Unholy Magic (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

Times are hard for young girls these days. It’s not like when we were young! But if you keep the lines of communication open, you’ll be amazed at how willing your child is to open up. The occasional reminder that the Church expects them to obey never hurts either….

—
Raising Girls in Truth
, by Lana Hunnicutt

“How is that possible?”

He shrugged. His color was returning; he looked almost normal. Whereas she felt like someone had dipped her in wax and left her to cool.

“Horatio … I assume Thad told you about what happened? About the sigil, and the tower?”

She nodded.

“He … developed an obsession with ghosts. Well, with a lot of things. It’s not important now. But we discovered, eventually … he was killing people. Women. He was … doing things to their bodies. Cannibalism. Necro—need I elaborate?”

“Please don’t.”

“It wasn’t him, Miss Putnam. You have to understand that. It wasn’t him, wasn’t my friend Horatio. It was whatever took him over at any given moment. He was like a beacon, with his power and that fucking sigil … I didn’t know that would happen. Maybe I should have. In my darkest moments I believe I should have. I was so arrogant. So sure my power was strong enough to protect me, to protect all of us.”

An idea tingled in the back of her mind, but she ignored it. At least for now. Best to see how things went. “So what happened with Kemp? He got caught and institutionalized?”

Fletcher nodded. “Landrum and I set up a corporation together to pay his bills. Well, his additional bills—the Church paid for his actual keep. You didn’t know that, I see.”

She blinked. No point trying to hide it, he’d already seen her surprise. “No, I didn’t.”

“They did. The deaths were kept secret—they hadn’t really made the news anyway—and the Church committed him. Landrum and I gave money to his family, we paid for his clothes and whatever else he needed. There were times when it seemed they’d be able to let him out, that they’d managed to fix the problem. His body—Last time I saw him you could barely recognize him for all the protective markings.”

Protective markings … The man’s face swam into her vision again, as if he were right in front of her. That was what covered his skin. She hadn’t seen them well enough. “Why didn’t they work?”

“Because,” he said, and his sigh dragged the air down between them, “because he didn’t want them to. By that point he’d formed a partnership with a spirit. Probably he’s still working with her—at least I assume.”

“Her?” She knew. She already knew. But she wanted to hear him say it, just to be sure.

“Yes. He worked with a female spirit. He told me about her once, when I visited him. I should have reported it, I know, but we never thought they’d actually let him out.”

Chess reached for his half-empty glass and tossed the contents down her throat, grimacing at the bitter heat of it. Probably not the best idea when only speed and Cepts were holding her hangover at bay, but she had a feeling she would need it. Need the whole fucking bottle, for that matter.

“What was her name?”

“The spirit’s? I don’t recall exactly. Virginia? Va-something, anyway, he—”

“Vanita.”

He nodded. “Yes, that was it. How did you know?”

“She was a madam.”

“In—Oh, you’re kidding. Really? And now they’ve—Well, fuck me. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It makes sense. And you know what else makes sense? That you help me find them.”

“Me? Why in the world would I do that?”

“Because this is your fault, that’s why. Look, I get that you feel bad for what happened to your friend. Really. And I get that it was an accident. But this is your fault. You shouldn’t have done what you did, you shouldn’t have carved that sigil—”

“I should have just let him
die
?” He stood up and leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing. “I should have just let my friend die, is that what you’re saying? Rather than do everything I could to save him? What the hell kind of person are you, to even suggest such a thing?”

“Do you think he’s better off now?”

“I think he’s
alive
now!”

“Yeah, alive and possessed, alive and staining his soul darker every minute. It’s not even life, Fletcher, it’s—suspended animation, it’s slavery. You did that.”

He came out from behind the desk, his body somehow larger in his casual button-down and unstructured jacket. California Cool becomes Murderous Rage Chic, if the look in his eyes was any indication. She took a step back, reached for the knife Merritt hadn’t managed to find when he groped her in the security office. If he tried to touch her, she’d—

He did touch her, but she didn’t finish reaching for her weapon, because he wasn’t attacking her. Wasn’t threatening her.

