Somewhere in the hazy fog she felt him pull away from her and heard the sound of tearing foil, then he was back, kissing her, tugging her pan ties all the way off. She waited for that awkward moment she was used to, when it seemed most men forgot basic anatomical fact and attempted to insert themselves into her thigh, but it didn’t come. Instead he slid into her, straight and smooth, while she dug her fingers into his back and wrapped her legs around his.
He was bigger than she’d expected, but not painfully so. Just enough, filling her without making her uncomfortable, and he rolled his pelvis against hers, slowly exploring every inch of her until she thought she might explode. She raised her hips to meet his steady thrusts, begging him to go faster, harder.
“Aye, tulip,” he whispered. “Sweet … damn sweet …”
Chess mumbled some sort of assent and forced his lips back to hers. Breathing didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, because he was speeding up, slamming into her with a single-minded force she understood and shared. His left hand shifted; he slipped his thumb down to caress her most sensitive spot, and she rocked toward him, matching his rhythm, driving herself and letting herself be driven to another mind-shattering climax.
This time he followed her, their voices mingling in the still air of the room, until he finally collapsed on top of her.
“Tulip,” he said, kissing her neck, “You is one dangerous girl.”
“Only if you cross me. I am a witch, you know.”
“Thought y’all weren’t allowed to put the hurt on nobody.” He slipped away, reaching down and pulling the cool sheet over their bodies, then taking two cigarettes from the pack by the bed and lighting them. The movement emphasized the sinewy muscles of his chest and back. Not bad at all, she thought, reaching up to take the smoke.
“I’m just making a point.”
“Aye? I gotta point to make with one of your witches too, dig. You tell me how to find him.”
“What? Who?”
“Mr. Friendly Fist, there. Boil or Doyle or what ever the fuck. Got a few things to say to him.”
“Forget it. He’s in enough trouble. I’m going to have to tell the Elders what he did. The ritual, I mean, not the … other thing.”
“Ain’t no such thing as enough trouble for a guy like that.”
“I did hit him first.”
“Fuck that, tulip. No excuse. Tonight you gonna take me over there, show me him, aye?”
“Lex, really, I appreciate it but it’s not necessary.”
“Is for me. C’mon, tulip. I got me a sister, aye?” He looked up as the doorknob rattled, then leaned in to kiss her throat. “Look like your clothes here now. You want em, or you want me tell her come back in an hour?”
Almost two hours later she trudged up the stairs of her building, her clothes and body clean again but the pleasant sense of relaxation fading with every step.
There would probably be a note. Worse, he might actually be waiting for her. And she had a huge black eye and a swollen—but apparently not broken, thankfully—nose. How in the world was she going to pretend she didn’t remember anything that happened at Trickster’s, but that she did remember who hit her? Because saying she didn’t remember being beaten … that was too much.
Would he believe that she’d fallen down? Probably. That’s what she’d say, then, when she saw him. Meanwhile … she had to call Elder Griffin, tell him she needed to see him and the Grand Elder and find out if anyone had been trapped in the elevator. She needed to figure out how this related to the Mortons. Her initial thought was that Ereshdiran had followed her there, but that didn’t make sense. The first time she’d seen him had been there, and he’d appeared there most strongly. So he had to be somehow connected to the place. Maybe she should stop by there first, or ask Elder Griffin to meet her there. Especially now, with the Lamaru involved. Someone should know about it, someone higher up than herself.
As for Chester … she had no idea what to do. Hopefully Old-timer Earl would give her something she could use, assuming the place truly was haunted, which it seemed to be. Later she would retrieve the cameras she’d set up and confirm it.
Then … she didn’t know. She couldn’t just pretend to be incapable of handling the ghosts. Bump would wonder how she managed to keep her job. Neither could she handle the ghosts, considering the deal she’d made with Lex. Sometimes her addictions were more trouble than they were worth.
Her key ring jingled in the silent hall as she slotted the key into the lock and twisted it. The bolt slipped without a sound. Was that right? Possibly it was still lubed from the break-in. All the same she pulled her knife out of her pocket. The amulet was hidden in her bag, but whoever had come looking for it—be it Doyle or one of the people he was working with—didn’t know that.
She threw the door open, holding the knife in front of her with her free hand, but the kitchen was empty. For a minute she waited, standing in the doorway, until finally she had to take a breath. No one was here. She was being paranoid—not too hard, all things considered.
But the thought failed to calm her. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t remember the lock giving so easily the night before, and she was just as strongly on her guard then as she was now. And that smell, wasn’t there an odd kind of smell in the air? A high, musty, sweaty kind of odor?
She’d tidied up a little before she went out. Now she was grateful she’d taken the time, because she could see the searchers had been back. The stack of books she’d placed on the arm of the couch had been turned so their spines faced the wall instead of the seat. Her papers had been shuffled. The little piece of malachite she kept on the bookshelf had fallen back to the floor. She knelt and pulled out the Blackwood box, then popped the lid.
Everything seemed to be there, though it had definitely been rooted through. Ha. It wasn’t great news, because they would know the amulet had to be on her person, but she still couldn’t help but feel some plea sure at having thwarted them again. Although she’d certainly paid for it. Even smiling made her eye and nose ache.
Everywhere she looked turned up tiny evidences of strangers’ hands, pawing through her belongings. Her skin crawled. They might as well have touched her, stroking their hard, dirty hands over her body. Her amusement at having won a small victory faded as reality set back in. Her home was all she had. The only place that was hers, even if it was rented. It was private. It was where she could be alone. And now someone had invaded that privacy, stolen it from her, as everything else had always been taken from her her whole life.
She didn’t want to look anymore. She didn’t want to do any of this anymore. She just wanted to go to bed.
Someone waited for her there.
He lay on top of the covers, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. Chess stared, her breath stuck in her chest, her mouth desert dry, almost unable to take in the gaping wound at his throat, the tiny runes carved into the exposed skin of his scrawny chest. The symbol of the Lamaru on his forehead, lurid and bold like a rash.
Brain was dead.
“It’s tempting to view faking a haunting as an easy way to earn money. After all, the Church has promised to protect us, and to make amends when it fails. But be warned! You will be caught. Debunkers are among the most highly trained, intelligent, and skilled employees in the Church, and they are not easily fooled.”
—Families and Truth,