City of Ghosts dg-3

by Stacia Kane

  Relief flooded her limbs; relief, a little apprehension, and the first warm swirls of her pills. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it. We’re not starting any trouble there.”

  “Aye. Now get them jeans—”

  They both stopped. Her bag was beeping.

  Stupidly, she felt in her pockets. Was that her phone? Her phone didn’t beep. What the—Oh, shit. Her bag had been on the floor in the psychopomp room, had the Lamaru planted something in it?

  No, dumbass. Who planted things in the bags of people they were about to kill? The Lamaru had certainly thought she was about to die when they locked her in the psychopomp room and left her there in the burning building like Romans throwing Christians into the lion pit. So why the hell would they have put some kind of electronic device into her bag first?

  The thought made her grin. Oh, yeah. The Oozers were definitely kicking in. Her stomach started to lift, her blood to warm and thicken, running slow and smooth through her veins.

  “Tulip?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You gonna see what the beeping is?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Okay.”

  Her leg hardly hurt at all now. She could feel the ragged edges of her torn jeans touching the wound, but it wasn’t painful. Nice.

  Of course, it also made her feel a bit like she was walking on legs that didn’t actually exist. Like floating. Floating was nice, too. She felt graceful, moving smoothly through the dense, gentle air around her to her bag, bringing it back to the couch before opening it simply because that seemed like the right thing to do.

  But what was that thing? It looked vaguely familiar. More than vaguely. If it hadn’t been for the Oozers she would have twigged faster, but as it was she held the chunky black box with its greenish LED-grid screen in her hand and forgot why she was looking at it in the first place.

  “What you got there?”

  “Huh? Oh. Um … oh! It’s Lauren’s tracker.”

  That didn’t seem to clear it up for him; he sat beside her with his arms folded and his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to continue.

  “It’s a tracking device, you know? For, um, tracking people. You plant the sensor on something, like their car or whatever, and it gives you their … their coordinates. Where they … where they are.” Was she making sense?

  “Oh, aye.” He took it from her, turned it over in his hands. The thick silver ring he wore flashed in the weak light; it was hypnotic.

  Or maybe it was simply that she was really starting to drift. Glorious lethargy spread over her like … well, like something warm and runny, she had no idea what and she didn’t care. All she knew was the room kept fluttering around her as she struggled to keep her eyes open and she didn’t seem to have bones in her body anymore; it was utterly delightful.

  Lex had to ask the question three times before she heard him. “Who you got the track on?”

  “Oh. One of—um.” Yeah, her leg didn’t hurt. But she’d felt that, the twinge in her wrists. Apparently magically induced pain was impervious to narcotics. Oh goody. There went the loosely formed semi-plan to get herself good and doped up and speak more freely.

  “One of them Lamaru, aye?” He turned the thing in his hands, pressed the buttons. “How’d you get it on him?”

  She smiled. Her hair was very soft, at least the parts that weren’t tangled and dirty. It slid coolly between her fingers. “I tackled him. Hurt my knee.”

  “So why it giving them beeps? Ah, dig it. Giving you the warning it’s been on too long.”

  “Uh-huh.” Air swirled around her legs; her jeans fell in a dirty heap on the floor and she stepped out of them. It took a while. Lex helped her back onto the couch.

  “C’mon. You look ready to fall down, let’s us clean up that leg you got.”

  As she watched him clean her wound and bandage it with impersonal fingers, only one thought really penetrated the delicious calm in which she floated, one thought she quickly pushed away because nothing ruined a good high faster than mortal terror.

  If the Lamaru had taken control of all the psychopomps, the Church couldn’t use them anymore. And if the Church couldn’t use psychopomps anymore … how would they defeat the ghosts?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Remember you are known not simply by what you say, but by what you do. The Church requires Truth; your fellow man requires no less.

  —The Church and You, a pamphlet by Elder Barrett

  And what would happen in a world where the Church couldn’t defeat ghosts?