He was crying.

He leaned over her, rested his head on her shoulder, and clung to her, his tears soaking into her shirt.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with this? Hug him and say something comforting? He was blackmailing her and now she was supposed to take care of him like some kind of fucking nanny or something? She didn’t know how to do that. What did people do to comfort each other?

She settled for patting him vaguely on the back and wishing she was anywhere but there. Although he did smell good.

Thankfully it didn’t last long. “I’m sorry,” he said into her neck. “I—This is quite a shock for me, you understand. I never meant to … If Horatio is killing people, killing women, it
is
my fault, isn’t it? Because of the sigil, because of what I did to him?”

If he’d been her friend, she might have given him the lie. But he wasn’t her friend. “Yeah.”

“I never wanted this.” He sighed. His grip on her loosened, but he didn’t move away. “I may be an asshole—I would say don’t bother disagreeing with me, but you won’t, will you?—but I’m not a murderer. I don’t want to be responsible for people dying.”

“Then help me stop it.” She wished he would get off her. His forehead was digging into her collarbone.

“I don’t see how I can help.”

His biceps felt bigger than they looked, hard and lean under that expensive jacket. She grabbed them and pushed, forcing him off her. “You know where he is, don’t you? Where to find him? If we find him, we can find all of them. The girls, I mean. We can set them free.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Elder Griffin said you were talented.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing. Not anymore.”

“Is that why you didn’t summon real ghosts here? You could have, it would have been much simpler, you know.”

“I—Yes. That’s why.”

“Get over it. I need your help. You know him, you’re his friend. Maybe we can do this without anybody getting hurt.”

“Get away from him.”

Arden Pyle stood in the doorway of the office, her pale hair drawn back into a sloppy ponytail and her black shirt baggier than ever.

All these things Chess barely noticed. She was too busy focusing on the gun.

Fletcher turned from Chess, taking his hands from her waist and raising them slowly like flags at dawn. “Arden … Arden, honey, put the gun down.”

“You promised. You said you’d take care of us.”

“And I will, but I can’t if you shoot me, can I?”

“I’m not going to shoot
you
,” the girl said.

It was the sort of statement that deserved a big reaction, but all Chess could summon was a kind of weary anger. At this point, what the fuck did she care? Let the girl shoot her.

Although she couldn’t help being pissed the end was going to finally come because of Oliver Fletcher. Because he apparently—Oh, yuck.

“Shit, Fletcher,” she murmured. “She’s fourteen years old, you asshole.”

“Yes, and—Oh, no. She’s—I’m not that twisted, Miss Putnam. Please.”

“Stop talking!” The gun shivered in Arden’s fist. Chess dragged her gaze away from it, down to see the way the girl’s baggy shirt draped over her stomach. Her slightly protruding stomach …

The girl was pregnant. Fourteen and pregnant. Chess could certainly relate. No wonder Arden had a gun in her hand, no wonder …

No wonder she’d attacked her mother that night in the bedroom. Fletcher hadn’t been in town that night, but someone had been in the Pyle bedroom. Someone who felt dead inside. Someone desperate.

“Arden.” She took a careful step forward. “You don’t have to do this.”

The girl’s blue eyes barely shifted. “What the fuck do you know?”

“I know shooting me isn’t a good idea. Do you want to have that baby in prison? And get executed a month later?”

“Who cares.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She was not good at this. In fact, there were very few things in the world she was less good at than this.

What the hell was the matter with these people? How did they not see that of all the people on the planet, she was probably the least qualified to help them with their emotional problems? It was like asking a dog to do algebra.

Oliver stepped in and saved her from trying to explain to a child why she should be concerned with something Chess didn’t care much about herself. “I care. That’s why we’re doing this, right? To get you away, so you can come stay with me? So I can help you? Don’t mess this up now, not when we’re so close.”

