by Stacia Kane
How could someone who looked like such a tidy little bitch be such a slob? It just … didn’t fit.
Like what Sela said didn’t fit. “You haven’t been here long, huh?”
“No, only—well—” Lauren lowered her voice, gave Chess a grin that might have been conspiratorial if she hadn’t still looked off. “I’ve actually been here almost a month, but my dad doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him when I got in so I wouldn’t have to go stay with him, you know? I wanted a little freedom first.”
So much for that theory. Not that Chess had really believed it anyway. Why would the Grand Elder’s daughter conspire against the Church?
“I’m going to go take a shower, okay?” Lauren dug into one of the boxes and pulled out a towel. It at least looked clean. “Sorry. I was at the gym and I was hungry so I threw on these old rags. They’re comfy, you know? Let me just clean myself up and then you can tell me everything.”
Chess didn’t believe her, not for one second. The shadows under Lauren’s eyes had not come from too much jogging or whatever the hell it was people did at gyms. There was something haunted about Lauren now, something furtive and hunched. As though the other woman was trying to hide inside herself.
Couldn’t be done. Nobody knew that better than Chess. But who wanted to get into a discussion about it? Not her. So she did the next best thing and ignored it completely. “Oh, could you take me to Church after? I don’t want to go home tonight, not after—Well, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Elder Griffin said they’ve been trying to get you moved back on grounds for a while. You’re like bait for the Lamaru where you are, you know.”
“I’m fine where I am.”
“And that’s why you need another place to stay tonight?”
Chess folded her arms over her chest. “Are you going to give me a ride or not?”
“Yeah, fine. You’re really touchy, you know that?”
When Chess didn’t respond, Lauren gave a dramatic sigh. “Whatever, I’ll take you to Church. Or you can stay here if you want, I don’t care.”
With difficulty Chess suppressed a shudder. Stay there? And let all those bacteria crawl all over her while she slept? Ugh, no thanks. “I think the Church is best, really. I have a couple of things I want to look up and I need to talk to Elder Griffin before Elder Murray’s Dedication.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I just want to talk to him about the case. You know, keep him in the loop and everything.”
“Do you have new information?”
Chess forced a smile. “Yeah, actually. Why don’t you take your shower, and then I’ll tell you about it.”
“Yeah, I get it. I stink. Okay, just … make yourself comfortable. Here.” The couch’s pink toile fabric was covered with papers and files; Lauren stacked them up, clearing a hasty space. “Watch TV or something. I’ll only be a couple of minutes. And I have some news, too.”
Chess waited until the water started running before peeking at the files. Hmm … employee records for the slaughterhouse, that was good … preliminary reports on the cause of the fire … a slim file on Vanhelm with his birth certificate. Why hadn’t Lauren told her she had that?
Well, she might not have had a chance. Files didn’t always get put together as quickly as everyone would like. And Lauren had just said she had some news, too.
Okay. So, slaughterhouse records, Vanhelm’s file, reports. A few pages on psychopomps copied from Tobin’s Spirit Guide. An employee file—
CESARIA PUTNAM.
Her hand paused in the air above the slim, pale-blue folder. She supposed it was reasonable that Lauren would have her file. She’d already admitted she’d read it; making copies was unorthodox, to say the least, but … the Black Squad kind of did whatever it wanted.
That didn’t change the dull, helpless anger rising in her chest. Bad enough Lauren had looked at it, read it. She brought it home to study, too? What the fuck?
She flipped open the cover; her eyes ran up and down the lines of print. Name, date of birth, address … training grades and test results … She turned the page. The commendation she’d received for defeating the Dreamthief, another commendation from a particularly sticky Debunking case in her second year.
It should have ended there, but … no. This wasn’t her basic file. This was her personal file, her confidential one. Chess’s hand shook slightly as she picked up Elder Banks’s notes on the results of her fertility test. The edges of that sheet were softened by grubby fingerprints. Lauren had spent some time there, reading that one.
