Downside Ghosts: Unholy Ghosts Part 33

Whatever they were for, Lupita's appearance was obviously what the other people around the table expected. Chess felt rather than heard their sigh of satisfaction, their belief that they'd done the right thing in coming here. For those who couldn't afford to pay a Church Liaiser to contact the spirits of their dead loved ones, amateur seances like these seemed the answer to the prayers they were prohibited from uttering.

Too bad they were illegal, which was why Chess was there to begin with. Helping the Black Squad make a case against Lupita meant some extra cash for her.

And too bad it was all fake. If Lupita and her ilk were truly powerful enough to raise ghosts, the Church would have found them through the tests every child in the world underwent at the age of fourteen, would have trained them and hired them. Many of them had a glimmer of power, enough to send a shiver through the air and fool their clients, most of whom had no idea what real power, real magic, felt like.

Chess did. Knew the feeling-loved the feeling-almost as much as the cool, smooth peace of her pills, or the foggy bliss of Dream smoke, or the sparkly, fizzing sensation created by the occasional line of speed. She knew them all, loved them all, because anything that distanced her from reality was a blessing in a world where blessing was against the law.

Of course, her drugs were illegal, too. But that hadn't stopped her from doing them, hadn't stopped her dealer, b.u.mp-or her whatever-he-was, Lex-from selling them. It just meant they all had to be a lot more careful.

Speaking of careful ... Madame Lupita settled herself at the table, clapped her hands. Something clinked behind Chess. She didn't turn around, but she heard it, soft wings beating the air. A psychopomp. Madame Lupita knew how to put on a show.

"All hold hands," she commanded, in a deep, liquid voice. "No messin, aye ... hold hands, or they don't come."

To Chess's left sat a rake-thin young man. His fingers were sweaty, his face wet with tears as he stared at the picture on the table before him. Chess couldn't make out the image.

To her right was the female half of a middle-aged couple, clad in a cheap fake silk dress. Her hand shook against Chess's palm.

Lupita reached across the table and grabbed the picture in front of the woman. "What be this girl's name?"

"A-Annabeth. Annabeth Whitman."

Lupita bowed her head. The others did the same, including Chess, who used the opportunity to look around the room from under her lashes.

The psychopomp settled on a perch behind Lupita's left shoulder. A crow, its black feathers gleaming in the firelight. To Chess's right, against the wall, row upon row of skulls grinned blankly at her. Most were small animals, cats and rats and the occasional dog. To her left a wall mural; spirits straining for the sky, their long arms and spidery fingers gruesome and sad.

Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down the side of her face. Had it been that hot in there a few minutes before? No one else seemed to be sweating, why was she?

Of course, no one else was wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved sweater, either, despite the cold outside. Chess had no choice; every inch of her arms and chest was decorated with the tattoos marking her as a Church employee, magical symbols that focused her power, warned her, protected her. They tingled now, but whether it was from the heat or her nerves or the tremors in the atmosphere, Chess didn't know. It was nothing serious. She'd been right. Lupita didn't have anywhere near the kind of power required to raise a ghost.

Good thing, too, as she hadn't even bothered to mark her "guests" with basic protective sigils or circle the floor with salt or anything else Church employees learned in their first year of training.

Chess wondered what they might see. Holograms, probably; their technology had advanced to the point where it was difficult or impossible to tell the difference between a real ghost and a fake one-at least if you didn't have any natural abilities in that direction-and if Lupita brought in this kind of money on a regular basis, she could probably afford the top of the line.

Or it could be some of the old-fashioned tricks, the kind used by charlatans long before Haunted Week. Dim lighting, the bizarre and disgusting tea that was probably mildly hallucinogenic, the power of suggestion. Mirrors and shimmery fabric and the customer's own desperate need to believe would take care of the rest.

At least it was safe. A real ghost-a real ghost was something to inspire nightmares. A real ghost, outside of Church control, wasn't going to have a nice little chat with its mommy or beloved friend. A real ghost was going to have one thing on what remained of its mind, and one thing only: to kill. To steal the energy of everyone it came near, to use its life-force to make itself stronger, a parasite that would grow fat on the blood of its victims.

Not one of the people in that room had any f.u.c.king idea what it meant to face a real ghost. Lucky for them, they weren't going to find out, either. As soon as Lupita got her little show on the road they could shut her down, and the closest they'd get to a ghost was that hideous mural.

