Street Magic Part 13

"You don't know half the story." Jack sighed. "Come on, luv. That'll need cleaning, if not st.i.tches." He offered his hand. Pete clasped it, but held on when he tried to lift her.

"You're being awfully solicitous for a man who hates me."

"Saved my a.r.s.e," said Jack. "Least I can do is put yours back together." He pulled Pete to her feet and she felt a wire inside his arms that hadn't been there when she'd found him in Southwark.

"Those women," she said, sitting on the lid of the toilet while Jack searched for peroxide and gauze.

"Bansidhe, luv. The only way they resemble women is in their charming personalities. Unseelie b.i.t.c.hes."

"Be that as it may, Jack. They called you 'crow-mage.' What does that mean?"

Jack poured peroxide on a pad and dabbed it against her back, and Pete yelped. "It means nothing. The Fae are fond of names that should be spelled out in portentous capital letters."

He dropped his eyes as he smoothed a bandage over Pete's back, not even trying to hide the lie. Pete opened her mouth, then shut it again. She hurt. Her skin, her mind, gristle and bone were all weary. Someday soon, she'd find out what the bansidhe had meant, but not now.

"Why'd you tell me to run?"

"No point in both of us getting our blood spilled and drunk up, was there?" he grunted. Pete began to say that she knew something else had moved Jack to try and save her, but that would be disastroushe'd run and she'd never see him again. So she sat in compliant silence as Jack taped down the gauze, his hands free of tremors for the first time. run and she'd never see him again. So she sat in compliant silence as Jack taped down the gauze, his hands free of tremors for the first time.

"Thank you," she said, when Jack pulled her torn shirt back over her shoulder blades.

"Yeah." He dismissed it with a shrug, and left the room. Pete sighed and tried standing on her left hip. It shot tongues of fire up and down her leg when she put weight on it, but she hobbled into the hallway, hissing as she stepped on a piece of crushed gla.s.s. "Jack, do me a favor and get my shoes from the entry?"

"Don't have time to clean up." Jack reappeared with one of Pete's duffels in hand and a fistful of Terry's hand-me-down clothing in the other. "We've got to get moving before more creatures of the night try to tear our flesh off the bones."

Pete swallowed, looking at the wreck the bansidhe had made of her flat. "Why did they come? What did you do to them, Jack?"

"Quick to blame me, aren't you?" he snapped, shoving his clothes into the duffel. "And I don't know why why, Pete." He sighed and shoved a hand into his hair, spiking it downward over his eyes. "f.u.c.k. I should have realized something would b.o.l.l.o.c.ks this up. Sounded so simplefind the kids, get clear of you, go on with me life. Should have known known."

"Your personal angst aside, for a moment," said Pete. "The bansidhe were after after you, Jack. Knew you by name." you, Jack. Knew you by name."

"Which is precisely why we need to go!" he said. He turned and strode into the front entry, bringing Pete's workday shoes back to her. "I wasn't strong enough to ward your flat when I came here, Peteand the bansidhe broke whatever barriers may have naturally occured. Anything Anything can come inside, and trust me, there are things out there that make the bansidhe nothing more than a dream-shadow on the wall." can come inside, and trust me, there are things out there that make the bansidhe nothing more than a dream-shadow on the wall."

Pete stepped into her shoes. She knew knew Jack was right, in that solid and unexplainable way of magic that she was beginning to recognize when it dropped into her mind like a single raindrop into a deep well. "I promised to believe you," she said, "but I'm stretching, Jack. Close to breaking. Where can we possibly go?" Jack was right, in that solid and unexplainable way of magic that she was beginning to recognize when it dropped into her mind like a single raindrop into a deep well. "I promised to believe you," she said, "but I'm stretching, Jack. Close to breaking. Where can we possibly go?"

"Let's just get to the car and drive," Jack said. "I'll tell you when we're there."

Chapter Twenty-five

"Whitechapel," said Jack as Pete guided the Mini through the midnight streets. "No place like it."

"No," Pete agreed as they slid past a human dealer, slouched on a corner with a windcheater turned up against the damp. Furtive eyeshine glinted at her from farther back in the shadows. "No, there isn't."

"Up here," said Jack, and she saw his body loosen from the wire tension for the first time since the attack. "Park on the street. We'll take the fire stairs."

