The psychopomp appeared on the verge of giving up; its tail had ducked between its legs. It turned to look at her. Fuck.
No time like the present. Especially not if she had any chance of surviving. She jumped forward, fisted the shirt, and touched it with the flame.
As she did, the killer swung that arm at her again, hitting her in the back of the head. She ignored it, fought through it.
Thank fuck, the shirt burst into flame, and she scrambled away as the killer roared again and started to beat at its chest with the arm.
Chess gathered her breath. “Take this spirit back to its place of silence!”
The psychopomp obeyed. The killer still waved the arm around, but its eyes—what was left of them—focused on the fire eating its clothing. It didn’t see the psychopomp lunge.
One last howl from the killer, which turned into a squeal as the psychopomp grabbed its soul. The hole in the world behind it rippled again, like water running over glass; the psychopomp leapt through it, dragging the soul in its teeth.
The hole snapped shut, the skull hit the ground and shattered as the body fell on top of it, and Chess sank to her knees in the now-empty circle, wondering what the fuck was going on this time.
The corpse’s ruined head didn’t look any better under the dull glow of the refrigerated warehouse’s fluorescent lights. Its blood had dried a sticky brownish-red; the skin was pale, marked with the tread of Terrible’s boot and various scrapes from hitting the pavement. Even the six Cepts in her system didn’t help it look any better.
Chess held her hand over it for a second. She hadn’t touched the body at all since drawing the passport on it back in the circle. She didn’t particularly want to touch it now, but she had a feeling she was going to have to.
This time she wouldn’t forget her gloves.
Energy slammed into her palm, anyway, thick dark energy that set off a horrible ringing sound in her head, as if her ears had been boxed. Whatever the spell on the body was, it wasn’t pleasant.
But, then, she hadn’t expected it would be.
“What you think, Ladybird?” Bump drawled from behind a fur scarf. “What kinda fuckin witchy shit be this time?”
She hated to admit it in front of him. “I don’t know.”
Silence.
“I can feel the spell, whatever spell it is, and I can feel that it’s male—the spell caster is male, I mean—but I have no idea what the spell is. It feels like ghosts, too.”
“Be him soul inside him fuckin body do the magic, yay? Like him gone an died, then give a fuckin try to coming back.”
“Ghosts can’t cast spells,” she said, only half paying attention. “Do you know who he is? Who the body is, I mean.”
Bump dug something out of one of the pockets in his floor-length white fur coat. “Got us him fuckin wallet here, dig. Be Gordon Samms, it tell. Ain’t knowing him, I ain’t.”
“Had some owes,” Terrible said. He stood at her side with his arm around her shoulders, helping to keep her warm. “Lost he some lashers on the card games, were payin slow.”
Bump’s thin reddish eyebrows rose. “Yay? How much?”
“Six hundred, now. Won heself a game on the other night, paid he a hundred then. At the tables all the time, dig, ain’t could stay away.”
Gambling. That was one thing she’d never seen the point of, one addiction she’d never picked up. Good thing, too. She’d really be broke if she had.
Terrible glanced at her, then back at Bump. “Burnjack say him were yellin when him come onto the street, just jumped him on Yellow Pete, started beatin him.”
“Yellow Pete was the dead guy? The dead guy killed by this one, I mean.”
He nodded. “Were a street dealer, dig, down Seventieth.”
“So why was he near my apartment?”
“Ain’t knowing on that one. Could be him live there, maybe gotta dame there, family, ain’t know.”
Right. It didn’t matter anyway, did it? “Does Burnjack know what the ghost was saying? Did he catch any of it?”
“Asked he on that one, too. Said him only caught a word or two, thinkin be a name. Agneta. Agneta Katina. Be a dame, he said.”
Hmm. “Girlfriend? Wife? Daughter?”
“Naw. Ain’t married. Ain’t sure he likes the dames, dig. Never seen him with any.”
“Oughta give Berta the fuckin ask, yay.” Bump poked at the body with the tip of his cane, for no good reason Chess could fathom. “Do her got one onna street that fuckin name? Maybe her got some fuckin knowledge on it.”
Terrible nodded.
Okay, this wasn’t getting them anywhere. She hated to do it, didn’t want to do it, but she didn’t think she had a choice, either. “I need to get his clothes off.”
Bump snorted. “Ain’t had the thinking you into the fuckin dead ones, Ladybird.”
Chess gave that remark the response it deserved—which was none—and reached for the tattered, singed remnants of the shirt on the body.
Terrible was faster. He always was. “Ain’t you do it, Chess. Lemme, aye?”
His eyes caught hers. Warmth rose in her chest, spread through her whole body. Looking into his eyes—into him—was a high she could never get tired of. Bump disappeared, the mutilated corpse on the table before them disappeared, the icy air around them disappeared. It was just the two of them, standing so close the warmth of his body caressed hers.
She reached up to touch his face, meaning to pull it down to hers so she could kiss him, when Bump cleared his throat. Loudly. The moment ended.
“Thinkin we fuckin get on the move this fuckin night? Maybe you quit on the cuddle-ups, get some attention on the fuckin job, yay?”
Asshole.
Terrible reached out for the buttons on the shirt. And fell.
Chess was already moving when his eyes started to roll back in his head, thrusting her arm in front of him over the body. She couldn’t catch him, couldn’t stop him from falling, but she could at least keep him from face-planting into a corpse.
Or she could quit fucking playing around and figure out a way to make it stop happening. Another good idea might be to get her damn head together; she’d felt the magic, she should have known it would affect him. She’d been so busy getting mushy she hadn’t been focusing, and that was a Bad Thing.
He was out for only a second. That was usually the case when he touched something— Wait. What the fuck?
The body on the table—Gordon Samms’s—was empty. The soul inside it was gone. So there shouldn’t be much for the magic to work on, it shouldn’t still feel as strong as it did. Yes, she should feel it, of course, but not that much. And it shouldn’t be strong enough to do that to Terrible.
Nobody spoke as Terrible stood up. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t need him to. The color rising up his neck, the stiffness of his movements, spoke clearly enough, even if she didn’t already have a pretty good idea what he would say.
“Okay,” she said finally, tossing the word into the silence as if it didn’t matter. “So I’m not just feeling residual magic, I guess. Whatever the spell is, it’s still—there’s still a bag on him or something, there’ll be something there. Bump, you have his wallet, did anyone search his other pockets?”
Bump shook his head. “Figured on letting you have the fuckin job, dig, you the one