City of Ghosts (14 page)

The Lamaru had attempted to destroy the Church before. Had been attempting to destroy it almost since it had taken over. But they’d never struck at its heart like that, turned its own magic against it in such a direct fashion.

Lauren could say all she wanted that the Lamaru and the psychopomps had nothing to do with each other. Lauren was also welcome to say the earth was flat. Neither happened to be true, and Chess knew it.

Fuck the Restricted Room. Chess had real evidence. And real drugs. She already knew how to use the latter; she had years of practice at it. Now she just had to figure out how to use the former, and she wanted to do both immediately.

She hopped back into her car and headed for the Market.

Chapter Fourteen

Family is the most important thing there is, and you should encourage your beloved spouse to be close to your children.

—
Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies
, by Mrs. Increase

Yes, fine, she’d been hoping to see Terrible, and yes, fine, her heart sank a little when she scanned the crowd and didn’t spot him. But at least that wasn’t the only reason she’d come there, even if it was the only reason she’d taken four Cepts instead of three before leaving her car.

Nor did she see Maguinness anywhere, which really sucked. She’d been certain he’d be giving his flowery speeches from his makeshift stage. He had to know something.
Had
to. Why else would the Lamaru be scared of him?

Of course, getting involved with someone who scared even the Lamaru didn’t exactly appeal, but she didn’t have a choice. Her thoughts during the short drive from slaughterhouse to Market had continued along the same lines as her thoughts in the parking lot: she couldn’t stop picturing the skull in her bag suddenly erupting into a thoughtless, emotionless deathbringer.

If she could be made to fear Church magic, what the fuck was left to her?

Well, okay. She knew the answer to that. What was left to her were the pills hiding in their ornate silver box in her bag, the pipe room off to her left. She took solace from them, wrapped them around her. She still believed in them.

She could believe in her own talent, too. As a person she was pretty much useless, but as a witch … That had value.

And she still believed in the man who hated her. Shame that all those things—except her magic—were equally bad for her; was it less self-destructive to ride the knife edge of slow suicide, or to spend most of her time wanting someone who wished she’d just go ahead and slip on that edge?

But she still had things to believe in, things to trust, and she needed to keep that firmly in mind if she wanted to keep her fucking sanity during this mess.

The bright weather had brought Downsiders out in droves; they lounged on crumbling steps and sidewalks with their sleeves pushed up to catch the sun, stood in ragged clumps on the corners, and flooded the Market. Chess pushed her way through the crowds, felt them watching her.

Erik Vanhelm had her picture. Any one of the crush of semi-humanity around her could be Lamaru. Did eyes follow her because she was Bump’s Churchwitch? Because everyone had seen her with Terrible all the time and that had obviously stopped? Or because they planned to grab her, drag her into an alley, and slice her to ribbons?

She gripped her knife handle in her pocket and kept walking. They hadn’t come after her yet, she reminded herself. When she’d tangled with them before, they hadn’t waited long to break into her apartment and attack her.

She wasn’t sure if that thought made her feel better or worse.

Seeing Edsel definitely cheered her up, though, despite having to ignore the concern in his eyes. Did she look that bad?

“Chess.” He smiled and finished taping a price note to a basket of beeswax chunks on the counter. “You right?”

“Right up,” she answered automatically. He’d set up closer to the meat booths, where the background noise hummed louder. Good. It gave her an excuse to lean in tight. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Ain’t chattered with Terrible on you, baby.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s not what I wanted to ask.”

“Just givin you the tell, is all.”

“I don’t—Whatever. Do you know anything about that potion guy, the one from yesterday? Maguinness.”

“The hairy dude? Give me the creeps, he do.”

“Yeah, him. Have you seen him before, have you heard anything about him?”

Edsel’s head tilted; a ray of sun soaked into his hair. “Ain’t can say as I have. Been here a while’s all the knowledge I got. Sells he potions an magic. Never buy from me, though.”

“Do you know where he gets his supplies?”

“Figure he makin em heself, dig. Ain’t been told he buyin elsewhere.”

Shit. She’d hoped—Wait. “Wouldn’t that cost a lot, or need a lot of space?”

“Guessing him got a big place, aye. Way up. Could be him uses the market there.”

“Shit.” She’d never visited the market closest to the address Maguinness gave when he signed in to the prison.

