A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Unable to stop himself, Chess saw Glossing’s dying face—those rabbit-eyes closing, lids twitching dimly, like he was almost glad to bid farewell to any world held Chess in it. Heard those townsfolk yelling trash at him, and felt his free hand fist, itching to blast ’em where they stood.

Which is why, Ixchel put in, you must accept what you are: our Flayed Lord, red god of red Weed, Opener of our Way. Fight this, and you only fight yourself.

Chess bristled. So now you come at me both together, I’m s’posed to just roll over? Screw that, and screw all them other motherfuckers, likewise! You put this shit on me—hoodooed me into sayin’ yes, then went on and did it anyways, even when I stopped. Which is where you both fucked up, or so your Enemy tells me. . . .

Oh, be silent! Even Rook took a step back as the air around Ixchel blazed, stone thrumming beneath her bare feet; the city itself seemed to shimmer and recede. Do you think yourself special? We were all of us ixiptla, once upon a time—

(even me, even)

(HE)

A flood of images behind his eyes—or did that work, seeing his eyes were closed already? Chess saw blood and bone and stone knives tearing, heard alien words and knew their meanings before she was done speaking them, before their vowel sounds had scratched his ears’ drums. Tlacacaliztli, piercing with arrows. Tlahuahuanaliztli, gladiatorial combat. Tlacamictiliztli, extraction of the heart . . .

(His breastbone aching in sympathy, cleft and barely re-sewn, each no-beat of his own missing organ a hammer-blow echoing from the inside out.)

Cold crush of drowning. Dirt in your lungs, from burial alive. A drawn mouthful of searing heat, as skin-girt priests swung you over the sacrificial fire. Crunch and chunk of separation as your head was wrenched free, placed high in pride on the tzompantli, before your body was thrown down an endless flight of steps to slam square at the apex of a far smaller pyramid made from limp, cooling human meat.

(And that was worse, somehow. To feel even a moment’s sympathy—not for her, so much. But for the girl she’d once been.)

And now the city was gone again, the sky once more a starless but honest black, leaving he, Rook, and the Lady alone on a flat grey plain. Chess reholstered his guns, lifted his hands up between him and his tormentors, palm-out, half shield, half absolute refusal.

Get outta my dream, he told them, hard as he could. You ain’t makin’ me do nothin’—I won’t be rode, let alone broken. Goddamn you both! I will not do what I won’t!

Rook was a towering, fading silhouette, recognizable only to one who knew the shape of his features in the dark. Okay, darlin’. But, see—problem is—

—you will, Chess Pargeter. As we all must, eventually.

It was a moment before Chess realized he was finally awake, for good and true; the smoky smell of campfire embers rose in the desert chill, unblurred by furnace-reek or magic’s stinging tang. He held his breath, and waited.

The world stayed as it was, unchanging.

Chess let out a huge sigh, and was struck abruptly with an almighty need to piss, which drew a laugh. Cheered immeasurably, he rolled to his left, away from the campfire, hit something rough, then looked up—and up, and up.

Twelve feet tall, black as tar and shiny as glass, head and shoulders blazing with blue fire, the Enemy—Ixchel’s, Rook’s, his, the whole wide world’s—grinned back down at him, its teeth like knives.

She is right, of course, it said.

Chess crab-scrabbled backwards so the fire was between ’em, anything to get away. Then glanced down himself, all unthinking, and screamed out loud.

Chapter Three

“Seemed nothin’ out of the usual, when we went to bed,” the man—Yancey Colder thought his name might be Frewer, but wasn’t sure—began, eyes kept careful on the teacup he held balanced on one skinny knee. “I mean . . . sure, that business with Dentist Glossing, earlier, but—everything’d been already took away, street swept clear of bad rubbish. Was warm and fine that night, red skies for a clement morning, not one cloud on the horizon. . . .” He trailed away, head shaking slightly. “And then . . .”

“Then?” Yancey’s Pa encouraged.

“My woman woke me, ’round about four of the clock. Said she heard this sound like something tearing, off in the distance. But when I went to take a look out the window, I couldn’t get the shutters open, ’cause they were weighted down with all sorts of . . . bugs, and other awfulness—grasshoppers, chiggers, furry-winged moths. Devil’s darning needles the size of pie-plates, rubbin’ ’emselves together ’til the hum went up too loud to yell over.”

“How long’d thi

s-all go on?” asked Sheriff Haish from his place in the corner, leaning back in his chair. Up ’til now, he’d seemed far more interested in his chaw of tobacco than in Mister Frewer’s story, but Yancey guessed that was mainly for show.

“A goodly piece after dawn.” The cup trembled between Frewer’s long hands, thin china squeaking dangerously. “We just sat there with our arms ’round the children, hangin’ on for dear life. Noise got so loud near the end, by God, it like to’ve drove us mad.”

Pa and the Sheriff exchanged a glance, but seemed to agree to let him set his own pace.

“When I was able to wedge the door,” Mister Frewer said, at last, “the street was gone, all of it. Like it’d never even been. Nothin’ left but this low rut through a tangle of roots, and every other house just slick with crawler-juice, and this smell in the air—Christ Almighty, like when that whole farm died of Yellow Jack in high summer, but nobody twigged ’til a week and a half later. All it lacked was for maggots.”

He took a shallow breath. “Happened to glance east then, where the tooth-pull shop used t’stand, and it was one big green knot, like kudzu. ’Cept for it had little red bell-flowers hung on it every-which-where, gaped wide, like snappin’ mouths.”