Trent gave Chess one last knowing look—how she itched to slap that right off his face—and nodded. “We tore up the carpet but the blood’s soaked through. We can’t clean that up, either. But that’s all there is for her to see.”
“Guess that’s the best we can do.” Jillian pulled a camera from her bag and handed it to Chess. “I’m going to go ask Gloria a couple more questions, see if she knows anything about her parents being involved in magic they shouldn’t be. You get some pictures of all this stuff, okay? The bags intact, and then take the ingredients out of each, photograph them, and put them back. Got it?”
Chess nodded.
“Good. Back in a few.”
Trent gave Chess one last smirk—oh, he’d definitely seen what had been happening to her, knew what kind of spell she’d been holding, the bastard—and swept out of the doorway, following Jillian, leaving her finally alone.
The second Trent’s back disappeared from view Chess got up, stumbling over her own feet in her rush to get to the bathroom. Whether it was okay to use the toilet or anything in there she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t need it.
What she needed was a door she could close and lock behind her. What she needed was a corner to press herself into, a place to make herself small, where she could see into every space and under every counter, and know no one would come in. Shit, she hadn’t had to deal with anything like that since she’d entered the Church, she hadn’t expected it to be so bad.…
She huddled next to the cold porcelain bathtub with her arms wrapped around her knees, curling herself into the tightest ball she could. It was okay, she was okay. It was just magic. It was unpleasant but no one had actually touched her. It hadn’t hurt. She was safe; she was with the Squad and the Squad was Church and they were safe. She was okay. She was, she was okay, and she kept repeating it in her head, reminding herself with every shuddering breath she managed to take until finally the pain in her chest started to ease.
And a new one to take over. Fuck, what was wrong with her? She was okay, it was just some dumb magic, why the hell couldn’t she just deal with it? How was she going to get anywhere if she couldn’t handle a little sex magic?
Her bag sat right next to her, pressed up against her side. Her left hand rested on it, right near the zipper. She could … It wasn’t a good thing to do, no. It wasn’t the right thing to do. She was working, she was supposed to be working, and she’d already messed up by not testing the energy from those bags and comparing them. The Church had given her an opportunity and she was already wasting it.
But … her head hurt and her chest hurt and her mind raced, all those memories she didn’t want swirling around in a kaleidoscope of shit. If she could just make them go away—she needed to make them go away, and she needed to do it fast because Jillian could be back any second and no way was Chess going to let her see that anything was wrong. Not only could it mess things up as far as her work—her future—was concerned, but it was none of Jillian’s damn business, anyway. It was nobody’s business.
But she was working …
Right. Okay, then. She was fine, and she’d be fine on her own, she didn’t need—
Her hands were moving. Without her telling them to, they’d unzipped her bag. While she thought about how fine she was, they were digging around in it; while she thought how she didn’t need it, they’d found the flask she’d bought at a secondhand store on her eighteenth birthday and started unscrewing the top.
Before she could stop them, they raised the flask to her lips and tilted it up. And before she could stop it vodka poured down her throat.
Not a lot. No, definitely not a lot; she did manage to do that, to stop it after she’d swallowed half a mouthful or so. Not even a real shot. It hardly mattered because it wasn’t even a full shot, it was barely more than a sip. Right?
She told herself that was right. She knew it wasn’t.
Fuck! What was the—what was wrong with her, damn it? Even as warmth spread in her stomach and drifted out through her bloodstream, even as her eyes half closed in relief and her head sank back to rest against the wall behind her, she felt it, the shame, the sickness festering deep inside her, the fear of what it meant. Her first day outside of class, her first real work for the Church, and she couldn’t even make it four hours before she was at the flask.
Never again. Okay, she’d done it, but she’d never do it again. Yeah, it was her first day, but it was a grisly ghost murder, and really, most people would be freaked out by that, right? Most people were freaked out just hearing about such things; sure, it had been seventeen years, but people still remembered. They’d always remember. And even if they tried to forget, the Festival still happened every year, the dead still walked the surface for six nights, reminding humanity that they were still there and the Church was still in charge.
So it was perfectly natural that, being faced with two corpses chopped to bits by ghosts, she’d need something to calm her down a bit. Doctors even prescribed a little nip to people who’d had a shock, right?
Right. It was totally understandable. It was totally natural. She’d just never do it again, was all.
Never again. She promised.
With her head somewhat cleared, her body calmed, she glanced around the bathroom. She couldn’t stay in there—she had to get pictures of those spells for Jillian—but she could sit just a few more seconds. And grab some cinnamon candies from her bag, too, because she’d need them. Vodka might not have a specific smell but it certainly smelled of alcohol, and she couldn’t have that.
As she stood up and popped the candy into her mouth her gaze fell on something beside the sink. Another spell, it looked like; well, sure, lots of people kept magic somewhere they’d be likely to see it often and come in contact with it, since most spells relied on physical closeness to work. People kept sleep-safes under their bed or behind the headboard, that sort of thing, which—Actually, yeah. Why had the luck charms been in the closet? Why had the sex spell been in the closet?
Chess braced herself and reached out to touch the bag, feeling brave because her mind was still calm enough from the—well, the thing she shouldn’t have done.
A protection charm. Right, because people shaved in bathrooms, maybe? Either way, she felt the difference. If that was Mr. Waring’s energy, which she thought it was, it was definitely not the same as the energy of the person—the man—who’d made the sex spell. No aggression colored this magic, no anger. And hardly any power, either; the man who’d made this might as well have just thrown some cotton balls into the bag, for all the strength it had.
Well, Jillian had said someone else must have been hired to make the sex spell, so no big surprise there, right?
That still didn’t explain why they’d kept the sex spell so far away, though, or why it had felt so angry.
Whatever. Maybe the spell had been too strong for them. Maybe they’d felt the anger somehow, too, and just hadn’t gotten around to tossing the thing. Maybe they liked to fuck in the closet. Probably didn’t matter as far as the case went; probably none of her business.
She rinsed her hands and popped another candy into her mouth, giving herself one last glance in the mirror. Did she look okay? Sober, calm, collected? Yeah, basically, at least she thought she did, so good.
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