Chess saw her cue. “Nobody’s getting in trouble. I’m going to take care of everything at the Church. I can even recommend to your parents and to the Church you be allowed to live with Mr. Fletcher, okay? So don’t—”

“Arden?”

Chess practically threw her hands in the air. Kym Pyle was joining the party, her light blue wool coat still thrown over her shoulders in the doorway of the office.

Chess wasn’t sure what happened first. All she knew was Arden started to turn, her mouth opening. The gun moved sideways with her, its staring black eye finally focusing away from Chess.

Oliver leapt forward at the same time Kym did. Arden saw him, tried to yank the gun back.

It went off. Wood chips flew in slow motion from the doorframe.

Kym screamed. So did Arden. Another gunshot roared through the room, and another. Oliver stumbled. Arden fell.

Chess stood alone by the desk with her ears ringing. She couldn’t hear them screaming but saw their faces, mouths open, faces pale save the blood that seemed to have speckled everything in the room.

It took her a minute to see where it had come from. Arden’s foot—the damned kid had shot herself in her own foot. Fletcher’s shoulder. Kym Pyle’s hand—the bullet had gone through it to hit the wood, or ricocheted off and hit it, she didn’t know. All she knew was that it was time to leave.

With Oliver Fletcher. Gunshot wound or no gunshot wound, she needed him to find Kemp for her, and if she waited until after he’d left the hospital, it would be too late. Her job gave her some influence there, but not enough to make sure Fletcher wasn’t discharged and out of the District before she knew it. And what was she supposed to do then, go to his house all the way across the continent?

No, he would take off at the first opportunity and wash his hands of the whole thing, no matter how many tears he shed into her sweater or how responsible he might feel. They had to act now.

Merritt and three other guards came running, weapons drawn. Chess barely heard their voices over Kym and Arden’s shrieks and the ringing in her ears from the shots. The room felt too small, crowded with bodies and stinking of gunpowder and blood and anguish, while Chess stood and stared. It was almost interesting to see so much pain and for once not be part of it herself.

Something else she could do while attention was turned away, though. With her left hand she yanked the clasp of her bag, held it open, while she gathered Oliver’s photos with her right and shoved them in. The camera’s memory chip … He’d said something about the chip. Was it there, too?

No. She shuffled through the rest of the stuff on the desk as long as she dared but didn’t see it. Oliver must keep it somewhere else. She’d have to see if she could get it from him later; she could always break into the Pyle house again with her Hand and look through his stuff.

Right now, though … It was dark outside, and they had to do what they could now. Had Oliver not been shot it could have waited, but no way was she chancing him getting away from her before they ended this thing.

She pushed her way past one of the guards and grabbed Fletcher’s unwounded arm. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come with me. We need to find Kemp.”

“You must be joking. I’m not going anywhere but the hospital.”

“Yes, you are. More women could die, deaths you’d be responsible for.”

“No way. I’m going—”

Chess leaned down, stared him right in the eye so he could see her determination. So he could see she really just didn’t give a fuck at this point. “You’re coming with me, or I’m calling the press. You want to turn me in? You go ahead. But you’re just as interested in keeping this whole affair under wraps as I am, and you know it. So let’s go.”

She knew she had him when he blinked.

Chapter Twenty-seven

It’s always good to keep some basic first-aid treatments in the home. You never know when you might need them, and helping others is the best and surest way to feel good about ourselves.

—
Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies
, by Mrs. Increase

Having Oliver Fletcher in her apartment wasn’t her idea of fun, but they had to go somewhere, and she had a decent enough first-aid kit in her little bathroom.

No point trying to call Terrible. He wouldn’t answer when he saw it was her. So she texted instead, a terse message to say she knew where the ghost house was and he should call her or come to her place.

Five minutes later she got a one-word response: “Fine.”

Okay, so was he coming over or what? Shit, and she probably looked like she’d just crawled out of bed.