A four-story brick structure with arched windows, slightly Gothic, a bit of rusted ironwork added at some point when the facade became shabby, stared back at Pete with darkened windows. Jack egressed the Mini fast as she'd ever seen him move and started for a rusted set of iron stairs bolted to the bricks, leading up and up into the dark.

"What is this place?" Pete asked as they climbed, the treads under their feet shuddering and groaning like the ghost of Marley. Rust flakes rained onto Pete's head.

Jack stopped at the fourth-floor landing and produced a key from the chain around his neck. He unlocked the French windows in front of them, not without resistance from the rusted latch. "This is my flat."

Pete paused on the sill, startled. "Flat? You let it?"

"Own it. Bought and paid for ages ago," said Jack, flicking a light switch. Nothing reacted. "Ah, t.i.ts," he said. "Well, can't blame the power company, really. I don't think I ever paid a bill."

"Jack," said Pete, righting the urge to bang her forehead against the nearest hard flat surface, "if you own a flat, why the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l were you crashing in a squat miles from here?"

Jack fumbled in the darkness, broken only by the skeletal arches of his flat's windows. His lighter snapped and a moment later his face was illuminated with candle flame, hollow as a death mask. "n.o.body knows about this place," he said. "I bought it from a hearth witch named Jerrold. Mad as a hatter, last stages of dementia. I think he thought I was paying him to take a boil off me a.r.s.e."

"You con a helpless old man out of a flat and then don't use it," Pete muttered. "When it comes to you, Jack, that almost makes sense."

"Hang about with me a bit longer, Pete, and you'll learn the value of having a place no one knows you go to," he said. "Close the shutters. You're letting all the warmth out."

Pete stepped inside, feeling a pull against her skin as if she'd brushed cobwebs. Jack watched her circ.u.mspectly for a moment and then nodded, lighting more candles off the one he held. A mantel, fireplace, and bare wood floors flickered into view along with burial mounds of furniture that smelled like dust and rot.

"What did I just touch?" Pete rubbed her arms, hugging herself.

"The flat's protection hex," Jack said. "If you'd been unfriendly you'd experience pain unlike anything I can describe, if you were human. If you were demon, or Fae, well&" He held up his hands and made a poof poof motion. "When it comes to home security, it does not pay to f.u.c.k about." motion. "When it comes to home security, it does not pay to f.u.c.k about."

"You would have just watched me fry." Pete turned her back on him. Tired, sore. Nearly killed inside her own home, and now on Jack's turf completely. Wonderful way to keep in control of your situation Wonderful way to keep in control of your situation, she could almost hear Connor scolding.

"If you'd been out to do the same to me? Absolutely," said Jack. Candles lit one after the other now, sympathetic flames springing to life of their own accord, and they threw a glow of ancient bonfires against the walls of the flat. Pete shivered. They did little to warm.

The only furniture to speak of was a plaid sofa with springs popping out of the armrests, but there were books everywhere, on the built-in shelves to either side of the fireplace and stacked high as Pete's waist under the windows. Boxes and crates were cl.u.s.tered in a corner, and she squinted to see gla.s.s jars, grimoires bound in leather and iron, and the white of bone. She looked away before she caught sight of something that she didn't need to see.

A little over a week with Jack now. She was learning what to do when he put her into these situations.

"I'm going to sleep, if I can," she said. "Any beds, or is that reaching for the stars?"

"I think I've got a blanket or two and a mattress that doesn't have anything living in it," said Jack. "Bedroom's down the hall. Good night."

Pete took a fat black candle off the mantel and guided herself to the door, watching Jack for a moment over her shoulder. He went to the window and looked out at the street, silent and pale as a saint's statue waiting in vigilance.

The shrouded man, and Pete felt sure this time that the figure had been a man once, held out his hand, squeezing so tightly to contain the beating thing within that bone showed through his knuckles. Blood, thickened and hot, seeped through his grasp and into the graveyard dirt below. "Take it," said the shrouded man. "Take it before it dies and goes to dust."

"I&" Pete started to tell him I can't I can't, because she knew that no matter how natural it might seem to stretch out her hand, she could never contain the beating thing in the man's fist. In her grasp, it would gasp and shatter into a thousand pieces because she was weak.

