticking her hand into the blades of a fan. When Monica slapped her and knocked her onto the floor, that power vibrated around her, through her soul, hurting far more than the physical pain.

Aros reached for her but she managed to duck away. When he moved, more blood flowed from his leg. He really was bleeding out. When he died, would the hole close, what would happen to it when he died, if he died?

The strap in her hand. Her feet hitting the cement, awkward and unsteady, trying to get her balance and move fast, fast enough to get away from both of them.

Another shot. Where had it gone?

More yells, more sounds in the background as the fight moved farther into the garage. Those men weren’t going to stop, the flames ate the air so all she could see on that side, through the open spaces between the floors, was fire. Smoke drifted into her eyes and nose, making them sting.

Monica followed her, stumbling but gaining. The grin on her face was awful, terrifying. Chess waited for her, wrapping her bag’s strap around her wrist, her muscles tense. Then Monica was upon her. Chess pulled back her fist, threw it out, and caught Monica solidly in the chest, just below the neck. Damn it, she’d wanted to hit her in the throat.