Fletcher was sitting on her toilet, cleaning the ragged flesh wound on his shoulder. Chess ignored him while she splashed cold water on her face and slapped on a little makeup. She felt like an idiot and it wouldn’t matter one bit, but she did it anyway.

“Don’t bother helping me, I can handle it,” Fletcher snapped.

She glanced at him on her way out the door. “Good.”

Should she call Lex? Probably. Well, definitely. But the thought of having him come over when Terrible was there … She’d call him when they knew where they were going.

A couple of Nips and a couple of Cepts, to calm her down and wake her up, and she was ready. Sort of.

“Miss Putnam? Seriously, will you help me here?”

Fletcher was still sitting on the toilet, bloody tissues scattered over the tile floor like flower petals. He was going to clean those up.

“I can’t reach very well. And I’m in a lot of pain.”

She sighed. “Turn around.”

Dried blood surrounded the deep graze; the bullet had caught him at an odd angle. Chess grabbed a can of antibiotic spray and used it, ignoring his hiss of pain.

“I know you have painkillers, Miss Putnam. I think the least you can do is offer me some. I
have
just been shot, you know, and I’m still here to help you.”

“Don’t you have access to your own?” She dabbed his skin dry and grabbed a gauze pad.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Haven’t you been drugging Roger Pyle?”

It was just a guess, but she didn’t expect the answer she got.

“That wasn’t me. That was Kym.”

“Kym?”

He nodded. “You don’t think I’m the only one who didn’t want the Pyles living here, do you? She was hoping he’d—Hell, I don’t really know what she thought. That he’d feel jumpy and sick and it would make him vulnerable, I suppose. As I said, she’s not really the most intelligent woman in the world.”

“Yes, you did say, didn’t you.”

“Excuse me?”

That was it. That was what bothered her before. “In fact, you went out of your way to point the finger at yourself, Fletcher. Right from the beginning. Why is that?”

“I don’t know what you—”

“It was Arden, wasn’t it. She started the fake haunting. She’s the one who scratched Kym in the bedroom that night, she set up, what, some kind of projector or something—like the one you screened your movie on, right? The night I was there?”

She didn’t wait for him to reply. “And when she told you what she’d done, when you found out Roger and Kym were going to get the Church involved, you rushed to help her, because you knew that whatever she’d done might fool her parents, but it wouldn’t fool the Church. You knew what a real ghost feels like. You knew the kind of investigating that’s done for a haunting, and you knew there was no way she’d get away with it once the Church stepped in. Awfully altruistic of you, helping your friend’s daughter like that. Just out of the kindness of your heart?”

He sighed. “Not really. She’s mine, you see.”

“She’s—What?”

“Arden is my daughter, not Roger’s. He’s sterile. Kym found out, she came to me … I helped her. Arden doesn’t know—Well, neither does Roger, for that matter. But when she needed help, she came to me, too. She’d already started this stupid haunting thing, rigged up one of Roger’s old projectors. He’s got a few of them lying around. I had no choice, really, but to try and help her.”

“Yes, you did. They would have been lenient with her, and you know it. You were with the Church long enough to know that. She would have done a year in a Church program for underage offenders, at the most. And you wouldn’t have been—oh. Right.”

She caught his eye, knew he followed her thoughts. He nodded. “The DNA match. When they arrested her they would have put the family’s DNA on file, and they would have found out she isn’t Roger’s. It would have killed him to know that. Would have destroyed Arden.”

“And you, when the press got wind of it.”

“That too, yes.”

Shit. Arden all along. Some investigator she was, shit.

“Who’s the father of her baby?”

“I don’t know. Some guy back in L.A. That’s why she wanted to leave so bad. Not just to get away from her parents, but to get back to
him
. What can I say, she’s fourteen years old. Can I have one of those pills now, please?”

She rolled her eyes, but let him follow her back into the living room and gave him a couple of Cepts and some water.

