by Gemma Files
ChiZine Publications
FIRST EDITION
A Rope of Thorns © 2011 by Gemma Files
Cover artwork © 2011 by Erik Mohr
Cover design © 2011 by Corey Beep
All Rights Reserved.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Files, Gemma 1968-
Rope of Thorns / Gemma Files.
(Hexslinger seris; v.2)
ISBN 978-1-926851-42-6
I. Title. II Series: Files, Gemma, 1968- Hexslinger series ; v.2.
PS8611.I39R66 2011 C813'.6 C2011-900683-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
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Edited and copyedited by Sandra Kasturi
Proofread by Chris Edwards
Converted to mobipocket and epub by Ryan McFadden http://ryanmcfadden.com
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.
To Steve
who is the absolute best support
a writer of “repulsive trash” could ask for.
But also to Callum, my monkey-boy,
simply because he exists.
And to Elva Mai Hoover and Gary Files,
for much the same reason.
Do not hate me
Because I peeled the veil from your eyes and tore your world
To shreds, and brought
The darkness down upon your head.
—Gwendolyn MacEwen
No faith without blood.
—Philip Ridley
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
Prologue
A DISPATCH
Received from the Field & Personally Penned
by Allan Pinkerton, Founder and Establisher
of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency,
is now Available for Inclusion
in any American or International Newspaper >
willing to pay Top Dollar.
A Précis of Material contained therewith, as Follows:
FROM TAMPICO, MEXICO TO YUMA CITY, ARIZONA, BY PRIVATE TRAIN; Legendary successes of the Conquistadors confounded!—Gods of Old Mexico apparently returned—Mexico City in ruins—Earthquake, Fire & Rioting—At fault: Hexslinger “Reverend” Asher E. Rook, lately of Arizona and parts thereto adjacent—His unnatural alliance with a long-dormant Mexican Goddess—Human Sacrifice! Degraded Rites, Bloody & Gruesome Mutilations!—Mexican authorities Outraged; Juarez government view Rook’s hexacious meddling as American Incursion into their sovereign territory, only just freed from Austrian Rule—Fresh War on verge of declaration between that country and our own New-founded Democratic Federation? As always, the Agency stands vigilant, ready to protect both interests and citizens of these United States. . . .
Our Motto: We Never Sleep.
In other news, from the Daily Letter of Hoffstedt’s Hoard, New Mexico:
A MAGICAL EXODUS?
Witches and Wizards, Shamans, Up Stakes—
Hexaciously Inclined No More to be Found
“Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish”
RED WEED OBSERVED IN ARIZONA
Reports Place it Further Southwest and East
“Better to Burn than to Fight”
Homesteaders & settlers on the U.S. side of the Border complain of a sudden yet utterly pernicious crop-scourge they call “Red Plague-Weed,” while rumours from Mexico way have whole farms destroyed in its wake. The Weed grows overnight, very fast, & cannot be easily extirpated through ordinary means (i.e. hoeing, salt or fire). If seen, it must be reported forthwith, and the afflicted lands abandoned until Federal attention can be gained.
Telegram transcript, sent from the desk of Allan Pinkerton to Agent Frank P. Geyer, Chicago, Illinois:
Meet Yuma City soonest STOP Need reliable help of purely natural kind STOP No reply necessary STOP Leave immediately STOP
From a handwritten missive, sent by Express, to meet Geyer on his way:
My dear colleague—
Forgive my previous missive’s more-than-usual brusqueness; things are moving quickly here, and kicking up far too much hexation for us ordinary folk to handle without banding tightly together. In this matter, however, I am caught between the proverbial rock and a place too soft to stand—that Chinese sorceress from ’Frisco known as Songbird (a truly poisonous specimen of her kind, allied with us solely out of self-interest, yet still driven blindly by her cannibal instinct to uncover and consume all other hexes) vs. the good Doctor Asbury, whose skills in the area of sorcery-mapping are as unmistakable as they are invaluable, yet whose personal resolve I doubt.
Knowing my disgust for cheap rhetorical tricks, you will know I do not flatter by terming you one of our best Field Agents. You may therefore take this to be my primary motivation in charging you personally with the pursuit of two more adjuncts to the Rook Case, at large and fugitive even as we speak somewhere in this great State—men whose names and involvement we have so far been able to keep suppressed, especially as regards the intelligence of the Mexican government. This state of affairs must be preserved at all costs, for the security of our Agency and America alike.
They are: Rook’s former Lieutenant, Chess Pargeter—a notorious desperado to begin with, rendered only more dangerous by his recent expression into full hex status—and Ed Morrow, a man I once trusted almost to the same degree I do you, whose infamous betrayal of his oath to this Agency I fear to be a mere foretaste of what’s to come. As you know, in the matter of Rook and Pargeter, our original intent was to capture both through Morrow’s services as undercover infiltrator in their gang, then use the latter to force the former’s acquiescence in becoming part of Dr Asbury’s studies—perhaps even recruit him to our cause, later, if all went as planned. God knows, I’d far rather have hitched my wagon to a tame sorcerer of my own race, especially one schooled in Bible-learning, than the heathen harridan we now employ in the same capacity. But by the time Pargeter fell into our hands (if only briefly), things had changed—Rook had cut some Devil’s deal with the thing he calls his Rainbow Lady, and kicked off a campaign against all non-magicals by submitting his own catamite to a particularly awful form of human sacrifice aimed at opening the very gates of Hell itself ( Hell, at any rate).