Before she could speak, though, the smoke came out of the shadows and swallowed everything. This time it was in her throat, siphoning off her air and replacing everything with the hot, desert blackness of oblivion.

Pete knew she was dying, that only taking the shrouded man's offering could repel the smoke, and that she could do neither thing. She could just stand and let herself be replaced by the shadow-figure, filled and consumed body and mind by the malignance living in the smoke. It was pain, a slipping away of something that Pete tried to hold, until it tore the skin from her.

The blankets wrapped around Pete when she clawed to the surface of the waking world, smelling of pot smoke and cinnamon, mellowed and musty with age, were damp with her sweat. Her heart thrummed for the seconds it took her to realize she was awake, sun cutting across her face from unshaded windows.

"Christ on a motorbike!" She sighed, falling back and forgetting she had no pillow. "Ow! b.u.g.g.e.r all!"

Jack stuck his head through the door, hair distinctly more spiky on the left side than the right. "Everything five by five, luv?"

"Bad dream," said Pete, rubbing her palms over her face. She had broken into a fresh fever sweat, despite seeing her breath on the air and her skin p.r.i.c.kling.

"I've got breakfast on," said Jack. "Come into the kitchen."

Pete followed him, padding on bare feet that quickly went numb. "Thought the electric was off."

Jack snorted. "Think I need electric for a simple fry-up?"

Pete conceded he had a point. The kitchen's pink-sprigged wallpaper and clean white countertops reminded Pete of summer visits to her grandmother Caldecott's trim house in Galway. A kettle on the old-fashioned enamel stove radiated heat, steam roiling out of the spout. A frying pan sizzled with eggs and sausages.

"You're awfully chipper," Pete noticed as Jack fussed with mugs and tea that came from a plastic convenience-mart bag. "Your sight quiet? I find it hard to believe n.o.body died in a building this decrepit."

"Not that," said Jack. "It's this place. Whitechapel." He set a mug with a cartoon purple cow in front of Pete, and shoveled some eggs onto a plate for himself. Jack looked her over, like she was keeping a secret. "Can you feel it?"

Pete didn't like the way Jack was looking at her. It was that cold look, the one that calculated exactly how much your flesh and spirit were worth in his currency. "Feel what?" she said neutrally, sipping at her tea. It burned over her tongue.

"Whitechapel has a dark heartbeat," said Jack. "It breathes out malevolence and draws in them that need blackness to survive. Dampens the sight, like living under a bridge."

"But there are shadows under a bridge," Pete said.

Jack grinned, without humor. "Just so."

Chapter Twenty-six

"I'll still need to call an imp for the task at hand," said Jack later, his back turned as he did the washing-up. Pete was smoking a slow Parliament, mostly watching it burn in a saucer, taking a puff every few minutes as a token effort.

"You found out which one, then," Pete stated.

"Managed before the b.l.o.o.d.y bansidhe interrupted me," Jack said. "The Dictionary Dictionary is shredded, though. Lawrence will kick my teeth in for that. Man treats his books like ruddy babies." He shut off the water and dropped the mugs and plastic plates into the rack to dry. Pete saw him shake once, and grip the counter edge, but the heroin tremors were barely visible any longer, like moth's wings fluttering. is shredded, though. Lawrence will kick my teeth in for that. Man treats his books like ruddy babies." He shut off the water and dropped the mugs and plastic plates into the rack to dry. Pete saw him shake once, and grip the counter edge, but the heroin tremors were barely visible any longer, like moth's wings fluttering.

"Look," Jack said. "Go get a Times Times and find a little cafe to read it in. I'll be done by the time you get back. I know how you feel about it, all that" and find a little cafe to read it in. I'll be done by the time you get back. I know how you feel about it, all that"

"I want to watch," said Pete. The bansidhe's cuts stung her skin as she squirmed at the thought.

Jack blinked. "Pardon me?"

"I'm staying," Pete repeated. "Do what you have to do, Jack. I'll be here."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll be in the sitting room."

