Unholy Magic (24 page)

Of course, she also couldn’t feel her extremities. But life was full of tradeoffs, right?

“Do you want to get out of here? My place isn’t far. We might be able to talk better there. I want to—talk about the case. About the Pyles, I mean.”

Hmm. Something he didn’t want to discuss in public? Could be interesting, not that it mattered. At least it could be interesting if she was able to stay awake long enough. Hot on the heels of being drunk enough not to think of Terrible was being too drunk to think of anything at all, and appealing as that was, she wasn’t at home where she could just pass out.

“Yeah. Just hang on. I want to go to the bathroom first.”

The bathroom was bigger and nicer than she’d expected, but she didn’t pay much attention. One wall was entirely made of mirrors, and the last thing she wanted to do was look at herself.

Instead she ducked into a stall and cut herself a thick line on top of the toilet paper dispenser. That would be enough, she figured. Enough to keep her blessedly zoned out but still able to take notes if necessary.

Her face was already numb, but she felt the speed hit anyway. Good. Better than good. Her sluggish heart sped in her chest and the world started to sparkle, just a bit, just enough to drive her misery from her head.

For the moment, anyway.

His place was bigger than she’d expected, nicer, with a clean but bare kitchen and furniture that matched. Working for the Pyles must pay more than she’d thought.

He settled her on the couch and brought her a beer while she waited for the room to stop spinning. Fuck, she was drunk. Monumentally drunk. So drunk that her skin felt rubbery all over and her limbs heavy.

“I think it’s Kym,” he said, startling her.

“Kym Pyle? Faking a haunting?”

“If anyone’s faking it—and I’m not convinced someone is—it’s her.” He sipped his own beer. “She hates it here. She wants to go back to Hollywood. Bitches about it all the time.”

“But she was injured.” The words came out before she thought of them. Shit! Kym
had
been injured. She hadn’t faked those scratches on her back. And Oliver Fletcher hadn’t even been in town when that happened.

So who had been in the Pyle bedroom that night? Who had slashed at that pale skin in the dark?

Pale skin in the dark … like her own belly, as she’d fumbled with her buttons in the cemetery under Terrible’s furious gaze.

Fuck. Why couldn’t she get away from him?

“Lots of people injure themselves, Chessie. You know that.”

Huh, he had no idea. She nodded. “So you think Kym set the whole thing up to get Roger to move?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

Merritt’s hand found her thigh. So that was it. He might want to talk about the case, but he wasn’t really interested in her thoughts. He’d brought her here for a different reason. Well, whatever.

She set her beer down and reached for him. Let him kiss her. Let his hands roam over her half-numb body. Her own movements were clumsy, indifferent, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

Then again, his technique didn’t seem to have improved since he was seventeen. Or perhaps she’d just gotten used to more skilled hands on her body, more skilled lips against hers. His tongue probed and poked at her mouth, his head unmoving. Her chest ached.

He unbuttoned her jeans and yanked them off. His hand dug between her legs as though he was trying to reshape her, jabbing into her. It hurt, what of it she could actually feel, but she didn’t care enough to stop him.

His own jeans were next. He dragged her over him before she was anywhere near ready, braced her hip with one hand while he fiddled around with a condom with the other. His lips traveled across her chest, over her neck, too softly for it to feel like anything. Where his hand had been rough and clumsy the rest of him was too slow, passionless, so she was bored and frustrated long before anything started to happen; and when it did start to happen, her boredom was not relieved.

She started moving automatically, her head a million miles away, dissociating from her body. A trick she’d learned over the years, one she hadn’t had to use in a long time. It came back to her as naturally and easily as her magic did.

Oliver Fletcher claimed to be solely responsible for the Pyle haunting, but there was no way he could have injured Kym. So who?

Merritt gasped and whispered something beneath her. She ignored him. It didn’t matter anyway. She was essentially done with the Pyles. She’d start putting together the paperwork to report a real haunting in the morning—or whenever she managed to wake up tomorrow—and by the end of the week it would all be over with.

She sped up her movements, bored, wanting this to end, wanting to take her punishment and be done with it.

He tried to kiss her and she moved away, buried her face in his neck instead. He rubbed her back as if he was soothing a toddler. It annoyed her but she said nothing. He wanted her, at least. Didn’t look at her with anger and disappointment. Didn’t see her as a chance to put one over on his enemy. He may not have been any good at it, but at least he wanted her. She was worth something to him, even if it was nothing more than a few minutes of cheap thrills.

