A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Too late, red warrior-boy, yet another mental voice told him—not Yiska’s, though similar. Older, and far more knowing.

Aw, horseshit, Chess cursed.

Love snarled. He fisted his hand in the ground, salt coagulating ’round it like it was wet clay, and pulled it free—then threw it hard, straight up. Magic-sink that it was, it passed straight through Songbird’s shields and smacked her ’cross the face, sealing her stillborn scream shut.

A half-second’s suffocation was all it took. Chess saw her resolve snap, smug sorceress collapsing back into a hysterical girl. Panicking, she clawed at the rigid mask, lost all control—plunged like a rock, hitting the ground at Asbury’s feet with a crack that meant the fall’d cost her at least one limb.

The binding-spell stuttered, then snapped outright. Chess roared and doubled over, power-drain opening up again—and this time Songbird, too, was set thrashing in its grip, magic leaping from her in streaks of pink-green lightning to vanish into Love’s body, just like Chess’s hex-blasts. She’d brought her own power into the circuit, and now it had closed once more she was trapped, ’long with the rest of them. Her body smoked and steamed; a horrid flush swelled the edges of her face, puffing ’em ’round the mask, like it was eating its way inside.

Chess swayed, everything he had left bent on keeping upright. Damned for his sins he might be, but he’d be damned twice over if he died on his knees.

The only warning was a jewellery-latch click, followed by some massive, indeterminate flare—instantaneous, blinding. Then the power-circuit burst apart, every mote of hexacious might flung away into the air, concussion knocking the train-cars on their sides and Love down too, back-first. The cyclone winds went slack, airborne dirt and rock pattering ground-wards. Songbird’s salt-mask poured off, leaving her to whoop a great gasp, double over and puke more salt into Asbury’s lap; her white hair, released from its confines, hung down like a second veil. And the Professor held her all the while, tender as though she were his own granddaughter.

“Oh, my dear,” he told her, with pleased relief, “do you know? I wasn’t entirely sure that that would work.”

It took Songbird a few seconds to regain awareness, after which she tried to stand but cried out, falling back into Asbury’s arms. Twitching the robe back, the injury became plain: her leg was indeed broken, bent where no joint should be. With a snarl, she contorted her hand arcanely over the injury, Chink-speak spilling from her lips.

Nothing happened.

Face shocked blank, she repeated the spell, again to no result; a third time, a fourth, faster and faster. Similarly amazed, Chess only noticed the trinket responsible at almost the same time she did: a silver-coloured bracelet of interwoven metal rods, closed over her wrist. Songbird froze, staring.

“What have you done?” she whispered. Then, twisting to face Asbury: “Old idiot, what have you done? Put it back! Put it back!” She clawed at the bracelet futilely, but it seemed locked in place: too tight to slip off, too strong to break. “Release my ch’i, gweilo bastard!”

“It was the only thing,” was all he whispered, in reply. “The circuit had to be broken, and . . . you were there, nearest to hand. The only one on whom I knew this would work.” He gazed at her, imploringly. “I meant to save your life—!”

Songbird screeched, and clawed him ’cross the face, screaming again at the jolt to her leg. Spent, Asbury made no attempt to get back up but merely lay blinking, gouges trickling thin red down both cheeks while she dragged herself close enough to do more damage, bracelet-side hand clenched in a tiny fist, like she was fixing to hammer this frail old man to flinders. And Asbury, regret-paralyzed, might just have let her—had Pinkerton not grabbed hold instead, hammer-sized grip encircling Songbird’s wrist completely.

He pulled hard and clenched, cracking metal like tinsel, then stuffed the bracelet-shards headlong down his own gullet, swallowing hard; pink-green lightning burst from every pore, rimming him head-to-toe. His skull flared, briefly visible inside his skin, free-swung jawbone clear as day. Then the light grew so blindingly fierce, even Chess had to shade his eyes—and when he could look, he found Pinkerton changed, yet again.

All final traces of corruption gone, face intact, healthy, flushed with life; even his bulk had tightened, fat sloughed off to reveal a leaner, more muscular build. And the great height he’d kept, with that moose-sized beanpole Love—feet regained—only coming up to his shoulder. Shirt and shoes and stockings had burned away, only the barest tatters of his check trousers preserving any semblance of decency. Pinkerton’s chest rose and fell, a pure delight glowing in his grin, as he turned to look down at his now-crippled former comrade.

“Never did quite grasp yuir taste for this,” he remarked—and hell if even his voice wasn’t healed, clear and resonant once more. “Damnable heathen cannibalism, ’specially when practised on yuir ane. But now. . . well, madam.” The grin widened. “I can only hope ye enjoy never havin’ tae worry o’er anyone doin’ it tae yeh again!”

Songbird rolled her face in the dust, giving out a funereal keen: “Ohhhhh, thieving wu ming shao jiu scum! Yet I will regain my power, all of it, now that trinket is removed; I will! And then, we will see—”

Pinkerton shrugged, grin vanishing. “Maybe, maybe not . . . but one way or t’other, ye’d do best tae gie it a rest.” He turned to Love, slapping his hands together. “Now. Where were we?”

For all that look of bemused wariness was probably near as Love could come to fear, nowadays, it was still oddly heartening to see. “Nowhere, Mister Pinkerton, my quarrel not being with you. You remain entirely irrelevant.”

Deliberately, the Sheriff turned his back—but the king of Pinks couldn’t leave it at that, obviously. He half-raised one fist, already ghost-fire-rimmed, only to see Love deflect the result with a single palm contemptuously raised over one shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. The blast caught Pinkerton himself on the rebound, knocking him unconscious. Asbury squawked; Songbird, too exhausted to laugh, showed her teeth in malicious glee.

“By their own hands shall they perish,” Love quoted, to himself. “Glorying in iniquity, they shall be hurled from the window like Jezebel, and eaten by dogs.”

Asbury said, “Perish? Now, see here—”

Love swung ’round—but the old man was already struck dumb, mouth stoppered by Songbird’s unmaimed hand; the girl glared up, seeming to will him quiet. And Asbury bowed his head, gaze dropping: became prim, meek as any small desert creature playing dead, to ward off predation.

Love’s faith-burnt eyes turned in Chess’s direction next, locking fast. And right that moment was when it struck Chess how Mesach Love might be weary of all this foofaraw as Chess was, if not more. Even the hatred he could still feel burning at Love’s core had guttered, while what remained around it was . . . worn thin as the walls of this place, bleached like bone left too long in the sun. As if all the power he’d consumed, from Chess and Pinkerton and Songbird alike, had done nothing but flood straight through him, wearing him away as it gushed back into the black, where something shrouded in dark fire grinned.

You know, don’t ya? Chess thought. Came back as a puppet, and that’s all you’ve ever been, all this time—an’ not one doin’ your Lord’s work, neither. Never His. Never even your own.

He cocked his head. Asked Love, out loud: “Was I worth all this, just for a measure of payback? Think hard.”

Love considered. “Were our places changed,” he said, after a moment, “how would you answer?”

Hmmm. Good point.

Chess must’ve smiled somewhat at that—grimly at best, but enough to make Love’s ashes flare up one more time. ’Cause the next thing he knew, he was blindsided by a salt-slap, pressed down face-first with the Sheriff’s sodden-grainy boot hollowing itself ’round his neck.