  She surfaced from sleep to the kind of dull pewter light that told her it was either raining or about to. So much for the glorious early spring of the day before.

  She didn’t pay attention, only noticed it, just as she didn’t pay attention to the vague memory of Lex throwing her tattered blanket over her before he left. Her thigh ached; her jaw ached where Vanhelm had hit her, but not as bad as she expected.

  Not as bad as the pain in her mind and chest. If the Church couldn’t control ghosts, couldn’t Banish them, they’d lose everything. It would be Haunted Week all over again, only worse. Worse because there would truly be no hope, or worse because the Lamaru would step in, and the thought of a world where the Lamaru were in charge made her reach for her pills even faster than usual.

  She stumbled to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Her throat burned and ached from smoke inhalation; her entire body felt gummy and dirty, although part of that was because she hadn’t gotten those pills down yet.

  And it was Thursday. She’d have to visit the City in two days. Ugh. Didn’t even want to think about that. Or about the look on Lex’s face when he’d realized she was ending their relationship, such as it was. Or about how she was going to have to visit the tunnels with him.

  Or especially about whether she—of all people—would actually have the willpower to keep from falling back into his bed at some point, especially in the face of Terrible’s … He’d changed his number. And he’d done it recently; the last time she’d tried to call had been, what, ten days before? Nine?

  Now the Lamaru posed a real threat. Psychopomp magic was the basis of the Church’s power, the reason they existed. They’d done something to Lauren’s ravens; who knew if any psychopomps were safe? Her paranoia the day before about the skull in her bag hadn’t been so far off the mark after all, and that was pretty fucking scary, wasn’t it?

  No Church. No protection for humanity. No job for her—probably no life for her, because she had little doubt the Lamaru’s first act after taking over would be to kill every Church employee they could get their hands on. A world of darkness more complete than the one she lived in now.

  And how had Maguinness gotten involved in all of this? He was fighting the Lamaru, great. But why hadn’t he come forward to the Church? Why had he gone to visit Madame Lupita, for that matter?

  Shit. None of it appealed to her as a topic for contemplation, so she shoved a few pills down her throat and whiled away the time before they hit by playing with the tracker.

  She switched it on, fumbled through a few of the menus. Maps … intensity settings … sensors. Two lights blinked, one for each of the sensors she’d used the day before.

  But neither of them was at the slaughterhouse.

  Vanhelm had escaped, that she knew. But neither of the sensors was moving, either. Had he discovered the sensor on his shirt and discarded it? Or was he resting somewhere, hiding out?

  It probably didn’t matter. The odds that Vanhelm was still wearing the clothing he’d worn the night before, and that the sensor was still attached to that clothing, were pretty slim. That his car might be there was a little more reasonable, though the car wouldn’t tell her much at all. But it was something to check out, anyway; at the very least she might find some more information about where the Lamaru were setting up now that the slaughterhouse was gone, and hopefully retrieve the sensor itself to give back to Lauren.

  Her Cepts had just started kicking in when someone knocked on h
er door. Shit. She was only half-dressed, and she was filthy. Not really up for greeting people.

  Not just people, either. Terrible.

  “Just a minute,” she called through the door, with that particular lilting voice of people trying to pretend they’re wide awake and ready to start their day, while in reality they’ve just fallen off the couch in their underwear.

  Shit. Her face was dirty, her teeth not brushed. Okay, first order of business: throw some water on her face, some mouthwash into her mouth, and some jeans on her legs. For some reason she didn’t care to analyze, she didn’t want him to see her injured leg, or rather, her bandaged leg. Lex had made a rather neat job of that. She’d have to thank him when he took her into the tunnels.

  She hurried as much as she could, and threw the door open with fresh breath and clean clothes, binding her hair with a ponytail holder so it at least looked tidy if not clean.

  “Hey.”

