by Stacia Kane
Get a fucking hold of yourself!
She caught her breath, held it until her heart rate started to slow, then blew it out. This was bullshit.
Lex nudged her. She could barely make out his features, but his free hand on her wrist was familiar. He lifted it, motioning with both their arms toward the far wall. Right. The light switches were there, and the office. The other exit. Why the hell were they standing here? He’d probably escaped already, damn it.
They picked their way across the gritty floor, trying to move fast but hindered by the need for silence. Every step they took sounded like gunshots in her ears.
Or was that their steps? She swung her head to the right, back toward the stacks of bodies. There was movement there. Not the bodies themselves. Rats. Little more than dark spots against the white, and only a few of them, but her empty stomach clenched. Were they on the floor, crawling toward her, ready to climb up her legs …?
She gritted her teeth and looked away. Took another step. Her hand holding the knife swung in careful swoops through the air; she could feel Lex’s shoulder and upper body move as he did the same.
Then a shattering groan rent the air, a demon’s death rattle. The building shook.
The ovens roared into life. Their doors were open.
From utter darkness and silence to blazing red light in a matter of seconds. She’d felt exposed before. Now she literally stood blind in the center of a corpse warehouse, blinking furiously to try and get her pupils to shrink. White flames flashed before her eyes when she closed them, red-orange ones seared her retinas when she opened them.
The temperature in the room soared. Those doors were not supposed to open while the flames were on, it was too dangerous. Had he broken the mechanism? How the fuck—?
Sweat poured down her face. Her coat was too heavy, her bangs stuck to her forehead. She adjusted her grip on her knife with fingers already slick.
She grabbed Lex’s hand. His too was wet, as was his face. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, not now. They stood in the center of the inferno and waited for the inevitable attack.
Over the hiss of the flames she heard pipes rattle and clang. The rats, attracted to the heat, climbed onto the conveyor belts. By the time they realized they were being drawn to the fire it was too late. She watched one burst into flame like a tiny firework.
Lex urged her forward. There was still a chance they could catch him, or at least get out. They’d made it more than halfway through the room. The killer might have ducked into the office, might be up on the metal catwalk circling the room….
He was right in front of them. They were right in front—the bastard had a ghost with him.
She leapt to the side. Lex was already moving, driving his blade forward. Chess spun around swinging her knife, her left hand finding the zipper of her bag. Fast. Not fast enough. Cold hands closed around her throat.
Oh, fuck … Sex roared over her skin, immolating her like a corpse in a crematory oven, reducing her to nothing in a second. She barely existed; her body jerked in a painful, hideous, hateful orgasm she didn’t want, couldn’t control. And she was back in bed, fourteen years old, hating what they were doing to her, hating herself because she couldn’t help liking it, too, and shame washed through her like a red ocean full of dirty needles and broken glass tearing her skin from her bones. Her throat went raw but she kept screaming. Her tattoos seared like fresh brands. She was sinking, falling…. They were winning. They were beating her. Realization hit like a sledgehammer, and in it was iron determination. She wasn’t fourteen anymore. She wasn’t that child anymore, and she was not going to lie there and die. Not after everything she’d been through.
Nothing to kick at, nothing to fight. The hands squeezed, cutting off her breath, and worse than that cutting off her circulation. She found the slide with fingers made of rubber and yanked it back. The whole bag moved, but the zipper opened … just enough. She needed air. Even the searing hot air of the room, she had to have it, her vision was growing black…. She brought her right hand up, slashing at the ghost’s hand. It was solid on her, and she could damage a ghost’s solid parts. Its face … oh fuck oh shit, its eyes, those eyeballs suspended in the blank ether of its face—of her face—oh fuck no that wasn’t possible—
Thankfully her arm continued to move, dragging the knife down. The hand on her fluttered enough to let her take one desperate gasp of air and dig all the way into her bag. The dirt, the graveyard dirt, there was some in there, there had to be, holy shit …
Lex shouted. The killer shouted. Through the ghost she saw them struggling in the center of the floor, moving ever closer to the hungry mouth of the nearest oven. The flames inside leapt, anticipating their next meal.
She swung with her knife again, missed. Caught her own cheek with the tip and opened a long stinging cut. Good. The pain grounded her, made her mad.
She scrabbled in the bottom of the bag but could not find the dirt, could not find anything. Her head swam. She pulled out her hand and swiped it through the ghost, hoping even a few specks of dirt were on it, enough to sap at least some of the spirit’s strength.
It worked. Only for a second or two, but it worked, and a second or two was all she needed. She brought both hands up between the ghost’s arms, shoving out as she ducked down, catching it just at the wrists where it started to solidify.
She hit the ground spinning, rolled herself back to a stand. There had to be something here, something she could use. No point hunting for more dirt, there wasn’t time. The baggie must have spilled while she ran. Electricity? Her electric meter was still in her bag, she could reverse the leads, use the ghost’s own power against her, but then what? It wouldn’t be enough to short her out, and simply solidifying her meant nothing. She could make the ghost feel pain that way but couldn’t really hurt her, couldn’t trap her. Flames? Pure heat energy. Maybe it would work. At least it would destroy those horrible naked eyeballs, and even that would be a huge relief.