Orange light flashed off silver. Chess looked up along with everyone else, and her already nervous heartbeat kicked into high gear. Madame Lupita held a knife, high over her own exposed forearm. Blood magic. Oh, that was not good. Blood magic, with no circle, no words of protection. Lupita might be powerless, but this was- The knife descended. Lupita's blood spilled out over her tattoos-so like Chess's, but illegal, another crime to add to the growing list, as if Lupita needed anything more to d.a.m.n her-onto the silk tablecloth.

"Kadira tam, Annabeth Whitman," intoned Madame Lupita. "Kadira tam."

A drop of sweat landed on the table in front of Chess. Her breath rasped in her throat. s.h.i.t, she really felt sick. Weak. Exposed, like all her psychic shielding was failing and her power fought to escape.

Escape ... as Lupita pushed with her own weak power, as she leeched from all of them, Chess felt it, like she was a battery being drained, and in that second, just as the temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees, she knew something was very, very wrong.

No, Lupita didn't have the power to raise a ghost. But Chess did, and Lupita was pulling it from her. Somehow the woman was reaching into her, through her, sucking Chess's strength and focusing it-focusing it on her spell, f.u.c.k- Chess fought, threw as much energy as she could to her shields, but she felt like a child struggling to play tug-of-war against a giant. She couldn't think, her energy was draining away and she couldn't ... couldn't hold on to it ... her stomach roiled, her eyelids fluttered.

The crow flapped its wings, danced on the perch for a minute, then took flight. It circled the room, faster and faster. Chess's skin crawled and stung, her tattoos screaming the warning her mouth couldn't seem to form ... .

Lupita's deep chant turned into a screech. Through a bleary haze Chess saw the woman heave herself from her chair, her black-ringed eyes widening in terror. Staring ... staring at the pale haze taking shape in the corner.

The haze of Annabeth Whitman.

Chess gritted her teeth so hard she thought they might crack and yanked her hand away from Annabeth's mother's. The microrecorder had an emergency b.u.t.ton, in case her fellow Church employees weren't already on the way. She had to get out of there, had to have help. Whatever was wrong with her was too much, too bad, for her to hope to defeat the ghost, and if someone didn't do it soon, Annabeth would kill every person in the room.

She found the b.u.t.ton, pressed it. And kept pressing it as the pale column grew, as a head appeared. Long tendrils of white formed arms; the shape solidified, growing more detailed with every beat of Chess's panic-stricken heart. She'd lost count of the number of ghosts she'd seen, but the fear never left, never lessened. A ghost-one like this, free of its underground prison, free from Church safeguards and protocols-was a loaded gun, a sword in the hand of a lunatic.

And Chess and everyone else in this flaming pit of h.e.l.l were the first who'd feel the weapon's rage.

The others didn't seem to understand that something was wrong. Mrs. Whitman was standing, holding her hands out in supplication. "Annabeth ... my baby ... we miss you, we wanted to-"

Annabeth's features had formed now, translucent but perfect. She'd been a beautiful girl. Long pale hair hung down over her shoulders; the vague outline of her body beneath her gown was pet.i.te and sweetly curved.

Her eyes widened. Chess held her breath for one heart-stopping, hopeful moment. They weren't always vicious, not always. Only ninety-nine percent of the time ... There was a chance Annabeth would- No chance. Those innocent eyes narrowed, the perfect lips pulled back in a snarl. Chess barely had time to open her mouth before Annabeth dove for the b.l.o.o.d.y knife on the table.

In her bag Chess had graveyard dirt and herbs. She couldn't do a full ritual, didn't think she'd have the power to do one even if she had the equipment, but she could freeze Annabeth, stop her from harming anyone.

Her fingers still worked. She tore at the tab of her zipper, yanked it open. Keeping her eyes on Annabeth, she shoved her hand into the bag, past her pillbox and compa.s.s and tissues and cash and wipes and all the other c.r.a.p to find her supplies at the bottom.

Madame Lupita screamed and tried to run, but her weight and flair for the dramatic caught her. She tripped over something-Chess a.s.sumed it was the heavy folds of her ridiculous robe-and fell with a thud.