  He nodded and stepped inside with his hands in his pockets, his gaze focused anywhere but on her. She was getting used to it now.

  “Why did you change your number?” was on the tip of her tongue. She bit down on it with effort and instead made herself say, “What’s up?”

  He shrugged. “Figured on seein what else we dig up. You had the meet-up with that dame last night, aye? Get any knowledge?”

  She didn’t need the warning of her wrists. “I can’t talk about it.”

  He walked past her into her tiny living room, sat down, and took out a cigarette. “Got notes? Ain’t you write shit down?”

  “Yeah, sometimes, but I didn’t get much chance to last night.”

  She thought he might ask why, ask what had happened to make her look like she’d gotten into a fistfight with a fireplace. He didn’t. Instead he picked up the tracker, turned it over in his hands much the same way Lex had. Well, fine. He didn’t even want to know what had happened? Didn’t even ask? Fuck him, then.

  “I’m going to take a shower.”

  He grunted.

  For a second she considered taking her shower, then wandering naked into the living room. He’d definitely notice that. But no. While such a move was certainly effective, she knew—she’d tried it more than once with different men when she was tired of waiting for them to get things started—it wasn’t the right thing to do here. She didn’t want casual sex. Didn’t want him to get dressed and go home after, the way she usually wanted them to do.

  How did people handle this? There had to be some way, right?

  Yes, there was. And that way usually started with not fucking over the person you wanted to be with. Too late for that one.

  He glanced at her; she realized she’d been standing there staring at the back of his head. “You showering up or what? Ain’t got all day.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” she managed, and fled before she made things even worse.

  “Turn right.”

  They were in Terrible’s Chevelle, a couple of blocks away from the wreckage of the slaughterhouse, zeroing in on the tracker’s signal. It had to have been dumped somewhere; it hadn’t moved all morning. She couldn’t imagine Vanhelm would be just sitting somewhere in last night’s clothes, waiting for her to show up and bust him.

  Of course, it could be his car. The sensors were numbered, and the tracker identified the signals by number, but she hadn’t paid attention to which number went where.

  “Okay … here, can you see this?”

  He braked in the middle of the lane and took the device from her. Chess glanced behind them; another car idled in the road, waiting for him to move on. No horn sounded, no impatient motion could be seen through the windshield. Terrible stopped wherever Terrible damn well pleased, and nobody challenged him unless they had a death wish.

  “Right up there, aye?”

  She nodded. He stabbed the gas and pulled into a spot half a block up, in front of a Stop Shop like the one by her place. This one was in even worse shape than hers; the plastic signs out front were broken and long silvery Xs of tape covered one of the windows.

  Terrible cut the engine, interrupting Them in midsong, and studied the tracker. “Ain’t make sense.”

  “What?”

  “Look to me like he inside there. But who sit in a store all day? He work there?”

  “No, he—ow! He …” What a pain in the ass this was. Okay, time for Plan B. She did have a note about Erik’s employment at the slaughterhouse; she grabbed her notebook and held it, hoping he’d take the hint.

  He did. He snatched it from her hand—taking care not to touch her, she noticed—and read it over while she stared out the window and ignored the twinges in her wrists.

  “Work at the deathhouse, aye. Only burned up last night.”

  She nodded, saw him glance at her with a little more interest, making the connection. But he still didn’t ask. Didn’t care enough to ask.

  “Hey,” she said finally. “Did you manage to set something up with Maguinness?”

  His head shake looked more like an involuntary flinch.

  “He’s—Remember the night I got poisoned?”

  Oh. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing to mention. The look he gave her was like an ice pick to her head.

  Well, what did he expect? She couldn’t change the fact that they’d spent time with each other, had talked and hung out. Couldn’t change the way the ghosts of their past friendship hovered everywhere she looked, shades of them together on every corner, filling the city with memories. She swallowed and continued. “Maguinness visited the woman we busted that night. I think he might have smuggled a ghost in to her. And he’s up to something, he’s fighting with—I need to talk to him.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, cool air swirled into the car as he got out. She reached for her own handle, wondering if perhaps she should follow, but it didn’t seem to be necessary; he disappeared into the Stop Shop and came out a minute later with a Coke in his hand.