Now Frank, I know you to be a good man in any crisis, confident and commanding, and that—having dealt with magic before, to good effect—you may make the mistake of assuming yourself already equipped to deal with the likes of young Mister P.Let me warn you, however, that Dr Asbury believes Pargeter to be now at least as powerful as Reverend Rook, if not far more so—in Asbury’s parlance, he has become “a little god,” an avatar of some other Old Mexican demon known as He Who is Flayed Like Corn, and leaves in his wake a virulent crop of scarlet growt
h, necromantic activity and various other monstrosities.
And since I myself have recently had direct dealings with the bastard, only to come off substantially at a loss, I can tell you that unless you go into battle with Asbury’s latest gimmicks up your sleeve, your chances of escape—let alone success—will be rendered effectively nil. Nor can I promise the support of numbers, even though I know you are as like as not to prefer solitary operation in any event; after Morrow’s betrayal, and the recalcitrance I have endured recently from those whose obedience was once absolute (George Thiel, amongst others), I find I cannot bring myself to take loyalty for granted as I once did, or to risk you being betrayed, as I was, by men weaker than ourselves.
One way or another, Pargeter is untaught, vicious, and his first inclinations are always to violence, making him far too dangerous to approach directly. So do not come at him like any other outlaw, hexslinger or no: track, monitor, but leave alone unless absolutely forced to engage (at which point, prepare for heavy casualties).
Information on both targets is attached, to be distributed as you see fit.
I remain, yr. most obt., etc. etc.
Name: Chess Pargeter.
Age: Perhaps twenty-six years (approx.).
Height: Five feet and seven inches.
Hair: Red.
Eyes: Green.
Identifying Features and Marks: Aquiline nose, longish face with high cheekbones; pale-complected with high colour and tendency to sunburn; favours a beard to cover a long scar tracing his right-hand jaw-line. Left ear pierced to hold a lady’s ear-bob (Hospitaller’s cross done in gold, set with turquoise). Distinctly slight-made. A dapper dresser with a taste for brightly coloured clothes (most often in the range of purple).
Place of Birth: San Francisco, California.
Biographical Details: Pargeter formerly held the rank of Private in the Confederate Army, serving with Lieutenant Saul Mobley’s Irregulars before being sentenced to death for battlefield desertion of duty in the latter days of the War; he is equally notorious as an uncannily skillful pistoleer and a known degenerate, and stands wanted for murder, mass murder, robbery, assault and battery, consortation with known criminals, illegal acts, destruction of property exceeding the value of one thousand dollars.
Nota bene: Since Pargeter and “Reverend” Rook shared both a sodomitical and professional connection throughout Rook’s career as a hexslinger, as Rook’s Lieutenant of long standing, Pargeter may be considered retroactively (yet fully) implicated in most of the same crimes as Rook himself, especially since he has also been identified as the de facto leader of Rook’s gang during those few periods of Rook’s absence. Pargeter is a crack shot and knifester, well used to close-quarters infiltration. A good if inexpert rider, he displays no fear of personal injury or retribution when executing his crimes. Left to his own devices, he is said to avoid cities and frequent a series of outlaw bagnio-groggeries scattered throughout Arizona, but his current notoriety may have forced him to abandon such hidey-holes. Be on the lookout for a suspicious rise in the sale of absinthe liquor to saloons in previously uninclined towns.
Asbury’s Manifold Scale Measurements: Still being reckoned.
Name: Edward Rumsfield Morrow.
Age: Thirty-four years.
Height: Six feet and two-and-three-quarters inches.
Hair: Brown.
Eyes: Changeable (variously described as brownish or greyish, depending on light and colour of clothing).
Identifying Features and Marks: Wide-faced with a firm jaw, pronounced nose, slightly cleft chin; tan-complected; markedly hirsute and low-browed, with a short yet heavy beard; affects mutton-chop sideburns (when shaved, may look startlingly respectable). Short yet substantial scar from ill-mended bayonet wound between second and third ribs, on left-hand side; bullet-pock through right biceps, with visible marking on both sides; Morrow has arthritis in his right ankle, and walks with a limp when exhausted.
Place of Birth: Marianna, Kansas.
Biographical Details: Served with distinction as a Sergeant in the Union Army at Mine Creek and Marais des Cygnes, mopped up after Quantrill’s raids at Baxter Springs and Lawrence; twice wounded; discharged with commendation. Joined the Agency in 1866, and did laudable work on five smaller assignments (guarding shipments, bank duty, labour disputes) before going undercover with “Reverend” Rook’s gang.
Nota bene: Since Morrow’s violations of Agency policy mean he has effectively resigned his position, and the privileges thereof, he too may be considered retroactively guilty in whatever crimes Rook and Pargeter committed during Morrow’s tenure. Morrow is a fair hand with a shotgun, adept at dissembling, and clean in his habits. It is possible that his current demonstrated attachment to Pargeter may be magically generated, though this does not excuse his actions hitherto. Do not simply expect him to switch allegiances out of shame or regret, especially in the heat of combat.
