A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Chess clenched his hands on the iron rail and he felt its edges press into both palms, vaguely flaky, as with rust or rotting paint. So real, and yet . . .

A dream, he told himself. That’s all this is. He can’t touch me, not really.

Not him. And not her, either.

Yet even as he formed the thought, he knew it in error. Because now he could feel the darkness clotting all around him, swallowing him whole. Shadow like mist to his waist and a disembodied mouth nuzzling at his parts, sweet-dreadful, rousing him like no other woman’s ever could; wrong, Jesus, so damn wrong. A rising buzz. A rustling of papery wings.

Look down, risk just the quickest glance, and that black at his belt became her swirling hair—she looked up, smiled in welcome, her jade-chip teeth sharp.

I have waited so long to greet you again properly, my husband’s husband. Poor, angry little warrior . . .

Oh God, get the hell AWAY—

Rainbow Lady Ixchel taking shape, summoned the faster by his fear, in all her awful glory. To wrap herself ’round him just like she’d done that endless night at Splitfoot Joe’s, screwing down onto him and riding him for her pleasure. When he’d been at her mercy, and Rook hadn’t done a damn thing to help—just pushed them closer together with one hand on Chess’s sick-sweaty back, so she could have her will.

Watch how our holy city comes to life, she murmured, almost fondly, licking at his ear. This is what was meant to be, what must be—and you should be here to see it, so they can lie prostrate before you, do you due worship. So they see for themselves the God for whom all this was made.

Chess shrugged himself free of her, well aware he only had the juice to do so because of what she—and Rook—had wrought him into, and bitterly resenting it. But damn, it felt fine to do so, anyhow. Far too fine to stop.

And here he felt it again, all over, unwilling but undeniable: that power, Glossing’s and otherwise, torrenti

ng down into him from every direction. Making him fume and spark out every pore at once, as though his whole body were a fuse lit by some unknown hand.

Don’t want none of your . . . tribute, damnit! He snarled, lips fletched back to the canines.

Yet it comes to you nevertheless, she pointed out. It all goes to you, so you can do what you must. Intent does not matter; your blood cries out, and theirs answers. The river flows in only one direction.

Chess tried to spit in her mocking face, but the dragonfly cloak she wore whisked her away, depositing her neatly out of range. So he did the next best thing, and drew on her instead—cocked back the hammer, snarl sliding straight to grin.

Uh huh. Well, stand still a while, bitch—’cause for all I ain’t much of a debater, I think I maybe got you a suitable rebuttal right here.

Ixchel considered him, her chill gaze moon-calm. The venom-green sky behind her gave her olive skin the tint of verdigris, made her face a tarnished copper mask. There is nothing you could do to me, little killer, even were your weapons real. As we all three of us know.

Goin’ by history alone, I could probably at least perforate that carcass you’re wearin’—just like Ed Morrow did, down in Hell’s half-acre. Or did you forget about that?

She clicked her tongue. Unruly! You should have been beaten with nettle switches. Throwing her eyes Rook’s way: Must he always be so difficult, husband?

Rook’s mouth twitched, fond and rueful. Must, I don’t know about. Is, though, usually.

You’d know, Chess thought.

But Rook was already talking at him again—voice affectionate, a laudable parody thereof—Listen, darlin’—remember back when I first woke up, after they swung me? How I was stuck working from the Bible, as though if I didn’t quote Verse on what I had in mind, then nothing was like to happen? Well, that was my mistake. What I knew best, so I wouldn’t let it go . . . assumed I needed it, when really . . .

. . . he does not. And never did.

Magic ain’t a gun, Chess; you can’t treat it as such, or it’ll blow up in your hand. And I know that eventually, you’ll outgrow thinking life’s a problem best solved with a bullet . . . but we can’t wait for that.

Chess guffawed, nastily. Oh, spare me. Think all you got to do is feel on me some in a dream, and I’ll do your damn will from then on? That’s some cheap ride you ’spect to take on me, Reverend; thought I taught you better that-a-ways, at least ’bout how my Ma told me to reckon myself.

Rook contemplated him a heartbeat, with what almost looked like—sorrow? Insult?

I’ll never love anyone like I loved you, Chess, he said. Believe it or don’t.

That’d be ‘don’t.’

Ixchel gave a laugh of her own, eking up slow as if it came from deep down under-earth, where all Mictlan-Xibalba’s horrors lurked. The cogs of some ’quake-engine cut from stone and greased with bone-dust, grating against each other.

Your prerogative, Rook allowed. Consider this, though. For all Ed’s a decent sort, he ain’t like you or I. The longer you stick with people like him, whether it’s for fancy or to pay us back, or just to stick your thumb in God’s eye awhile—the more you’ll bring down on their heads. You’re a plague to normal citizenry now, Chess, even more so than you ever were. Hexes will come and dash ’emselves against you, go up like rockets, and catch everyone else around in the back-blast.