Chess cut around Lex and the killer, locked in grim battle, closer still to the oven. Not that one. The thought flashed in her mind to catch the killer with her knife, help Lex out, but the ghost made a swipe for her. She managed to duck, banging her knee on the cement floor, and the opportunity was gone.
This was going to hurt.
She sprinted back toward the front door, drawing the ghost away from Lex and the killer. If she failed, he didn’t need to be distracted, needed at least a second or two to try and get away.
The conveyor belt wasn’t what she’d expected. It was made of a dull flexible metal, clanking softly as it rounded the bumpers and wheels. The edges of the belt were thin iron rods. Excellent. She took a deep breath and leapt onto it.
Heat blasted her, worse even than before, worse than in the spirit prison earlier. She felt her lips crack almost immediately. Her vision blurred again. Shit, the last thing she needed was not to be able to see, this had to be timed perfectly.
The ghost lunged for Chess, manipulating her body unconsciously to land on her stomach on the belt—ghosts weren’t good at jumping, for whatever reason. Good.
Her thighs burned. She wanted to scream. It felt like she was about to burst into flames … and she was …
The ghost came toward her now, her murky lips parting into what looked like a grin as she anticipated Chess’s death, probably imagining sucking Chess’s energy away like a milkshake through a straw. And Chess wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t get the chance.
The steel frame of the oven seared her skin when she reached back and braced her palms on it. She stepped forward on the belt, forward again, to keep from stumbling. If she fell, all was lost. She could not get away—
The ghost leapt. Chess inhaled, held it. Her thighs tensed. She bent her arms and launched herself up and back while the ghost slid into the oven.
The smell of burning fabric hit her nose. Her jeans were smoking, about to catch fire. She leapt up, not waiting to see if the fire had actually overloaded the ghost. If
it had, she was safe. If it hadn’t, she was dead. No point in spending her last seconds worrying about it.
Instead she ran the length of the oven, her boots thundering on the steel, and leapt off the other end.
Lex’s knife clanged against the cement. The killer screamed. She reached them just in time to stop Lex from bringing the knife down again in a killing blow.
Lex fought for a second, but stopped when he realized it was her. She didn’t waste any time.
“What are you doing?” her voice croaked from her throat, unrecognizable. She thought of getting her water bottle but decided against it. It would look weak. “What are you doing to them?”
The killer laughed. In the red glow of the fires he looked like a demon of the old legends. Sigils and markings covered his skin so completely he appeared to be made of them, featureless, his eyes black, his teeth stained with blood. “You,” he said in a steam-hiss voice. “I know you. You’re very nosy, aren’t you?”
Her heart rate tripled. He knew her? The eyes … the eyes in the car. He must have seen her with Terrible the day before, seen her in the alley … followed them to the diner? Followed her home? She felt Lex glance at her, willed her features to stay calm. Her palms stung; she was clenching her fist so hard her nails broke the tender, tight skin.
“Give her the answer,” Lex said. “Give her the answer fore I—”
The killer almost smiled, those reddish teeth gruesome in his decorated face. “You think you can threaten me?”
Fuck this, she was thirsty, and she couldn’t think straight. The first drink made tears spring to her eyes. She felt it seep through her body; it was better than sex. Too bad she couldn’t enjoy it.
He knew her, knew her car, knew where she worked….
The killer laughed again. Lex glanced up at her; Chess saw the danger then, saw what the killer planned, what he wanted, but it was too late.
The killer screamed something. Chess didn’t recognize the words but felt their power blast over her skin. The killer’s eyes rolled back in his head, pure white; his ghost, returned in his body, sprang from it fully formed. He’d summoned her, let her take form again through him. He shoved Lex off him as easily as if Lex were a child, leapt to his feet, and ran. Straight for the stairs, dragging the blind ghost behind him.
Chess lunged, tried to stop them, but missed. Killer and ghost tore up the stairs and along the walkway and had flung themselves out the window at the top before she could get up; when she and Lex ran outside to look, they were gone.
Their energy remained, thick and heavy but fading fast. Chess didn’t care. Every bone and muscle in her body screamed for rest; she felt like she’d snorted a full ashtray. And the sex magic wouldn’t be fading so fast if they were nearby. Maybe they had a car?
“Shit.” Lex wiped his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. “All that and we get nothing for ourselves, aye?”
“Not exactly,” Chess said. Those eyes … that face. Fuck, who was going to believe this? Would—well, Terrible would, she knew that. But … shit. Yeah, he’d believe her. All she had to do now was come up with an explanation for why she was hanging around in Slobag’s territory at midnight with Lex. Or make up a damned good lie.
“What’s your meaning there?”
“I know who the ghost is.”
“Aye? How’d you get that?”
The wind blew Chess’s hair from her forehead, dried her sweat, and left her feeling encased in ice from the chin up. Almost exactly how she’d felt when she’d seen the Remington file. “I’ve seen her picture before. Her name is Vanita. She was a murder victim.”
