A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

I shouldn’t be here, he thought. Then surprised himself by following that already surprising statement up with: Nobody else should, either.

“Mister Pinkerton.” Ed staggered to his feet, bringing Yancey up with him. “You’ve no reason at all to credit my word, not now—but if you stick your oar in here, it’ll cost lives don’t need to be lost.” He turned to Songbird. “And you, lady . . . you must’ve seen what went on in Mouth-of-Praise and the Hoard for yourself, in your scry-mirror; you need to tell ’em what they’re facing. Before—”

“What we face, Mister Morrow,” Pinkerton’s tar-and-gravel voice boomed out, making an obvious effort to regain intelligibility, “is renewed war wi’ Mexico, over the devastation of their capital by yuir invert sorcerer allies! Do ye no’ ken how fierce President Johnson is tae avoid another conflict, wi’ our own nation still in tatters?” Pinkerton leaned forward, febrile eyes ablaze. “I’ve been given carte blanche to deal wi’ them as I see fit—to purge this hexslinger-birthed rot from American soil. The garrison at Yuma has already been ordered in, plus a full detachment of the Treasury’s Secret Service Division; the Army’s strength is mine, too, for the asking. We’ll start here, and then move on tae Rook’s hex-haven, razing as we go.”

“Johnson? The man’s a fool and a double-crosser, as you well know, from his conduct during Wartime!” Though Morrow aimed his words at Pinkerton, Chess could tell he meant them for the men below, whose eyes had begun to flicker sidelong, looking for certainty in their fellows, and not finding it. “Don’t let yourself be used, sir. Don’t throw yourself—your men—away.”

From Pinkerton, no response at all; from Songbird, only a delicate yawn. But from Asbury—a slackened jaw, cut with dismay. Chess watched him look Pinkerton up and down as if truly seeing him for the first time, and saw that dismay deepen.

“A man might truly believe ye meant only the best for us, Edward, after all,” Pinkerton scoffed. “But then again, seems ye’ve found an innocent of yuir own tae protect.” The collar shifted, hidden smile beneath rendered awful by exclusion, as his regard fell on Yancey.

Songbird snorted. “No innocent, this one, Pinkerton-ah. She has her own minor witchery, steeped in Pargeter’s taint. Not that it is any match for mine.”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak for me, little girl,” Yancey told her, coldly. To Pinkerton: “Experiance Kloves, sir; widow to the Marshal Uther Kloves, of Hoffstedt’s Hoard, who gave his life against—that thing, over there.” She indicated Sheriff Love, who just stood there with fists clenched, fuming at the interruption. “So I think I’ve as much right to a say in this matter as any of you.”

Pinkerton’s brows might have lifted just a notch, while Asbury’s cheeks reddened further. “We . . . we deeply regret the suffering visited upon you, Madam, as on all unwittingly placed in the path of this chaos,” the Professor said, weakly. “But surely, that only shows you how Messrs. Pargeter and Rook must be contained, before they cause more of the same, to others.”

“Aw, name of Christ Jesus, stop lumpin’ me in with Ash Goddamn Rook!” Chess shouted. “We ain’t joined no more, at the hip or elsewise! I’d spill his blood sooner than any of you!”

Pinkerton, with high disdain said, “Yuir arrangements are of nae interest tae me, Pargeter. Will ye cooperate peaceful, or must we assert oursel’s? An answer is all I require.”

But it was Love who replied, finally roused to action.

“Then I believe you’ll all just have to wait your turn, to get it,” the Sheriff said, and whipped eel-quick to the front of the line, past Chess, Yancey and Morrow alike; his passage’s gust whipped up salt-crystals in every direction, drawing blood and breath, while Chess and his companions just stood fast.

’Cause we’re used to it, Yancey thought, with grim humour.

“We’re taking Pargeter in, Sheriff,” was all the prime Agent replied, however. “That is the fact of it.” Adding, as if he’d only that moment remembered: “And we’ve a raft of charges tae append to you as well, while we’re at it.”

“I’m surprised you use my rightful title.”

“Why not? They’ve no’ elected anyone else in your stead, since Pargeter and Rook laid ye low.”

“No, ’cause there’s none left to vote on the matter. And where was this private army of yours when Satan’s minions made sure of that, I wonder?”

From Asbury, hastily: “Mister Pinkerton can’t be expected to maintain a presence in every homestead, surely, Mister Love! Besides which, it was your own . . . misfortunes which caused him to send to the Department of Experimental Arcanistry, leading to the engagement of my services.”

“To do what? Take reckonings, measurements, while my flock wears away by degrees?”

Asbury blanched, unable to keep his eyes from jittering to a nearby triplicate entanglement of what had once been men, uppermost of whom Chess thought he recognized: Same fucker’d held him down and broke his nose for him while the others laid on the boots, before Rook finally joined the party. Now he was missing half his own beak, left-hand eye socket hollow. And the oddity of it was, though Chess would usually have had to kick himself to rouse even a semblance of sympathy, he now found he felt . . . quite the opposite.

Like I’d have to work hard not to care ’bout what that sumbitch brought on himself, he thought, panic rising in his empty chest.

“No’ our charge,” Pinkerton threw back, unmoved. “From all reports, I’d’ve supposed ye a man well capable of looking after yuirself, let alone yuir kith and ki—”

“You shut your damnable mouth.”

The sound slid in, so low Chess felt it in his joints and skull-plates, a sickeningly deep roar. Without thinking, he put forth his own power, rooting himself to the ground; Morrow and Yancey, not similarly anchored, clung together, swaying. The hex-run train jolted, cars sent crashing up against one another; thin-voiced cries skirled out from inside locked boxcars. Pinkerton gripped the caboose railing hard as Asbury lurched beside him, wide-eyed. Songbird, meanwhile, merely lifted off, scarlet-lacquer parasol shifting neatly to block the sun as she hovered mid-air a few inches above the planks, staring down.

And the Pinks, all thirty or so, howled rage that turned swiftly to terror as waves of salt—liquid-flexible yet still stone-hard, and h

eavy—came flowing up their boots and legs, encasing them ’til only their fear-maddened faces remained free. Then put forth yet another delicate membrane at Love’s command, and sealed over the men’s mouths, silencing them.

“There,” the Sheriff said. “That’s better.”

Between the paralyzed Pinks and Chess’s fellow travellers, three mighty columns reached high, then bent over, ends splintering to a dozen sharpened points—each of which bore down on a different target: Pinkerton, Songbird, even Asbury, now gone a truly sick-looking grey.

“You will not interfere with my appointed retribution,” Love stated. “Your men have no power over me, and your allies, Mister Pinkerton . . . like yourself . . . stink of hexation, as the Devil breathes sulphur. Whereas I have divinity at my back. So here’s the choice, plain and simple: let Pargeter and me settle this, and live—or interfere, and face God’s judgement.”