Pete followed after a moment. Jack was on his knees scratching an uneven chalk circle into the wood floor. In the daytime the flat was shabby in the way of an old woman on pensionfaded and stained but not without a grace. The ceilings were twice as high as her own flat, the windows arched like a church with sills a fat cat could curl on. Crown molding, rotted away in places, marched around the ceiling and the lamps were Moorish iron, gla.s.s globes sooty from their previous life as gaslights. The building might have been even older than the Blitz, judging by the cracks in the plaster and the leaded panes.

"b.u.g.g.e.r!" Jack shouted as his chalk snapped in half. He spat on the marking and erased it with his thumb. The circle encased a five-pointed star and scribbles that looked like chickens had run through a bakery. The whole affair was hopelessly lopsided and scrawled, and Pete put a hand to her mouth to hide a small smile. Jack snarled at her before he went back to drawing.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just& I imagined the whole thing would be much more sinister."

"It's been a long time since I've done this, so you can b.u.g.g.e.r yourself," said Jack. "I could go find some black cats and chicken's blood, if that would improve your experience, milady."

Pete sat on the sill, pressing her back up against the gla.s.s and letting the sunlight warm it. "Quit being childish and get the b.l.o.o.d.y imp up here. We're wasting time we could be using to help Margaret. Three days, Jack."

"All right, all right," Jack muttered. "Hold your b.l.o.o.d.y horses." He got up, dusting off his hands, and went to root around in the kitchen. He returned with a few white packets in his fist and emptied them into a red puddle at the center of the circle.

"What& ?" Pete started.

"Catsup," said Jack. "They're mad for it. I think it's the acidity. Imps eat sulfur, in the pit. Wager this tastes a deal better."

"And now I know more than I ever wanted about the preferred snack food for denizens of the underworld," said Pete, tilting her head back and shutting her eyes. "I feel so broadened."

"h.e.l.l," said Jack. "Not the underworld. You're talking about the land of the dead. h.e.l.l is another prospect entirely. It's a rather terrible insult to suggest that they're the same."

"Because G.o.d knows, the biggest biggest concern I have right now is insulting a demon," Pete muttered. She was being snarky mostly because she could feel the pull against her skin and her mind, that same p.r.i.c.kle that had overtaken her in the tomb long ago. Nervous twitches sprang to life in her gut. concern I have right now is insulting a demon," Pete muttered. She was being snarky mostly because she could feel the pull against her skin and her mind, that same p.r.i.c.kle that had overtaken her in the tomb long ago. Nervous twitches sprang to life in her gut.

"Jack," she said. He flicked his fingernail against a twist of paper and a slow ember started, curling a little smoke into the air. He dropped it inside the circle and the smoke curled and spread but never crossed the boundaries.

"Jack," Pete said again, louder. Jack glanced up at her.

"Yeah?"

Pete fidgeted. The circle vibrated a little at the edge of her vision, caused a ringing in her ears. "This will be different, won't it?"

Jack's irritation sluiced away and he gave her a regretful smile.

"Yeah, Pete. This time will be different. You have to trust me, right?"

To believe believe you you, Pete thought. Trust is another thing Trust is another thing. But she didn't say it out loud. Jack hadn't earned that, in spite of her dependence on him now that her flat was destroyed. It was just her feeling, the same one that let her know she was walking down a bad alley and would do well to turn around.

"Hrathetoth!" Jack said, not shouting but definitely commanding something. "Hrathetoth, the offering has been placed upon the consecrated ring and I command thee, at my will, appear." Jack sounded as if he were reading off a tube schedule between High Barnet and King's Cross, but the lack of ceremony did nothing to put Pete at ease. That was how it had started, before.

Something sparked and popped in the center of the circle, over the pool of catsup. "Come off it, Hrathetoth!" Jack snapped. "I compelled you; now show your weasely little face. It's not as if you have a choice choice."

A screech like a cat in the jaws of a bulldog stood the short hairs on Pete's neck on end, and then a snarling, twitching, fur-covered blob materialized in the circle, growing cohesive and gaining tiny horns and clawed toes and a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Hrathetoth the imp looked, on the whole, like an angry dust lion grown to unusual size and gifted with teeth and limbs. "Crow-mage!" it shrieked when it caught sight of Jack. "Explain yourself!"

"Cut that out," Jack said, flicking another catsup packet at Hrathetoth with a bored movement. "We both know this is the most excitement you'll have in a decade."