Next came a bundle of papers clipped together; the letter she’d written asking permission to live off-grounds, with comments from her instructors and the Elders—Elder Griffin. He’d been on her side; well, she’d known that. But some of the others, some of the comments they made about her lack of trust in her coworkers, her standoffishness …
She didn’t want to look anymore. There was nothing she could do anyway. Lauren had a right to look at her file. And much as those soft edges and fingerprints bothered her, she couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t make Lauren unsee any of it or remove the knowledge from her head.
But … She flipped back quickly to the first page. There it was. Her picture. The same picture she had in her bag, the one taken from Vanhelm’s apartment.
The Church only printed one copy of those pictures; it wasn’t like they handed them out for employees to trade like they were kids in school. Well, at least Chess remembered other kids getting copies of those pictures in school and trading them. She’d never gotten any of her own.
So if her picture was still in the file, where had Vanhelm’s come from?
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she dug it out. Same picture. Same background. Same smile, same girl.
But now that she was really studying it … was that the same girl? The eyebrows were a little different, it seemed; the girl in Vanhelm’s picture hadn’t plucked hers quite thin enough.
This was crazy. She was crazy. But then … two weeks ago she would have said nobody could cast a glamour strong enough to fool a witch. Now she knew differently. At least one person had—she remembered Lauren’s face changing when she touched that fetish—and who knew how long the effect of that would last?
Had Maguinness created another Cesaria Putnam? Had the Lamaru? And why?
Something wasn’t right here. Her nerves weren’t settling. They were getting worse. She didn’t want to be at Lauren’s place anymore, didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Panic spread from her stomach up into her chest, thrumming into her brain. Exactly why, she didn’t know, but she needed to get out of there. Needed to think. Instead of innocently messy, Lauren’s apartment now looked booby-trapped; anyone, anything, could be hiding in the boxes and clutter.
She was being ridiculous. Lauren was the Grand Elder’s daughter. But who gave a fuck. It felt wrong, and she was going with that.
The water shut off, leaving the room too quiet. Chess shoved the papers back in order and closed the file, setting it back the way she thought it had been.
She reached into her bag for her notebook and pen, intending to scribble a note for Lauren and haul her ass out of there before Lauren got dressed. Her finger caught on something; she pushed it aside, almost jumped out of her skin when the apartment filled with a loud, shrill, sustained beep.
Fuck! Lauren’s tracker. She’d switched it on. Her hands shook as she dug it out, tried to find the off switch, and realized the sensors in her bag weren’t lit up.
The tracker wasn’t reading the sensors in her bag; they hadn’t been tripped.
So where was the sensor that it had tripped? Number four?
One of the two she’d planted on Vanhelm.
The tracker’s high-pitched beep throbbed in her head, a scream of panic she couldn’t utter, while she dug around in Lauren’s couch until she finally found it.
Stuffed under the cushion Lauren had set the files on; she must have shoved it in there when s
he saw Chess at the door. Must have been looking at it when Chess arrived and not had time to hide it.
Must have been looking at Erik Vanhelm’s shirt.
Chess leapt off her knees, ready to jump over the couch to the front door and get the fuck out of there, but her leap came too late. Just a second too late, it had taken her just a second too long to find the thing, why the fuck had she even bothered, she’d known anyway …
Lauren stood in the doorway, her dark green bathrobe hanging open. Water dripped down her bare skin, over the pale curves of her round breasts and flat stomach.
The gun in her hand pointed right at Chess’s head. In her other hand, raised to her ear, was her cell phone.
“Stop right there,” she said unnecessarily, and then, into the phone, “Yes, now. Hurry up.”
The door stood at least two strides away; there was no way Chess could reach it before Lauren pulled the trigger. And given how cramped that apartment was, unless Lauren was the world’s worst shot there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d miss.