  “Maguinness gave an address near here,” she continued, trying to pretend nothing had happened when he got back in and lit a cigarette. “I thought maybe after we find the sensor, we can stop in and talk to him.”

  “Nobody in that store lessin they got some room hidin or aught like that. Only the dame workin the counter.”

  Okay, apparently he was not interested in checking out Maguinness with her. Once he would have been; he’d liked helping her with her work, she thought. Had been interested, asked questions, had been one of the only people—no, not one of, he’d been the only person—whose opinions she’d wanted to hear, had trusted.

  “If they have a hidden room, though, how would we—Oh! Maybe they have something under there, like in the—” Her mouth snapped shut. Could she tell him about what Lex had said?

  She had to, didn’t she? If she could, anyway; if the Binding marks would let her. She couldn’t very well just claim she’d heard a rumor about the tunnels, he’d know that wasn’t true; he was one of the few people on this side of town who knew the tunnels existed at all, though he had no idea how extensive they were.

  But she wasn’t exactly eager to bring Lex’s name into the conversation. She’d rather yank out her tongue with pliers.

  “Aye? Gonna finish up?”

  She sucked back some water, stalling. Okay. She had to say something. Especially because the more she thought about it, the more she thought she was right. Vanhelm had left something in the tunnels; the Lamaru were using them, and maybe—she couldn’t decide if it would be luck or the exact opposite—Vanhelm had left his clothes with the scanner attached in their little headquarters room, maybe they’d created some sort of hellish burrow below the earth.

  Why would they be underground, though? She couldn’t imagine black magic witches wanted to be underground any more than regular witches. Sure, it was close to the slaughterhouse, but so were lots of other places. Above-ground places.

  She drained half her water bottle trying to decide what to say; her stomach felt uncomfortably full. “The tunnels under the city, you
know? I heard … I heard that somebody found some stuff in there. Like the fetish and everything, remember?”

  He folded his arms over his chest; both eyebrows went up this time. “Aye? Where you hearing that?”

  “I just—” No. He already knew. She could see it in his eyes, in the tight set of his lips. He already thought—already knew—she was a liar; no point letting him catch her in another one. “Lex told me.”

  “But you ain’t see him no more, ain’t that what you tell me?” Icy sarcasm so thick she imagined she could chew it dripped off the words. Shit.

  “I’m not. I mean, not like that. I’m not. But he came by when they found the things in the tunnels, he thought maybe it was me doing it, so—”

  “Thought you ain’t do that shit. Curses and shit. Thought you ain’t that kinda witch. But guessing Lex got better knowledge of you than me, aye? Knows better what you might do?”

  Color started creeping up his neck; Chess scrunched herself back into her seat without thinking. Once his anger hadn’t scared her. Things had changed. She knew that look in his eye well enough, and all bets were off as far as how he might choose to express it.

  That wasn’t entirely fair. She still didn’t believe, deep down, that he really would hit her. But he might decide to hit something else, and she didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to know he was imagining it was her. Wishing it was.

  “Maybe you just ain’t wanted to do it against he. Or maybe Bump ain’t offer you enough to do it, aye? Maybe he gave you all your needs free, you do anything he say? Maybe—Fuck.”

  He got out of the car, slammed the heavy door so hard the entire vehicle shook. Through the driver’s-side window she saw him lean against the door, watched his arm raise and lower while he smoked one furious cigarette after another.

  She shouldn’t go into the tunnels without Lex. She knew that. He’d told her he would take her, and she should wait.

  But how much waiting was she supposed to do? Sit here and wait for Terrible to calm down, or to decide he was still pissed and get back in the car to really yell at her?