A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Morrow was abruptly on his feet, knowing they probably had only minutes. Chess made his as well, if a great deal slower than Morrow had. Rolling his eyes again, more drunkenly amused than exasperated, he observed: “Christ, it don’t never end, do it?”

“Chess, you really do need to do somethin’.” Morrow’s hands clenched; though he suspected his guns would be useless, he still itched to draw them. “That thing’s gettin’ way too close, whatever it is.”

Chess shrugged. “Bet you eights to aces I can kick its ass.”

“But I can’t.” Morrow moved to look him straight in the eye. “Now—do you care?”

Chess met his eyes; his mouth twisted, still bright with Morrow’s blood, hungry for more. But after a second: “Screw it,” he said, and squooched up his face with a grunt.

The air slapped blunt against them both, a phantom bedroll swung hard. Morrow staggered, boots connecting hard onto dry earth. All of an instant, there was a whitewashed two-storey building towering up above, a sign over the main doors proclaiming it the Cold Mountain Hotel. “Rooms to Let,” said a smaller one, beneath. Though light leaked from inside, the street around was thankfully empty, the whole town apparently still catching up on their last few minutes of good night’s sleep.

Easier than last time, by far, Morrow realized, for him to jump from here to there; by the look of it, he ain’t even breathin’ hard. That can’t be good.

The world reshaped itself to Chess’s liking now—tried its level best to anticipate his whims, however fleeting. This was what godhood maybe meant, in its most casual sense—godhood without responsibility, writ small an

d mean, with all the parts of that state that might possibly be of some benefit to others extracted and thrown away, replaced with nothing but vengeful idleness.

Unaware or all uncaring of his companion’s train of thought, Chess grinned wide; seemed like the journey’d sobered him some, at least. “Think I might be finally gettin’ the hang of this mode’a transportation,” he said. “Hell, I don’t even feel like pukin’ my guts out. Just thought how I wanted someplace safe to sleep, and what do you know—”

“Got any cash?” Morrow asked, cutting him off. “’Cause . . . we left all our gear back there, just like the last go-round.”

“Aw, crap.” Chess shook his head. “Money. Well . . .”

He turned out his pockets one by one, yielding nothing but dust and grit. Then shrugged, and fluttered his fingers—and watched a stone four yards away pry itself from the ground, skipping right to his hand, as if summoned. He closed his eyes and ran his other palm over it, opening his fingers.

The stone shone under dim lamplight, seamed with purest gold.

Chess smirked. “Close enough.”

Chapter Five

Now:

Though the girl at the door—innkeep Colder’s only daughter—barely came up to Morrow’s armpit, that fact seemed not to bother her at all. Those wide-spaced grey eyes held his gaze, mild but level, utterly unafraid.

Something ’bout her, Morrow thought, not knowing exactly what. Yet more hexation? Or had it just been that long since he’d stood so close to something in a skirt wasn’t a drab, whore, witch, or some ancient god unconvincingly dressed up in lady-meat?

“Hey!” Chess broke in, from behind. “I said, come the fuck in, if you’re comin’. And shut the damn door, while you’re at it.”

She nodded, and did. Observing, at the same time, “That’s quite the dirty mouth you’ve got on you there, Mister Pargeter, for a man in dire straits.”

“Oh, do tell. Well, as to that—I’ve got a whole raft of other bad habits, to boot. Care for a demonstration?”

“Not tolerably,” the girl replied, shifting her stare to his. And Chess’s initial half-smile became an outright bark of laughter, less insulted than oddly impressed.

“Find I halfway like this one, Ed,” he announced. “Yourself?”

Morrow shrugged. “Think we should probably ask Miz Colder here what it is she wants, if you’re done admirin’ the sound of your own voice.”

Chess laughed once more, and swept her a mocking bow.

Sad thing was, thus far, Morrow’d liked his stay at Colder’s better than any other place he’d been since last year. Certainly helped that Chess’d spent the first three days deeply asleep, exhausted by his arcane overexertions. If Morrow’d been a different sort, in fact, he might’ve thought hard on cutting out while the getting was good, and seeing just how far that took him, ’fore Chess came hunting after.

But he wasn’t—and besides, he knew better. Wasn’t Chess, alone, who wanted him in his current place. And he sure didn’t hope to see either Rook’s ghost-self or that thing again—the Enemy, horrid chest-doors all a-clack—anytime soon, if he could help it.

So he ate civilized food, drank sparingly, and enjoyed the sadly unfamiliar chatter of perfectly normal people for once, while he had the opportunity. Right up until the morning he came halfway down to breakfast, then froze on the landing at the sudden realization that Colder’s front rooms were jammed chock full of the exact same folk had chucked trash at ’em down Mouth-of-Praise’s main street, a mere week previous.

Morrow busted back in and turned the lock, only to find young Mister P. abruptly awake once more—lounging ’round their room, a mysterious bottle in hand.