Okay, Plan B. Whatever that was. Shit! Shit shit shit. “Ha-ha, Lauren,” she managed. “Very funny. Put the gun down and get changed. I want to hear your news.”
Better come up with a Plan C, because no way was Lauren dumb enough to buy that.
Nope, definitely not dumb enough. She snapped the phone shut and slipped it into her pocket. “Shut up and sit back down.”
Chess obeyed. What else was she supposed to do?
Laying her cards on the table might be a good idea. Well, she might as well, anyway. Her hand slipped into her pocket. She had her own cell, she could call … who? She still didn’t have Terrible’s number, and she’d probably get voicemail at the Church.
Which left Lex.
Of course even that semi-useless gesture required she be able to see the phone. And somehow she didn’t think Lauren would miss that. Okay. Hold the phone anyway, and wait for a chance. And hope it came fucking soon, because reinforcements were apparently on their way. Shit.
She looked at Lauren. “Vanhelm is dead.”
Even knowing what she thought she knew, she wasn’t prepared for Lauren’s reaction. Her face … crumpled, literally scrunched up and seemed to slide down; she was unrecognizable. “No. No, he can’t be—no.”
“I’m sorry, Lauren.” The odd thing was, for a second she actually was sorry. It was impossible to stand in the presence of such grief and not be touched by it. Especially when she’d experienced something similar not long before.
She’d been lucky. She’d been able to save him. Lauren hadn’t had that chance.
Lauren’s voice was a harsh, bitter knife cutting through her thoughts. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I saw him. He’s dead.”
“What … what happened to him?”
“He was—” No. Wait. “He was murdered. Cut up.”
Lauren knew Maguinness was after them, but she might not know he had his own psychopomp army below the city. Telling her Vanhelm had been killed by dogs might tip her off—might be playing the only card Chess had.
Tears fell onto the dark green terry cloth of Lauren’s robe. “No. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him. He was—he was—”
“He tried to rape me, Lauren.” Something else had occurred to her, something that sent rage flying white-hot up her spine. “Or was that a lie? Just like what you told me happened to you. It was a lie, right? You thought you could, what, spook me with it? Distract me? What?”
“He wouldn’t have raped you.”
“Really? Because he sure was ready to.”
The gun wavered in Lauren’s hand. Chess had to admit she was impressed that Lauren had held the thing steady for this long; could she even see Chess through her tears?
Didn’t matter. She could see well enough to know if Chess suddenly got up and made a run for it, and that was the important thing.
“He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t do something like—”
“Something like what? Like pretend to be raped in order to get a rise out of somebody? What the fuck, Lauren? You unbelievable bitch.” She stared at the gun. Watched it, forced herself to remember it was there so she wouldn’t jump off the couch and attack. Lauren had lied. She’d actually made that shit up. Just to cause her pain, just to fuck with her. “What were you—”
“I wanted you to trust me.”
Chess stared at her.
“What? I thought, if we had something in common, if I opened up to you, you’d—”
“Oh, for—Whatever.” Stick to the case, she reminded herself. Get some answers, so that on the off chance she managed to escape she could do something about it. “Look. Vanhelm is dead. How many of you have died? How—”
“You should know. Who did you tell? Who have you been reporting to?”
“What?”
“Who did you tell?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” A jolt of pain shot from her wrists up; shit, the Binding. It kept her from telling … and it forced her to tell.
Like she’d told Terrible and Lex both, in a roundabout way. Oh, fuck, no. No. She would not give them up to Lauren, absolutely not. All the Lamaru would need were their names; five minutes asking questions in Downside would be enough for them to find both men. And as much faith as she had in them and their ability to survive …
Lauren’s eyes narrowed; she’d seen the flinch, knew what it meant. Fuck! “You’re lying.”
“I can help you, Lauren. We can help you. Come with me to the Church, we’ll tell Elder Griffin, he can—”
Lauren laughed, a genuine laugh. One that would have been pretty if not for the edge of hysteria lying beneath it. “Are you serious? You think I don’t know what the Church will do to me?”