Sweat ran into Chess's eyes. Acid bubbled in her stomach, leapt into her throat. s.h.i.t, she was going to be sick, her gut felt like somebody had shoved in a knife and twisted. This wasn't normal. Magic, especially not her own magic, shouldn't make her feel this way, she was-what was in that tea? What the f.u.c.k was in that tea?

The a.s.sistant, the little one, cackled in the corner. "Feelin awry, Churchwitch? Feelin sick?"

Oh, no. They knew who she was-knew what she was. Had known when she walked in the door.

Annabeth lunged for her mother. Chess threw a handful of asafetida and graveyard dirt, tried to put some power behind it as she forced words out of her gummy throat. "Annabeth Whitman, I command you to be still. By the power of the earth that binds you I command it."

Annabeth faltered but kept moving. Not enough power. s.h.i.t!

A loud bang, the clattering of footsteps on the stairs. Reinforcements, oh, thank the technology that brought them here, they'd arrived.

Chess spun away from Annabeth. The others would take care of her. Instead Chess dove for the bizarre figure in the garbage bag, straining to focus. The handle of her knife felt cool, solid in her hand, better than almost anything else could.

Up close Chess realized it was a woman behind the makeup. She grabbed the tangle of hair on her head, held the knife at her throat. "What was in the tea?"

The woman giggled. The acrid, silvery odor of speed sweat a.s.saulted Chess's nose. Just what she needed. A f.u.c.king Niphead lunatic holding her life in her filthy hand.

"What was in the f.u.c.king tea? You don't want to die right now, you'll-"

"You ain't kill me, Churchwitch. Ain't got it in you."

Chess pushed the knife farther up, so it dug into the woman's throat, and focused. She'd killed before. She hadn't wanted to do it and she hadn't liked doing it, but she had. And better yet, she knew people who did it without batting an eye, knew people who'd done worse-h.e.l.l, if she went back far enough she knew people who'd done worse to her. People who made hate rise, boiling and putrid in her chest. She thought of them, let those memories wash over her and crystallize in her head, become something solid and hard.

Behind her all was chaos. The Church employees shouted. The scent of banishing herbs rose thick and dry. Chess ignored it all and stared at the woman at the point of her knife. She stared, and she believed, deep down, that she would drive the knife up, and she let the woman see that belief.

It worked. "Tasro." The woman looked down. "Were tasro."

Poison. Tasro was poison. Chess's head swam.

"Chessie? You okay?"

Dana Wright, another Debunker. Her eyes were wide with concern, her hands still full of herbs.

"Tasro. They put tasro in my drink, they knew me before I even got down the stairs. Is the kit in the van?"

"I'll go with you." Dana reached for her, but Chess ducked away. She didn't want to be touched. Didn't think she could stand it.

"No, just-take this one, okay? I've-I've got to-"

She didn't bother to finish. It felt like she'd swallowed a razor blade and she didn't have much time. Not to mention the tiny p.r.i.c.k of uncertainty, of worry. The antidote shouldn't react with her pills, but ... better to be alone. Just in case.

"You're not supposed to self-administer-"

"I'm fine."

Dana looked like she wanted to say more, but Chess didn't stick around to listen. She ran up the stairs, out the door, and let the icy wind dry the sweat on her forehead.

The Morton case three months before had forever changed her position in the Church. Not just her job itself-in addition to Debunking she now worked occasionally with other departments, which was how she'd gotten to run point in tonight's deadly party-but in the eyes of those she worked with. Half of them looked at her like she was the great Betrayer and the other half seemed to think she was some sort of f.u.c.king genius for banishing Ereshdiran the Dreamthief-but only after he'd killed Randy Duncan, another Debunker. That Randy had summoned the ent.i.ty in the first place made a difference only to some.

Chess didn't give a s.h.i.t either way. The only thing she minded was that the anonymity she'd once prized had disappeared, and now she felt eyes on her everywhere she went. Which sucked. Who knew what they might see if they paid attention? Church employees were not supposed to be addicts.

Her skeleton key unlocked the van's back door and she yanked it open with a bit more force than necessary. Somewhere in the back was a first-aid kit with a variety of antidotes along with basic remedies like bandages and antibiotic ointment.

She climbed in, leaving the door open so more cold wind could blast her. It wasn't just the air of the shack that had made her warm, wasn't just the poison either. She'd taken an extra Cept before entering the building, not knowing how long the ritual and resulting paperwork would take and not wanting to be caught out if it took too long. If she sat still and focused, she'd be able to feel the high, but there wasn't time. Not unless she wanted it to be the last high she ever felt, which she didn't.