And sat, while the Nips sped her heart rate and set her toes tapping on the threadbare carpet.

She didn’t have to wait long, at least. She’d only managed to play one Queers song in her head before the heavy knock made her leap to her feet.

The distance between the couch and the door had never seemed so far. What should she say? Should she even bother to say anything? Would he talk to her?

The sinking feeling in her stomach told her the answer even before she opened the door and found him there, hands in pockets, his harsh face set in stony, dead lines and his gaze focused so far past her she felt like a speck of dirt on a window screen.

“Hi.” She stepped back, inviting him in. “We, um, that’s Oliver Fletcher, he knows where we’re going, so if you want to come in …”

Terrible shrugged and entered, subtly twisting his torso so as not to touch her when he walked past.

He hadn’t looked at her at all.

Well, what the fuck did she expect, that he’d give her a big hug and tell her she was forgiven? They never even hugged normally. This probably wasn’t the time he’d pick to start.

Fletcher stood up, wavering a little on his feet. Great. Just what she needed—a tipsy amateur witch. How much scotch had the man had back at the house? Had he eaten anything at all? His wound couldn’t have caused that much blood loss.

“I’m Oliver,” he said. “Have you ever done any security work? I’m always looking for—”

“Just gimme the knowledge so we get this done.”

Fletcher looked blankly at Chess for a minute, then said, “You want to know where Kemp is?”

“Kemp the one?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at Terrible, waited for him to look at her. He didn’t. “He’s working with a murdered hooker named Vanita. Her spirit, I mean. Remember how Tyson had a host? I don’t think it’s the same exact arrangement, but … yeah, he’s working with her.”

Terrible’s chin lifted and lowered, his only indication of surprise.

“Oliver knows Kemp, he studied at the Church too so he can help …”

“You coming then?” Terrible eyed Oliver up and down. “You come handle all, dig, you got the juice.”

She bit her lip. “No, we’re both going, he’s going to help me.”
Look at me, talk to me, something.

He didn’t. Just stood for a minute, absorbing what she’d told him, then shrugged. “Where?”

Chess looked at Fletcher, still standing with his feet planted a little too widely apart like he was having trouble balancing. What a lightweight. “Fletcher? Where?”

“What? Oh. You’re assuming he’s set up in one of our buildings? There’s four in this part of town. One on … Second, I think, by the cemetery—What?”

Chess stiffened but just managed not to cringe. “Where are the others?”

“Let’s see. Eightieth, that’s a warehouse. I think the houses are on Mercer and Wharf. I understand the one on Mercer burned down or something recently, though.”

“Wharf? By the docks?”

Fletcher nodded. “I assume so. Landrum handles the purchasing. I only remember the addresses because I looked them up the other day, I was filling out some tithing tax forms.”

Terrible looked at her for the first time, but his eyes still focused above her head. Like she wasn’t really there, like she was invisible. “You got what all you need?”

“I’ll get it. Can you, um, will you come help me? Some stuff is up on the shelf in my closet.”

It wasn’t fair, she knew. But if he wouldn’t talk to her any other way—

“Fletcher here ain’t little, aye? Figure he willin to give you the help.”

Fletcher looked uncertainly from Chess to Terrible, and back again. “Yeah, sure. I’ll help you.”

Her bedroom was a total mess; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cleaned it. Just what she wanted, Fletcher seeing her dirty clothes strewn all over the floor, her unmade bed.

He ignored all of it, though, to give him credit, and handed her various boxes and bags from the top shelf as obediently as a child. “So what’s the deal with the big guy, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” She’d need ricantha and althea, since they were already being used. Some hellebore would be good, too, and melidia and ajenjible. In fact … She grabbed the box where she stored her herbs and ingredients and upended it over her bag. Her psychopomp, the skull kept in its silk wrapping. Candles. Extra black chalk for sigils of protection. She had the dirt from Vanita’s grave. She had her knife, but it might be a good idea to take a spare just in case, and she’d need to grab her portable first-aid kit, too.