“This is different, you’re a Church—”
“It’s not different, and you know it. What mercy does the Church show? What mercy did it—did you—show Randy Duncan?”
Lauren swept past, toward the door. Chess didn’t turn around, didn’t bother to remind Lauren that she hadn’t killed Randy Duncan. The Dreamthief had killed him. So she’d been right: This little plot wasn’t just about psychopomps and the Church. It was about her. It was revenge.
That was how the Lamaru had known to show up on the corner that first night, the night Lauren had taken her to the vacant lot where the parts had been found; Lauren had told them where she was. It answered her question about why they hadn’t come after her yet, when they knew who she was and where she lived. They’d wanted to torture her first, fuck with her. If she died, fine; if she didn’t, they could fuck with her some more.
“You’re the Grand Elder’s daughter, for fuck’s sake. Why would you … Why are you doing this?”
Lauren gave a harsh laugh. “You don’t know anything about me, Cesaria.”
The slow tingle of magic crawled over Chess’s skin, etched in darkness. A jolt of power went through her. Blood magic. Blood wards. Lauren was locking her in, more effectively than even the most hardcore deadbolt could.
Tires squealed outside; Lauren relaxed. “Good, they’re here. We can get this over with.”
“Yeah, great.”
“Oh, come on. Look.” Still holding the gun, Lauren edged across the room and into the little open-plan kitchen, opened a drawer; when she brought her hand out of it she held a syringe. “It won’t be bad. I promise. This isn’t poison or anything painful. They wanted to—Well, after Randy Duncan you’re not exactly popular with us. But you did save me in that fire. When that freak we got supplies from bombed the place and I couldn’t get out, you came for me. So I convinced them to do this instead. I don’t forget when people do things like that for me, so even though you have to die—”
They were outside, whoever was coming; Chess heard car doors slam in the parking lot outside. Warding hexes or not, gun or not, she had to try now. Now!
She vaulted herself off the couch, back toward what she assumed was Lauren’s bedroom. There would be a window there, she was sure
of it, Lauren’s apartment was only on the second floor, and she’d take her chances—
Fuck, ow! Her head jerked back and she leaned into it, trying to loosen Lauren’s grip on her hair; shit, it felt like her scalp was coming off. The gun hit the tile with a dull slap, but she couldn’t see where it landed.
She drove her elbow backward into Lauren’s stomach. The pressure on her hair lessened for a second, long enough for her to gain a few feet. If she could just get into the bedroom she could lock the door, she could scream, surely the neighbors would call the Squad—
Right. Lauren was the Squad. They’d call her first, and she’d use her authority to tell them everything was fine, and they’d believe her.
Lauren shouted something behind her and pain, pain like Chess’d never felt before, shot up her arms from the marks on her wrists and blood spattered from the rough edges of them and she fell, it hurt too much to stand.
Footsteps thundered behind her and shook the floor. Hands tangled in her hair, yanked her up onto her hands and knees. A heavy-booted foot caught her just below her throat. It felt like he’d kicked through her chest, through to her soul, they picked her up and she struggled against them, fighting their hard hands, fighting the horrible pain and the helpless dread creeping into her mind. They had her, five or six of them, big men, their skin crawling with filthy power as they dropped her on the couch.
She scrambled back off it, only to be surrounded by legs; they towered over her like a human cage. Without thinking she crawled backward and pressed herself against the wall, wedged herself into the dusty space next to the TV cabinet. She couldn’t get out, she was stuck. She couldn’t get out. For a second she contemplated flipping the cabinet onto them but discarded that idea almost instantly. She wasn’t strong enough to move it.
But there had to be something she could do. Even six Lamaru men and Lauren … well, fuck, no, six Lamaru men and Lauren could turn her into a grease spot in less than a minute. But they might make a mistake. They’d already made one, involving Baldarel. And she just bet they were pissed about that.