The kit was hidden beneath the back bench seat. Chess dug it out and opened it. f.u.c.k. Somewhere in the back of her mind she'd hoped the antidotes weren't kept in syringes anymore. So much for hope ...

The needle was cold, too. Great.

Voices rode the wind into the van. She had no idea how far away the others were, but she preferred to have this done with before they returned. n.o.body would think twice about it, not after Dana told them what had happened. But that didn't make the thought of being found in the back of the van with a spike in her vein any more pleasant. Too close to the truth, perhaps, the undeniable fact that she was only a short jump away from that f.u.c.king needle turning into a vital part of her life, that only fear and willpower had kept her from it so far.

The rubber catheter was stiff, not wanting to be tied. Chess could relate. She didn't want to tie it. Fear curled in her stomach and sat there like a lump of half-rotten Downside meat. She tied off, clenching her fist to pop a vein, slapping the crook of her arm. Something she'd sworn to herself she'd never do. That she was doing it to save her life-doing it with Church sanction, the way they'd been taught to do-didn't seem to count, not when she'd seen this moment coming, dreaded this moment almost every time she opened her pillbox.

She shook her head. This was ridiculous. Everything was under control, she was under control, now more than ever. She didn't owe anyone money, she had plenty of pills, she maintained. A happy medium.

One quick stab, that was all it would take. She could do that, it would be easy. She'd barely feel it, right?

Not right. The freezing needle buried itself into her vein and when she shoved the plunger down, cold shot up her arm like a crack in ice. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she turned her face away while she yanked the catheter off, not wanting to watch the syringe bob in time with her pulse while she fumbled in the kit for a cotton ball.

It only took a few seconds for the antidote to warm up. Another few to find the cotton and press it into place after she withdrew the needle. It was over. She'd done it, and it hadn't been so bad.

That was the scariest thing of all.

Yearning for your next Unholy fix?

Read on for a sneak peek inside the next novel in.

Stacia Kane's dark and s.e.xy series:.

UNHOLY MAGIC.

Published by Del Rey Books.

"Hey, Chess," he said. She got the words not just from his voice, barely a rumbling murmur over "Garageland," but from watching his lips move. "Figured you ain't coming after all, getting so late. You right?"

"Yeah. Right up. The job went on longer than I expected."

"Lookin pale."

She shrugged and drank her beer. No point discussing it, not when they could barely hear each other. "When are they going on?"

"Few minutes, maybe. Not long. They-Hold on." From his pocket he produced a small black phone and flipped it open. The stark white glow of the screen invaded the darkness of the corner and highlighted his furrowed brow. "f.u.c.k."

"What's-"

He cut her off with a look, a quick jerk of the head to indicate she should follow. This she did, trying to stay in his wake as he cut through the crowd back to the front of the room, narrowly avoiding razoring her cheek on some guy's Liberty spikes, and out the front door.

Desultory clumps of people huddled outside, braving the cold to get a free listen once the band started playing. They shuffled out of the way when Terrible headed for the side of the building. Chess followed. For a second the cold soothed her heated skin before it became too much and she shivered. She should have brought a jacket, but they were such pains in the a.s.s to hold on to in a club.

"Got problems." He didn't look at her as he dialed the phone and lifted it to his ear. "You know Red Berta, aye?"

"I know who she is." Red Berta handled most of b.u.mp's girls-which meant she handled all of the Downside prost.i.tutes west of Forty-third.

"Aye, well-Hey. Aye." Whoever he'd called must have answered. "Aye, she-When they find it? s.h.i.t. Aye, hang on. I'll be there."

She knew before he snapped the phone shut that he wanted her to go with him. What she didn't know was why.

"What's going on?"

He stood for a moment with his eyes narrowed, sliding the phone back into his pocket without paying attention while he worked out whatever it was he needed to work out. "Feel like riding with me?"

"What's going on?"

"Dead body." His other hand went into his pocket. The movement made his shoulders look even broader, but the threat of his size had never been less evident. "One of b.u.mp's girls. Third one they find."

"Somebody's killing hookers?"

He shrugged. "Looking like a ghost doing the killing. Wouldn't ask otherwise."