What she did not need was to discuss the ins and outs of her relationship with Terrible—such as it was—with her blackmailer.

“Looked like you guys were friends, looks like now you’re not. Does it have something to do with the Asian guy?”

“How do—” Oh, right. The pictures. “None of your business.”

“Just trying to make conversation.” Shit, was he high? Yes, of course he was. High and chatty. This just kept getting better.

“Well, don’t.” She finished packing and zipped the bag. “Let’s go.”

It was so cold outside she expected ice to form on her eyelashes, but she left her coat in Terrible’s car just the same. Not that it mattered. Nothing could warm her up after the frigid silence of that ride, with Assuck—a band he knew she disliked—playing so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. Not that she really wanted to hear her thoughts at the moment.

Terrible watched her while she shouldered her bag, grabbed her stang from the floor where she’d set it. Fletcher stayed in the car, apparently waiting until the last minute before he left the warm interior.

She didn’t blame him. This close to the docks the constant breeze stank of sewage and gasoline and the sour brine tinge of stagnant seawater. Nothing like the actual ocean, which she’d seen once … with Terrible.

She closed the door on that memory before it had a chance to open and looked around at the quiet street. Odd, that. She’d never been in this area before—Downsiders tended to stay in their own neighborhoods—but it certainly looked like the type of place that would be busy. Dive bars studded the rows of buildings, neon beer signs flickering in their darkened windows, but no crowds stood outside them. No kids wandered up and down the alleys looking for scraps of food, a place to fight or a place to fuck. Even the music drifting along the street seemed subdued.

And more than that … they were in the right place. She felt it, her tattoos tingling, ghost energy creeping along her skin like tiny secret fingers. Powerful. Powerful enough to send a shiver through her body that had nothing to do with the crystal-cold air.

“Is anyone else coming?”

Terrible shrugged. “Ain’t you gave your boyfriend a ring up?”

Shit. She’d left herself wide open for that one, hadn’t she? “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Trick, then.”

Ouch.
“I haven’t called him.”

“Aye? Figured you’d give him the knowledge soon as you got any. Ain’t that how it work?”

“No, it’s—it doesn’t ‘work’ any way. Terrible, if you’d just let me explain, if you’d just listen to me—”

“Maybe I
need time
.”

“Yeah?” Damn him. She needed to focus, needed to concentrate, and he wasn’t helping. “Well, take it somewhere else. We have work to do, don’t we?”

That was good. She thought it even sounded like she actually meant it, like her throat didn’t ache and her eyes didn’t sting and her belly didn’t feel shriveled and dead.

And of course, he was right. She had been giving Lex information, of a sort. Nothing important. Nothing she didn’t think it would help everyone for him to have. But how they’d met … how she’d agreed to sabotage Chester Airport … In the end she hadn’t had a choice. But she doubted Terrible would see it that way.

She’d tell him, though. She’d tell him the whole thing if he would let her, and hope it made a difference.

“Aye. An let’s get it done. Ain’t exactly wantin to chatter with you, dig?”

“That makes two of us.”

He stared at her for a minute, his face inscrutable, then knocked on the window of the car, telling Fletcher to come out.

That he did, weaving slightly. Chess frowned.

“Are you going to be okay, Fletcher? Maybe you should stay in the car.”

“Nonsense. Horatio is my friend. I should be there.”

“Yeah, but—” Movement to her right caught her eye. A man, skinny and dirty as a stray dog, made his way out of an alley toward them. Normal enough, really; the odds of standing on a Downside street and not being approached by a panhandler or mugger or worse were pretty slim, and they shrank the longer one remained a stationary target.

She wasn’t worried about muggers or worse, not with Terrible there. The way things were between them, he wouldn’t save her because he wanted to, but they were here to do a job and she knew he took that seriously. Hell, her very presence here was proof of that, wasn’t it, since he looked at her as though he’d be happy to see her dead?