Asbury’s Manifold Scale Measurements: Inapplicable.
From the dream-book of Yu Ming-ch’in, aka “Songbird”:
Fourth week of night visions which call me to Rook’s “New Aztectlan,” tugging me as though fish-hooked. I am unable to sleep longer than a few hours at a time yet unwilling to medicate myself, even were I close enough to San Francisco’s Gold Mountain to obtain good opium; Asbury, oblivious as he is, dares to look at me with sympathy, for which insult I may (one day) kill him.
These dreams contain all the many Elements of Lesser Yin, taken in their most classic conjunctions: rain in winter, a black flag to the north, mortification, distance and suffering, the number six. A bad taste in the mouth, salt and rotten; a smell of fear, like dead pigs unearthed. Your liver squirming inside you, fluid and untrustworthy, like mercury. And a recurrent series of images, variously observed, in endless combination—
Crossed bones at the crossroads. A dog with human hands, dancing in empty places.
A man of salt walking upright, allied with shadows, and seeking for revenge.
English Oona’s red-haired son raging through the wilderness, wearing a coat made from black scorpions. They only sting those who draw close; to him, their venom is like wine.
That traitor Rook, still studying over his empty Bible: a lesson ill-learned, and fruitless. While at his left hand, leaning over one shoulder, I see her, the one all this should truly be blamed on—his lady wife, She Who Goes Adorned With Bells—the moon with a serpent’s mouth, who labours before dawn. . . .
BOOK ONE:
PRECIOUS BLOOD
May 5, 1867
Month One Crocodile, Day Nine Water
Festival: Toxcatl, or Drought
This trecena, or thirteen-day period, Cipactli (“Crocodile”), is ruled by the great earth monster, who floats on the sea of stars. Since this is the first trecena of the sacred year, these days are governed by a primordial urge to create order out of chaos. These are good days to participate in the community, bad days for solitude.
Day Atl (“Water”) is governed by Xiuhtecuhtli, God of Fire: a day for purification through subjecting oneself to the ordeal of conflict. Water brings out the scorpion, who must sting its enemies or else sting itself. It is a good day for battle, a bad day for rest—at worst, the day of holy war.
The Lord of Night associated with this day is Tlaloc, the God of Rain, Lightning and Thunder. He is a fertility god, but also a wrathful deity. He is the ruler of Tlalocan, the fourth heaven. Tlalocan is the place of eternal spring, a paradise of green plants, and the afterlife destination for those who die violently from phenomena associated with water, such as by lightning, drowning and water-borne diseases. Tlaloc once ruled over the third world, which was destroyed by a fiery deluge. He is the ninth and last Lord of the Night.
Chapter One
They were only a scant day or so over the border, riding horses “paid for” in lead, when Morrow woke with a jaw so puffed it hurt him to talk—swole up like mumps, head clammy with fever. Chess was just strolling back into camp after his traditional
morning piss, but the very sight of it brought him up short.
“Hell’s wrong with you?” Chess demanded. “Looks like you’re storin’ nuts.”
Morrow went to shake his head, but thought better of it.
“Hurts,” was all he could manage. “Real bad.”
They both knew what a toothache this sudden could mean, or cost them. Chess looked at Morrow askance, hissed like a cat, then looked away again, cursing: “Shit-fire, Ed! I damn well wanted to stay out of towns, not—”
“I know.”
More to himself: “And the bitch of it is, I could probably cure you, I only knew how the hell to do it. If anybody’d ever bothered to school me in this damn thing I’m carryin’ ’round with me . . . if gods were anywhere even halfway trustworthy, let alone lying, cheating, Goddamn men.”
As always, anything which sent Chess’s thoughts back toward Reverend Rook had immediate repercussions. Morrow saw the smaller man’s hands fist spasmodically, knuckles white, and felt something ripple up through the sand-topped earth beneath them both—almost too quick to track, a shiver echoing from everywhere at once. Like their very presence had just started to irk the world’s hide bad enough it was tensing, bracing for imminent trouble, and unsure itself whether it wasn’t worth the effort to simply flick ’em clear, like a pair of mosquitoes.
Though Chess might seem “normal,” most times, he very much wasn’t. He had the Rev dancing naked behind his eyes whenever he shut ’em, no doubt, enticing him to make for some dark city high on a hill—and that phantom siren’s call had to be damn strong indeed, considering how even a non-magical sort like Morrow could overhear it on occasion, back-washing through the embarrassingly intimate bond he and Chess had shared ever since fleeing Tampico together.
As a result, whenever Chess got riled, it was like being back in proximity with Rook . . . except worse, since Chess was far more volatile, and always had been. Apt as not to spit up whole poisonous toads, or stamp and bring a flood of amorously seeking bones, if he didn’t get his way; shoot spells that dissolved or transformed things on contact, throw away harsh words like bullets, only to watch them ignite in mid-air: concussive and gunpowdery, horridly random.