A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

hand on one gun-butt. “Can’t you do nothin’ more for him?” he demanded.

“Well now, that has to set a good five to fifteen minutes, in order for the full effect—”

“Ain’t too like to set at all, he keeps on squirming like that. So pour a fresh shot of the same down his throat, and let’s get the hell on with it.”

“Um, uhkay, Cheh,” Morrow broke in. But just at that moment—

“Chess Paaaaaaargeter!”

Fuck, Morrow thought. I knew it.

The voice came from up the street a ways, brazen-clanging, impossibly loud; it fairly seemed to make the storefront’s window jump in its frame. Chess swiped the doc’s curtains aside, trying for a better view, and got a shotgun blast over the shoulder for his pains, punching a shower of glass onto the surgery’s floor.

“Shit!” Chess cursed. “That son of a mother—”

“Chessss Paaaaargeter!” the voice repeated, yet louder, and the next bunch of pellets peppered higher, some through Chess’s hat-brim. Chess cross-drew, firing back blind ’til he ran dry. At the same time, Morrow reared up, automatically grabbing for his own gun, only to be astonished—make that horrified—by how easily Glossing managed to press him back down to the couch.

“Sir—sirs!” the dentist protested. “Pargeter—Reverend Rook’s Chess Pargeter?”

Not anymore, Morrow felt like telling him. But the tincture was definitely starting to work, in that the general cacophony made his head ring swoonishly. Swallowing, he squared his jaw, and managed—“Who ih thah?”

Chess was down on the floor now, “reloading” his empty guns—chamber by chamber—with fiery little clots of spell-work that dropped from each fingertip in turn. “Can’t damn well see, Goddamnit.” To Glossing: “And as for you, just keep on goin’. I want my money’s worth.”

“I believe I asked you a question, Mister—”

From the street: “—PAAAAARGETER!”

Chess turned, fixed him with a narrowed green glare and rose to his full height—which, though nothing much comparatively, gave him a good half-inch on Glossing.

“Yeah, that’s right, Doc: I’m Chess Pargeter, he’s Ed Morrow—this is a gun, and so’s this. Now, I’m just gonna go outside and kill that big bastard, and if I come back in here and find Ed ain’t been fixed in the interim, you best believe I will end you. Got that?”

The dentist drew himself up in turn, primly. “We take an oath, Mister Pargeter, the same as any other school of medicine. I aim to honour mine.”

Chess shrugged. “Guess we’ll see,” he replied, and went slamming out the back.

Morrow tried to angle himself so he could see the street—then let loose with a startled yowl as Glossing grabbed his head by the swollen jaw, moving it firmly back to the vertical.

“Quite enough of that,” the dentist told him. Adding, kind but strict, like a horse-breaker at work: “I’d rather have had a few more minutes setting time to give you, but this will have to do. Hold as still as you can, Mister Morrow.”

More cold metal wedged his mouth open. Morrow braced himself for agony as the pliers made contact with the bad tooth—but the only thing he felt was the featherlight stroke of soft fingertips on his forehead. A split second later, a warm, fuzzy, gluey feeling took hold, like thick treacle coating every nerve; the faintest pressure, for all that Morrow knew the grabbers and brace dug equal-deep. Glossing’s face, above him, was a blurred black featureless mask against the light.

This ain’t natural, Morrow thought, stupidly. More like . . . supernatural.

Which meant—hexation. And hexation meant a trap.

Aw, crap.

Chess! Morrow yelled, or tried to; least he owed him was a warning. But all that came out was a harsh rasp of breath, a bit too much like a death-rattle for comfort.

Glossing might have shaken his head—hard to tell, at this angle. “Save your strength, Mister Morrow.” His voice sounded like bubbles bursting in deep water, far away. “I guarantee my clients painlessness, but you’re far from the first to dislike the side effects. Silence really is golden, it seems, especially when fitting a man for gold teeth. Though I admit—” and here he let his own show, in a sly flicker of discoloured porcelain “—they’re seldom quite so lucky for me, either. Now, before I forget . . .”

He leaned in, twisted and yanked, hard—’til something gave with a wrench, snapping away with a dull, concussive string of throbs Morrow was thankful to barely feel. Glossing dropped the tooth into a nearby ceramic bowl, then turned to peer out the window, pliers still in the hand he used to shade his eyes.

“Yuh . . . y’r uh hhhex!” Morrow managed to gargle, through a mouthful of blood.

Glossing looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, nodded. “Yes. I do apologize for the impacted molar curse, Mister Morrow, but I couldn’t think of a better way to guarantee you’d pay a visit to my poor establishment.” Gazing out the window once more: “No point in sending anything similar Mister Pargeter’s way, of course; it’d’ve simply bounced off and come back in my own direction, no doubt rendered considerably . . . harder, for the journey. Now, let’s us just wait and see how my friend is doing. . . .”

He appeared not to notice as Morrow, summoning every ounce of effort, pushed himself up on his elbows in order to finally get his head above the windowsill. He spat all down his shirt-front, bright red, and squinted.