A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Chess bit his lip, clamping down hard on a swift That’s how much you know, motherfucker. . . .

Yet the images bled through nonetheless, etched in pure sensation: nightmare sketches of the valley scorched, Morrow dead with a hole ’twixt his eyes, Yancey and Geyer in similar poses; Joe took into custody or swung outright, his whole place burnt down. A flood of Pinks, Songbird pulling spells from the air like unpicking silk ’broidery, Asbury with his sparking pain-rope wires, Pinkerton’s maimed grin.

Or, if nothing else—Sheriff Love appearing, inevitably, over the same hill they’d climbed to get here. Hoffstedt’s Hoard again a hundred times over, a hundred times worse.

And each and every part of it consequential not just to what Chess’d done—’cause I’ve done a heap of shit merits killin’, Edward, before and after—but because of what he was: a walking plague, a cursed object. A God- (and gods-) damned hex.

“That was never anything you could’ve done something about, though,” Morrow said. “Not even if you’d suspected. Hell, you could’ve shot yourself in the damn head the minute Rook told you, and all that’d’ve done was bring it on the faster.”

Chess gave a long sniff, mouth twisting. “If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it ain’t working.”

“You’re not the worst thing ever happened, son, is all. No matter how you like to think different.”

“Tell that to the Marshal, that other Sheriff, those yokels from Mouth-of-Praise. To Y—that girl’s—damn Pa.”

“So you’re scared, like I said; no shame in it. You know that already, from the War—fear’s what keeps you upright, keeps you human.”

“Too bad I ain’t, though.”

“You ain’t not, either, fool. Not completely.”

“I can see how it’s going, even if you can’t,” Chess said, at last, his voice all but toneless. “It’s gonna be like the Hoard was, soon enough—everything, everywhere, all ’cause of me. My own damn fault. And though I can do every other fuckin’ thing, I can’t do a thing about that. Can’t even start to know how to try. . . .”

He winced again, caught in another breath, curdled in his throat like a half-choked sob.

“No,” Morrow told him, simply. Then leaned in and kissed him, hard; wound Chess’s arms in his, pressed him back and down, felt him strive against it ’til familiarity took over, one last time . . . that struck tuning-fork tone echoing through both their bodies, opening Chess’s mouth, his legs. Rousing both their cocks like a carnal magic trick and fitting each to each, slick-sliding, stiff and ready to rut.

No, Morrow thought, this is nothing I could feel for a brother. Thank whatever Lord watches over such foolery, above or below.

They went at it with a will, chasing distraction hammer-hard ’til it finally surprised them both, drawing a mutual grunt and holler. And if either might’ve been picturing another at the peak, they knew each other well enough (at this point) to keep that fact a secret.

In the last few seconds before red faded fast to black, however, Morrow realized not only that he still hadn’t told Chess what Geyer’d let slip on Pinkerton, but that Chess—attuned to others’ thoughts though he might be—hadn’t sensed enough of that lingering echo even to ask.

No point in hurrying bad news, he thought, dimly. Always gets there too fast for comfort in the end, no matter what.

Chess, meanwhile, his most immediate hungers well-met, was already snoring.

Eventually, Kees Hosteen’s ghost came to stand a while by the rumpled bed’s side, watching their twined bodies sleep; some time after, he made a stroking motion over rather than through Chess’s curls, as though unable to accurately judge the distance between objects from the real world and wherever he was, no matter how close the one might impinge upon the other.

Then, as the sun began to rise, he bowed his head and let the various parts of him eddy away, leaving no trace behind.

Chapter Thirteen

It took what felt like hours for Yancey to find her way back to sleep, after her dream of Edward Morrow—the shreds of which, even now, flushed her skin hot and pounding—broke with a force that vomited her out into the darkness of her room, shuddering and sweat-soaked under her quilt. When fatigue finally stole back over her, she slid under with the dim thought that at least, with no chores to do, she could lie abed as long as she needed in the morning. But lifelong habit bred betrayal, and with the sun’s first light Yancey found herself wide awake once more, blinking at the room’s ceiling.

She lay still, only half aware of a soft rasping sound she finally identified as Mister Geyer’s snores; the ghost of an ache, more mental than physical, lingered in places she hadn’t realized could pain her. At length, she forced herself to her feet—stepping over Geyer where he lay rolled up in the moth-eaten rug, wadded coat pillowing his head—and went to the washstand to splash tepid water over her face.

The air had that same peculiar stillness as a thousand mornings in the Cold Mountain, making memory seize her throat and eyes like venom. She had to brace herself against the washstand, choking, ’til the burn of it subsided.

Presently, she wiped her eyes clear, wondering if there was some other source of fresh wash-water to be found, since she’d only doffed her boots and stockings for sleep, and her conjured clothes seemed the equal of any more mundane garb for soaking up sweat and dust. On the landing, a window showed a hut out back: obviously a coldhouse, from its planking’s thickness, the heavy tarring in every seam and condensation stains along its base. Beside it—thank Christ—a pump.

Continuing down into the main room, she found Joe behind the bar, recombining what dregs he could save from mostly empty bottles into new ones. “You do know that’s as surefire a way to spread fluxes, coughs and colds as you could ask,” she offered, noting he did at least make an effort to only mix spirits of a similar type.

Joe merely shrugged. “Folks like the all-sorts; crowd here’s pretty rough, and I ain’t got stock to waste. And spirits ain’t so contagious as you’d think. Hunting up a wash, am I right?” Nodding to the left, behind the bar: “Door out back. Screen and a bucket by the coldhouse, you want some privacy.” His mouth skewed oddly, yellow teeth shown in something she couldn’t quite read as a smile. “Anybody you don’t mind joinin’ you, they come a-lookin’?”

The dream slammed back into Yancey’s skull, face erupting with fresh heat, so she took refuge in dignity. “I hope, Mister . . . Joe . . .that you don’t think my current company is any indicator of my nature.”

“Hard to know what to think.” He began putting the newly filled bottles away on the shelves, pushing the empties aside. “Only know I ain’t never seen but one kind of person ride with Chess Pargeter: all monsters, one way or another.”