Wait a minute. If there was a market near his address, why had he started selling out of this one?

Granted, he’d need Bump’s permission to set up his stage there, too. Hell, he’d need Bump’s permission to set up a booth—or rather, if Bump or Terrible or one of Bump’s other people noticed a vendor selling anything they shouldn’t, they’d be shut down. And probably beaten down, too, to make sure the message sank in.

But if he’d been in Downside for a while and had suddenly changed his methods, didn’t that suggest he needed money, and fast?

Unless he’d just decided to branch out, to expand. She saw again those pale, grimy ankles below his too-short pants, the way his shirt hung off his bony frame. No. It may have been safer to pretend to be poor, especially in Downside, but most people couldn’t resist the chance to show off. Especially when trying to convince others of their power and skill. In order to impress, one first had to look impressive.

Appearances were deceiving, sure. But it was elementary psychology, or had been back when psychology was legal. Chess had done enough late-night reading in the Archives to know that, even if a lifetime spent watching empty-pocket shitbags being treated like kings simply because they looked the part hadn’t taught her already.

It was possible Maguinness was rich. He could be richer than Bump for all she knew. But she just didn’t think so. Bump would have known if he was. How much was Bump charging him to work the Market?

Wait. Hadn’t Terrible said Maguinness had a big family to feed, and that’s why he’d asked to work the Market in the first place?

“What’s in yon thoughts?” Edsel watched her from behind his black shades. “Trouble up with he?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Just, could you ask around for me? Anything you hear about him would be a help.”

“Aye, coursen I will.”

“Thanks. Hey, do you know anything about psychopomps?”

“Sure I ain’t know more’n you on that one.”

“No, I mean—Here.” Suppressing a shudder, she pulled the fetish parts in their plastic shrouds from her bag, laid them out on the fabric-covered counter. “I figure they used this to make psychopomps, but it’s also a destruction spell.”

“Aye. Seein the finger there.” Edsel gave one of the bags a tentative poke, yanked his hand back and shook it like he was trying to fling off droplets of evil. “Some serious trouble you got with that, baby. Tear the energy around it good, be a bomb with the right words behind it.”

“Right. That’s what I figured. But I’ve never seen a destruction spell with these other ingredients. They look like the kind of thing the Trainers use to make psychopomps, I mean, when they first start summoning them before they release the skulls to the supply room, you know?”

“That one part I ain’t got much knowledge of.”

“But you know the kind of ingredients that go in psychopomp spells. So why add something like the finger?”

“Guessin they either tryin to destroy them some psychopomps, or make them some psychopomps destroy other else. Come to think on it … been hearing some chatter lately on dogs. In the deathhouse, dig. Galena got she a brother up that way, say them ain’t sleeping so well with barking.”

The thrill running up her spine had nothing to do with the goat horn she’d brushed with her hand. “Dogs? At the slaughterhouse?”

“What Galena’s brother tell she, aye.”

Vanhelm in the slaughterhouse. What had Carlyle said? That Vanhelm had been a very dedicated employee, coming in early, staying late after everyone else had left.

Spending lots of time alone there. Alone in a building with its very own psychopomp creation room.

Lauren would have to listen to her now, right?

As soon as the thought formed she knew the answer: No. No, Lauren would not have to listen to her now. She’d tap her pointy little foot and say of course dogs barked in the slaughterhouse; dogs lived there, guarding the building. Dogs lived inside, too, or at least they lived until they walked down their own chutes.

Not all dogs became psychopomps. The skulls of the ones who didn’t were destroyed, but dog bones and fur had other magical uses, as did their blood and eyes and organs and just about everything else. It would all be gathered there and handed over to the Church, or sent to dealers like Edsel.

Not to mention that a thriving little black market existed for their meat, although she didn’t think Lauren would even know about that. The point was, the fact that dogs barked at night at the slaughterhouse wouldn’t make one bit of difference to Lauren.

“Okay,” she said finally, scooping up the bagged fetish parts and dumping them back into her bag. “Thanks. That might help. If you—if you see Terrible, tell him what you just told me, okay? And that I told you to tell him.”

“Oughta give he the knowledge you own self, baby. No good playing pass-on, ain’t solve nothing.”

For once that damned Binding came in handy. She lifted her wrist. “Actually, I probably can’t tell him myself. So will you just do it, please?”