There didn’t seem to be enough drugs in the world to help her forget the sight of those bloody eyes floating before her, but she would certainly try. She grabbed four Cepts, thought better of it, and put one back. Lex would have Oozers. She’d ask him for one before she went home.
Home … It was all she wanted, and it would take forever to get there. If she was even safe there. The killer knew her, she couldn’t stop thinking it like a scratched record skipping over and over again in her head. He knows where I live, he knows where I live …
They trudged back along the streets, not saying much, letting the icy air cool them down. Her water bottle was as empty of liquid as her body felt.
Finally Lex spoke. “So why come a murdered ghost kill other people? Kill hookers too?”
“Yeah. Ghosts … especially murder victims, they just hate. They get stuck in whatever pattern they were in when they died, they don’t evolve or anything.”
“So this dame doing the killings works with some dude. Kills for they eyes? She see without em?”
She sighed. Her sweaty bangs were turning into little icicles. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Blind people become blind ghosts, and her murderer took her eyes, so I guess she needs them.”
He nodded. They walked on. “You staying at mine?”
“I should go home.”
“Ain’t sure that’s a good idea, with him knowin you and all. Maybe my place better, aye? Keep you safe.”
“I don’t have any of my stuff, and I have a lot to do tomorrow. I’ll be fine,” she said, but he was right, and she knew it. Her heart wouldn’t stop jackrabbiting in her chest, fear and exertion and speed making her movements jerky. She wished her Cepts would kick in.
“How bout I come along?”
“No, thanks.”
“Get your stuff then, an come back to mine. Ain’t joking, Tulip.”
His concern made her skin crawl. One minute he’d want her to stay at his place to keep her safe, the next he’d want to stay at hers, and before she knew it … ugh.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to stay at his place, although she really wanted her own bed. It certainly wasn’t that she didn’t like the thought of having a warm body next to hers, tonight of all nights. She just couldn’t stand the thought of needing it. She didn’t want her life to be any of his business. Once people started thinking she was their business, they’d start wanting a say in what she did. Where she went, who she saw. What pills she took and how often. Addiction was a sensitive little plant; it needed privacy in which to grow. “Yeah, okay.”
“Come get you, I will. You get all your needs, aye, and ring me up.”
“Okay,” she repeated.
She just hoped it would be as safe as he thought. They’d followed her without her noticing. Nothing said they couldn’t do the same to Lex.
Chapter Twelve
The Church has trained you. The Church has put its trust in you. The people have put their trust in you. It surrounds you like an aura wherever you go; and you must never forget it.
—The Example Is You, the guidebook for Church employees
Terrible was waiting for her outside the door of her building. The sight of him eased something in her chest, made her smile. Such a shitty night she’d been having. Her head still hurt and she couldn’t stop seeing that face, those eyes, picturing it coming for her…. She could do with just hanging out. Having a couple of beers and relaxing. Maybe he’d even crash on her couch and she could text Lex and tell him she wasn’t coming after all.
Then she saw the look on his face and knew he wasn’t there to listen to records and it would be a long time before either of them got to crash anywhere.
She stopped, her bag falling from her slumped shoulders. “Another one?”
“’Bout an hour past.”
An hour. Of course. Vanita and her Bindmate must have left the Crematorium and headed straight for a new victim to get Vanita some fresh eyes.
The pounding headache was back. “Where?”
He hesitated.
“Where?”
He jerked his head to the right. “Around yon corner.”
Her head thumped. “Right by my place? Right here?”
People died on her street all the time. Hell, people died on every street in Downside all the time. It wasn’t exactly the safest place in the world. But a ritual slaying right by h
er home … No shit they knew where she lived, who she was.
The eyeballs hid in an inert plastic bag in her purse. She should show them to him, tell him what happened.
But not now. Not here on the street, where anyone could see, not knowing what his reaction might be. After they’d looked at the body maybe he’d come up to her place for a while and she could show him then.
She grabbed a cigarette from her bag, tilted her head so he could light it from the roaring flame of his metal lighter. “Show me.”
He led her around the corner and back to the small private parking lot behind her building. It didn’t belong to her building—but fuck, the tiny room in her apartment where the washer and dryer sat overlooked it. The window ledge in that room was wide and smooth; sometimes she liked to sit on it and smoke a kesh and read. If she’d been home, would she have seen something, been able to do something?
The crowd around the body was larger this time, not just hookers but residents, some with pajama bottoms sticking out from beneath their heavy coats, some still dressed for a night out, all with the same expression on their faces: hostile, fearful, suspicious.
She recognized the girl. At least she thought she did, thought the broad nose and pointed chin were familiar. It was difficult to see anything beyond those gaping, bloody holes where her eyes should have been.
“Be the Cryin Man,” someone said. “Ain’t even think the Church can do nothing ’bout him. He too powerful, yay?”
“It’s not the Cryin Man.” Chess spoke without thinking as she knelt by the body, pushed the fur minijacket and vinyl blouse aside to see the burn mark on the chest. Blistered, just like the others. The poor thing had been alive, bound and gagged, when he’d done this to her.
“Who else it, then?” someone demanded. “Be the Cryin Man’s symbol on her, you ain’t say it’s not.”