A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Three women, each equal-powerful. Three chances to speak plain, be heard and understood, be forgave your trespasses. A three-fold marriage without any of ’em harried by the thought of mutual damnation, or love turned to murder in a nightmare-swift eye-flick.

In that one instant, he envied Fennig and his pimp’s roster of lovelies so intensely, it made him sick—so much so that were he a far worse man, assuming that was even possible, he would’ve gladly killed ’em all, and walked away whistling.

Fennig almost seemed to see it, too—the beginnings of it, at any rate. He angled himself subtly to nudge Clo back behind him, just in case Rook saw fit to strike.

Don’t want it to come to that, if it don’t have to, Rook was surprised to realize. I’d rather by far have this one with me than against me—and his womenfolk, too.

A moment only—less, perhaps.

’Til one second was split headlong from the next by a shout, somewhere by the southernmost intake gate—“Reverend Rook! I need words with you, gringo!”

And this, too, reminded him of Chess: the glad relief of imminent threat, distraction through destruction. So, shrouding himself in a tarry halo, Rook turned to defend Hex City and his lady’s dubious honour against this latest challenger.

“Here I am,” he said.

Chapter Ten

The group set dead-centre in front of him stood together, some fourteen strong, and only now did Rook see how their stance differed from the usual supplicants’: shoulder to shoulder, braced and spread-footed, intently focused. Strangely, the clear leader—a leathery man in buckskins whose grey hair still showed streaks of south-of-the-Border black—was the one man Rook didn’t recognize. All others had been Oathed weeks previous; a passel of young male hexes, most of ’em likewise Mex or part-Mex, with glyphs, fresh-smeared in red, shining from their worn serapes and dusty shirts.

A compact, then: some sort of coup in the making. And since Ixchel wasn’t to hand, it would fall to him to crush it ’fore it got the chance to take root, let alone spread.

Not that the Mother of Hanged Men ever deigned to do much of her own hunting—even in those first days, when the City comprised no more than a few dozen citizens, she’d more often than not been content to name the offender to Rook, and stand back. But the few times she had taken a hand herself still loomed large. One offender—some white-bearded old English gaffer, strong as Rook and twice as crafty, who’d styled himself a true wizard—was lofted up by invisible talons into the air and boiled away to a cloud of shreds while Ixchel stood rock-still beneath, not even looking at the man as he died; just set her jaw and smiled, as the precious blood fell like sticky rain. Another, some N’Orleans voodooist who claimed to channel spirits more powerful than the Ball-Court’s denizens, was shown her error when every fetish she wore exploded simultaneously, unravelling her from the ankles up.

Compared to further complicity in that sort of wanton slaughter, Rook was glad to assume the role of judge, jury and (unflinching, yet fairly humane) executioner—but intervene to slap down both challengers if a brawl not designed to oust the Lady broke out, just to make sure they didn’t lose anyone too potentially useful. The best way to tame wolves, Rook had always believed, was to make them your sheepdogs. And though he doubted so soft an option would satisfy this particular shaman’s honour, he probably owed it to the more peaceful New Aztectlanites—like Fennig, and his Missuses—to at least try.

“Some say mercy is nothin’ but folly gussied up nice,” Rook began, adding a touch of skull-echo to his best preacher’s boom. “And while I’m not amongst ’em, necessarily, the law I enforce proceeds from far beyond me, admitting no quarter for defiance. So here’s all the clemency you’re likely to get, gentlemen: one warning. Stop, or be stopped.”

The Mexican mage snarled, lips lifting back, and spat. Where it fell the earth turned to quartz, lifting free from the dirt with a sound like cracking glass.

“Squawk on, carrion crow,’” he replied, scornfully. “This is Mexica business, only—so bring forth our goddess, whose throne you have usurped. We would have what she owes.”

Rook kept his rope-burnt voice placid, even as his temper began to rise. “’Fraid you’ve been misinformed, Señor—there’s nobody talks to the Lady just for the asking, ancestry notwithstanding. You talk to me, I talk to her; maybe then, if you’re lucky. But probably not.”

“’Cause that’s how you want it, huh?” one of the younger hexes called out, his coppery skin and broad cheekbones marking him more Diné than Mex. Rook thought of “Grandma,” whose true name he still didn’t know, and never would—that grim old shamaness who’d meant to educate him out of Ixchel’s clutches, only to lose her own life for the offer’s foolish softness—and felt his stomach twist with wary guilt, as the boy went on. “You get the Lady’s ear, Reverend, and the rest of us just have to knee it?”

“’Cause that’s how she wants it, fool,” Rook snapped back. “I don’t have any more damn choice in the matter than you do: gods don’t bargain, as I’ve learned full well. So if you truly want her attention, do how she likes it best—throw yourself in now, and save me the bother.”

The old mage snorted. “Think you’re the only Way-walker’s seen gods, gringo?” Something opened behind his anger like a second set of eyes, dreadful and hollow. “There’s more moving out there than her, Rook, or that skinless bed-boy of yours. Something else is coming too, and soon—something you’ve got no measure of, not in your darkest nightmares.”

“Yeah? Well, that ain’t much of a surprise.” Rook made his voice like a wall, massive, impenetrable. “I’ve seen things’d turn the rest of your hair white, old man—and we’ll all see a whole lot more of such, before we’re through.”

“But you don’t care to know what-all we got to say about it?” the Diné youth challenged.

“Nope. And since you still don’t seem to understand, I’ll elucidate.” Without warning, Rook stomped down hard. A burst of black power detonated beneath his boot heel, shuddering the entire square in outward-arcing ripples; coupsters and citizenry alike grabbed at each other, just to stay upright. Only the great ziggurat stood unmoved. “See what I mean? Foregone conclusion. This place’ll keep on growing, be New Aztectlan ’til it isn’t anymore. Which is when them as ain’t in on this will wish to Christ Almighty that they were.

“Now, you already drew your line in the sand just by comin’ here, so your only real choice is to take the Oath, spill blood and keep to the right side of it, from now on. Or . . .”

“Or?” The chief mage said, expressionless.

“. . . into the Machine you go. Like this.”

Rook swung a backhand strike, lashing invisible tendrils ’round his opponent with casual ease. In his mind’s eye, he’d plotted an arc ending with this interloper slammed down atop the Temple’s highest altar, broken and bleeding. But when he hauled hard on the web of force, he staggered, as if he’d tried to lift the entire group at once. The snare fell away.

Too surprised for fear, Rook stared, while the younger contingent exchanged looks of shock and glee admixed—same as any greenhorn who’d just seen some long-loathed rival laid out with a single punch.

“You,” the stranger told Rook, “are not the only one who knows what can come of making a vow.”

&nbsp