His lips pressed together in a thin line, but he nodded. “Aye. I give it over, on the soon-as.”

“Thanks.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, mostly about Galena and the pregnancy, before Chess moved on. Walking might clear her head, and she could certainly use a little clear-headedness at this point. Maybe she should go home. She still had two hours or so before she had to meet Lauren for another round of Bitch Games. If she went home she could sit down and go through the file again. She could make notes. She’d be safe there, too.

Okay. Snack, then home. She made her way to the row of permanent booths against the fence, not hungry but figuring at least eating was something to do. Not to mention that it could be hours before she got to eat anything; she had a sneaking suspicion that Lauren wouldn’t let her go until well after dark.

She should ask Elder Griffin about her file and see if the picture was still in it. See if duplicates were made, too.

Should she tell him why she wanted to know? Good question. Redundant question, since she’d been turning it over and over in her mind since the moment she’d done that exact thing with the photo in her hands, but still—

Instinct brought her hand down to her pocket when someone bumped into her. Instinct made her grab her bag in time to catch the child trying to sneak its grubby hand into it.

The second her skin touched its—his? hers? she couldn’t tell—energy shot up her arm. Creepy, oozy energy; she staggered under the weight of it in her head.

But she didn’t let go, although the child struggled and wriggled so hard she barely managed to hold on, and still couldn’t even make out its features. A shaggy mop of black hair obscured its eyes; its face below the hair was a reddish blur with a gaping, semi-toothless mouth. And its energy felt like the dirty whispers of a pervert in a dark room.

Chess dug her short fingernails into the delicate skin of the child’s inner wrist and held on.

The child shrieked. Chess didn’t give a shit. Neither did anybody else. If every Downside pickpocket and cutpurse drew crowds, nobody would ever get anything done.

The energy grew stronger, felt worse, as Chess dragged the child out of the noodle line and toward Bump’s place. Not because she wanted to go to Bump’s place, but because nobody stood outside his front door; she could have a little privacy there, and it would be harder for the child to escape.

A child shouldn’t have energy like that. Chess’s tattoos itched and stung; no living thing should make her feel that way.

“Lemme go!”

A sharp foot slammed into Chess’s calf. The kid was tougher than she—closer inspection made Chess fairly certain it was a girl—looked.

“I’m not fucking letting you go. I’m going to find Terrible. See how he likes thieves in the Market.”

“Weren’t stealing!” The girl slapped at Chess’s hand, tried to twist her arm away.

“Were too. You were trying to get into my bag.”

“Weren’t
stealing!”
With every movement the girl made, a fresh wave of that horrible energy slid up Chess’s arm; with every movement she made, a fresh wave of her horrible stench assaulted Chess’s nose. The girl stank of sweat and animals and filth, like she’d been sleeping in the sty at the slaught—

“Where do you live?”

The girl must have sensed Chess’s anger turning into curiosity. Her struggles quieted. “Ain’t got no tells for you. Lemme go.”

“What were you trying to get out of my bag?”

The girl glared at her. Up close Chess could see the child’s eyes, squinty and strangely unfocused, too small and too close set. Her nose didn’t fit properly either; it looked more like a fat earlobe, just a knob of flesh rising above her tiny upper lip. Her features crowded too close to the center, leaving wide, pale cheeks and a prominent chin floating around the edges. She looked like a computer simulation of a human rather than an actual one.

And she felt like something that shouldn’t be breathing at all.

“What were you trying to take from my bag?” Chess repeated, daring to take her eyes off the girl for a second to hunt for Terrible in the crowd.

Mistake. Sharp pain exploded in her forearm; the child had bitten her, sinking those crooked, needlelike teeth into her skin.

“Fuck!” She dug her fingers deeper into the girl’s wrist, but that made the girl bite harder. They wobbled for a second in front of Bump’s black door, Chess’s bag slipping from her shoulders, before she tangled her free hand in the girl’s hair and twisted it.

The girl howled and let go of Chess’s arm. Her hair felt like a bird’s nest full of motor oil, but Chess twisted harder, pushing down as she did so. Yes, it was just a child, and Chess didn’t want to hurt a child, but the little bitch had tried to turn her arm into lunch.

And now the little bitch had a knife. Sun caught the blade and sparked into Chess’s eyes; she barely managed to avoid having it sunk into her stomach.