Her head swam. Too much booze, too many pills, too much movement. Blackness crept in around the edges of her vision. She fought it with what little energy she had left. She didn’t want to sleep here. Wanted to go home. There was no way in hell she was okay to drive, but she had more speed, she could snort herself sober and make it if she was careful. Merritt’s place smelled funny and small, and she wanted to leave.

His fingers curled around her hips, dug into them, and the pain drew her attention back to him as he finished. She barely managed to keep herself from sighing with relief. He was done. He was done, and she could go home, and maybe—maybe—she could figure out a way to fix things.

Or she could just pass out, which seemed more likely.

Either way, she couldn’t help being a little grateful to him. He’d gotten her out of the house, gotten her drunk, given her a few minutes of peace.

It wasn’t much, but sometimes it was enough.

Chapter Twenty-four

Magic is neither benevolent nor malevolent; it is not good or evil. The motives of the practitioner are important, but that does not mean magic is safe if your heart is pure. Quite the opposite can be True….

—
The Book of Truth
, Rules, Article 980

An hour and a half later she left her car in the lot by her building and trudged toward the steps. Her thighs ached. Everything ached. Her mouth felt fuzzy, her teeth sharp and rough in her mouth. The half-gallon of water she’d forced herself to drink sloshed around in her stomach; she had to fight to keep it down. At least it was still dark. She didn’t think she could face the sun.

Terrible waited on the steps. Chess stopped short, her mouth open like an unhinged door.

His gaze took her in head to foot, her messy hair and smeared makeup, her rumpled clothing and unsteady footsteps. She felt his judgment and wanted to hide, wanted to curl up into a ball on the pavement and wail until he went away.

“Hi,” she managed.

His hands dug into his pockets; he glanced around. A few buildings down, a small crowd of teenagers passed a kesh between themselves on the steps, their laughter blasphemous in the silence.

“Terrible, please … just let me explain.”

He shook his head. “You say anythin to him?”

“What? I—”

“About … where I take you, on the other day. You tell Slobag about it?”

Katie. She shook her head so fast she felt her brain jostle in her skull. “No! No. I promise. I didn’t—it wasn’t like that, I didn’t—”

“You tell him and I kill you,” he said, his voice so rough it was almost unrecognizable. “Dig me? Ain’t lyin.”

“I didn’t. I would never—”

“Ain’t interested in what you never. Just had to say it. Just so you got the knowledge.”

The sob burbled up out of her mouth before she could stop it, rising through the heavy, thick oppression of her high. “Please, can’t we talk? Can’t I just explain?”

He stared at her for a minute, like he’d never seen her before. Maybe he hadn’t.

The pain in her chest was fucking unbearable. She thought she’d need to cut out her heart to make it stop hurting.

He turned to leave, and she thought of something. Something she did need to know. “Terrible. Did you—did you tell Bump?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. Shook his head.

Hot, fat tears rolled down her face, down her neck, washing away the last vestiges of Merritt’s unschooled mouth.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Ain’t done it for you.” He glanced back at her, every bump and line on his craggy profile sharp in the streetlight’s glow. “Think I want Bump knowin how I fucked up? Tellin him you was worth trust? Him knowin how I—” He shook his head. “Ain’t done it for you.”

“I wasn’t lying.” She just wanted to keep him talking. Like if she could talk to him enough, she could convince him to trust her again, to be her friend again. To want her again. She wasn’t scared anymore. Being with him wouldn’t be scary. Being without him, being alone again … That made her booze-diluted blood run cold. “On the bridge. I wasn’t lying.”

“Fuck, Chess. I ain’t as smart as you, but I know when I’m bein used, aye?”

“Terrible, you’re not stu—”

“Naw. We get your help, if we find us this ghost house. Figure you can work that one, seein as how it’s helpin yon boyfriend too. Othersides that … ain’t want to see you. You and me, it’s done, dig? Nothin there.”

He was gone before she could think of a reply.

She woke up with the sheets tangled around her like a snake, sweaty and shivering on her rumpled bed, feeling like she’d been fighting instead of sleeping. Her head ached. Her muscles ached. She felt dirty and tired and old, so old, like she’d been alive a hundred years instead of twenty-four. Like everything good that would ever happen to her had already happened, and all she had to look forward to now was death.

Without getting up she chopped out a line on the scarred tabletop next to the bed and sucked it up, wishing she could numb her brain as effectively as her nostrils and sinuses. As it was she would settle for the false calm of her pills, four little white friends to soothe her.

She stared at the water stains swooping across her dingy ceiling until her stomach settled and fog descended on her brain. Then she got up. Showered, washing the smell of Merritt’s skin off her body. Dressed. Pretended it was a normal day, just like any other. Pretended she hadn’t been busted, hadn’t fucked over people she cared about, hadn’t undone everything that might have been good for her along with her buttons the night before with Lex.

She had work to do. A haunting to lie about, a case to close.

Elder Griffin had given it to her personally. And she was about to let him down the way she’d let down everyone else who trusted her. Okay, the one other person who’d trusted her.

She stared at herself in the mirror, grateful for the false sparkle speed lent her eyes. She still had a job to do. Even if it was a lie, she still had that. Time to get it over with. Fill out the forms and turn them in so she could go back home and hide in bed for the rest of the day. Or the rest of the week.

Or the rest of her life.

Her car screamed at her as she floored it to Church, redlining the battered engine, rattling the windows. It had started snowing again, dusting the roads with white, making them slippery and treacherous. She didn’t slow down. Maybe she’d wreck, just lose control and blast into a wall, and it would be over.

No such luck. Instead she made it to Church in record time, fishtailing into the lot and dumping the car at an angle across two spaces.

Despite the cold, sweat trickled down her back, thin acrid speed sweat, by the time she got inside. The wind made her face feel like a peeled tomato, as if it would bleed if she touched it.

Chess stopped in the wide hall, her heart pounding, as the reality of her situation overcame her. She was about to lie to the Church. Not the way she lied every day, pretending she was just like everyone else. A real lie. A lie that would cost them money. She wanted to scream, to rage around the airy space and throw benches and punch holes in the walls.

She was sick of this. Sick of being nothing more than a piece of someone else’s puzzle, a stick of furniture to move wherever it suited someone else’s needs. She was here, and she was stronger than this, harder than this. They could make her hate herself, make her doubt herself, but they couldn’t take away her deepest instinct. Not just the need to survive, but the need to survive long enough and strong enough to tell them to go fuck themselves. She’d play Fletcher’s game, but she would never let this happen again.

So she opened the door of Elder Griffin’s office and marched inside to report the haunting with her head high.

Only to find him slumped at his desk, his hair sticking up and circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with Church ceremony.

“Cesaria,” he said. “How fare thee?”

What was going on with him? He looked worse every time she saw him, as though something was eating him from the inside.

“Very well, sir,” she managed finally.

“I assume you’re here about Oliver Fletcher,” he said. “I saw you requested his records. I … I cannot apologize enough. We thought since his involvement was peripheral …”

He sighed, shook his head. “I didn’t agree with keeping it from you. I told them you would figure it out, that you were better than they thought. How they could have so little trust in you, when we have seen the fact and truth of your skill before, is a matter of extreme disappointment to me. But you … you have not disappointed me. Sit down, then.”

Oliver Fletcher? Why on earth was he talking about Oliver Fletcher?

She plunked herself down in the cushy ivory chair opposite him, grateful for the chance to sit. Her legs didn’t want to support her. They wanted to jiggle and shake, to work off the nervous energy that welled in her the minute she stopped moving, but they did not feel up to keeping her body off the floor at that moment.

“I did request his records, yes,” she said. Her brain whirred and clicked in her head while she tried to look as if she knew what he was talking about.

The Elder nodded. “‘Twas not my decision.”

“Whose decision was it?”

“I knew you would ask to see them,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. Damn. She’d been hoping for more of a clue.

A pen flashed between his fingers, catching the soft bluish glow from the desk lamp and flashing it back at her with every nervous twirl he gave it. “I told them … And then you showed me that sigil. Did not trust me enough to tell me where you’d seen it, but I deserved that, did I not? For keeping it from you.”

She opened her mouth, snapped it shut again. He couldn’t mean the sigil she’d found on the dead hookers, could he? What the hell was going on?

“Which of the Pyles had that carved into their skin, Cesaria? Or was it Oliver himself? He was so proud of that one. Such an advanced design for a third-year student. We were all impressed. Jealous, if the truth be told, those of us in the upper classes. He had the kind of style we all wanted, effortless, so powerful for one his age. One day we might have made Elders, if we worked hard, devoted ourselves. But he had Grand Elder written all over him. We all knew it. All he had to do was reach out his hand and grasp it.”

What in the world could Oliver Fletcher, film producer, have to do with some murdered prostitutes in Downside? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned his Church education to her? It wasn’t in the file she’d been given. He’d invented that sigil?

She was so busy trying to fit together pieces that didn’t seem to be part of the same puzzle, she missed what he said next.
Fuck! Pay more attention, moron.

“… but Fletcher seemed to be the brains behind them, really. Landrum may have had the money, but Fletcher? His talent dwarfed us all. So when he designed the sigil, modified it, we were all amazed. So simple, so elegant! Not just to hold the soul, to protect it in the body and prolong the life, but to enable it to be controlled while being held. A way to prevent hauntings should a psychopomp be delayed. A way to ensure no accidents occurred. A regular Church sigil made extraordinary by the addition of a new sigil, one made from rarely used runes, designed in such a way that they had a double meaning. None of us had ever thought of such a thing, but it sprang from Fletcher’s mind fully formed.”

A way to hold the soul in the body. To keep the body alive and the soul there until the psychopomp came for it.

She knew this. Had known it, especially after Hat Trick showed her the althea. But she saw it in her head now, the herbs burning in whatever was handy. The sigil branded onto delicate pale skin. The cloth over the mouth and nose, the peaceful death, the soul transferred to the owl—the greatest psychopomp—and taken wherever it needed to go.

And then released, fully formed. Released and controlled, released and bound with electrically charged wire, to service whoever paid the fee.

Oliver Fletcher was behind that?

But why the faked haunting, then? Someone with that much power and skill would surely be able to raise a few real ghosts. Could even control them, keep the Pyles from being seriously injured.

What the fuck was he up to?

Elder Griffin seemed to take her furrowed brow, her silence, for anger and disapproval.

“It was the accident,” he said. “That is why they refused to reveal it. When Kemp … But I should explain. Cesaria, I hardly know how to begin. Suffice it to say that Fletcher and his friends—the three of them were inseparable—Horatio Kemp and Thaddeus Landrum were some of the most skilled students we’ve ever seen. And they ruled over us, walking as if always under a bright light.

“Until the accident. Until the day they ascended the tower on a dare and Kemp fell off. His body was broken, destroyed. His soul would have left … but Fletcher got there first. He carved the rune into Kemp’s skin. It saved his life, Cesaria. Saved his life but made it not worth living. I cannot imagine how it would feel, being open to spiritual control, spiritual possession….”

He trailed off, his blue eyes staring at the wall above her head, while her skin crawled and her brain whirred like a blender.

Having your soul easily susceptible to magical control … She couldn’t even imagine it. Worse, she imagined, than her addictions, than the feeling of throwing herself constantly on the rocky shore of her body’s needs. At least her addictions brought her comfort and peace. Gave her a reason to get up in the morning, gave her something she could wrap around her like a blanket and hold close when she needed it. The Church may have given her purpose, but her pills made that purpose bearable, kept her head from breaking open under the weight of her life.

But as much as her needs controlled her, she had some free will. She had some choice. A puppet with fewer strings.

“It made him controllable,” she whispered.

Elder Griffin nodded. “We were never certain if ‘twas because of his gift or simply because of the sigil, but he became … addled. Spirits could enter his body, make him do things—not just powerful spirits, but any of them. He was that vulnerable. He took to wandering the streets at night, doing we knew not what, but a few times he returned with blood on his clothing, around his mouth, and could not recall from where it had come.

“Fletcher was beside himself with grief. In seeking to save his friend he had condemned him. He studied the sigil, devoted himself to it, bringing himself near unto death to find a way to undo what he’d done. But there was no way. And that was how we discovered that it was not just his modification that made the bearer vulnerable. The sigil, the basic one we all learned, did that in itself. Not to the same extent, oh, no. Nowhere near as much. But it expanded the possibility of possession, of spectral control. We removed it from our books, wiped it from our minds, lasered it from our bodies. Kemp was put in an institution. Fletcher and Landrum left the school. And we did not speak of it, not ever again.”