A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

Resolutions to be voted upon accordingly.

In attendance: Mrs. Sophronia Love (Widow), Reverend Oren Catlin, Mayor Alonzo H. Langobard, with testimony on recent breakthroughs in all matters arcanistric from Doctor Joachim Asbury.

(Though most probably unable to join with us himself, Mister Pinkerton has promised at least one more high-placed representative of his organization will also be in attendance.)

To-night’s reading: Proverbs 2, 20 to 22 —

Walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous.

For the upright shall dwell in the land, and the perfect shall remain. . . .

But the wicked shall be cut off from the earth, and the transgressors shall be rooted out of it.

BOOK ONE: RAIN-OF-FIRE WEATHER

November 11, 1867

Month Fifteen, Day Thirteen Eagle

Festival: Quecholli, or Treasured Feather

During Quecholli, prisoners dressed as deer are hunted as sacrifices to the god Mixcoatl, Cloud Serpent, Lord of the Milky Way. Since Mixcoatl was the first to strike sparks from flint, and is also a god of war — though not on the same scale as Huitzilopochtli, the Lightning-Bearer — this may explain why war is known as in atl in tlachinolli: “the water, the fire,” a flaming rain.

This Aztec trecena (or thirteen-day month) is ruled by Itzpapalotl, the Obsidian-flake Knife, first of all tzitzimime, those female warriors who have been honourably killed in childbirth. Itzpapalotl reigns over Tamoachan, the heaven for dead infants. Here grows the Suckling Tree, which bears over 400,000 nipples; here children can rest, nourished and safe, until they feel ready for reincarnation. She stands for purification through sacrificing that which is most precious.

By the Mayan Long Count calendar, today is governed by Xipe Totec, who provides its shadow soul. It is a day dedicated to Huitzilopochtli, Hummingbird on the Left, sometimes known as the Blue Tezcatlipoca — Lord of all warriors, those who willingly lose their lives in order to keep the current age, the Fifth Sun, moving forward. A good day for action, a bad day for reflection; a good day for invoking the gods, and a bad day for ignoring them.

CHAPTER ONE

Squinting up at full gallop while the rain pelted hard into his face, cold and raw as judgement, Ed Morrow almost thought he saw Heaven open, as on the final day, for: behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.

Digging his knees in, he wished that that particular passage didn’t remind him quite so much of the red beast earlier in Revelation, with its seven heads and ten horns. Let alone that the bulk of his Bible knowledge after Sunday School didn’t come from such a very . . . specific source.

Then thunder detonated, haloing Bewelcome’s pitiful excuse for a Main Street in a glare that flashed from blue-white to red to purulent green. As what looked like a blast of lightning whip-struck past, Morrow threw himself free, hitting the mud with a squelching slam that punched the wind from his lungs; as his horse ran on, unconcerned for any safety but its own, the spell-missile he’d just dodged went sizzling through the rain above him to strike one of Captain Washford’s hapless soldiers full in the face.

Yet no shriek or blood spray resulted: instead, a greyish-dun mass like some wad of dough smashed flat by an angry child sealed tight over the bluecoat’s head, a horrible flesh-bag snapped tight. He threw up arms and legs alike, rifle gone flying, and collapsed — a landed fish flopping, so disoriented he barely knew where best to claw.

With no breath left to swear and his bad knee screaming, Morrow scrambled to the other man’s aid, careful to stay flat as possible throughout, so’s to not present a tempting target. He pried his fingers under the thing’s clayey edge (blood-hot, damp and rubbery to the touch, like flayed muscle) and yanked with both hands ’til it peeled back just a titch, revealing one eye rolled up and a wrist-thick tendril shoved deep ’tween the man’s gagging jaws, bloating his neck’s dark flesh obscenely. Revulsion stomach-punched him, loosening his grip; the death mask snapped immediately back into place, writhing as it did.

Oh no you don’t, you Christ Jesus-puking piece of foulness —

Digging so hard into his breast pocket that the thing he sought fair leapt to his palm, Morrow soon came up with a familiar device, just about the size and shape of a pocket watch. He wound its fob frantically ’til it burst to shrill, buzzing life, then slammed its flat glass face into the wriggling mess, and bore down. A mindless shriek ripped his eardrums under the torrent’s drumming, fierce, yet so high-pitched as to be barely audible — then cut off, sharp as a snuffed candle. Simultaneously, the spell-chunk he gripped commenced to shrivel, gone so fast its dust had washed away almost before Morrow could let go. In its wake, the soldier jackknifed over, retching fit to dump his guts.

Poor bastard.

Apparently, however, this one was an old hand — experienced enough to get himself under control within a few whooping breaths, if nothing else. “Th’ hex . . . one who threw this . . .” he gasped out, casting ’round for his lost gun. “Where’d she . . . ?” Bolting back upright, just as fingers met stock, to holler: “’Hind you, Pinke

rton man!”

Morrow hurled himself clear, Manifold punched up like a tiny shield ’fore he even had a chance to register who “she” might be. Only instinct and speed, along with the device’s last few whirrs, saved his life as another lit cannonball of hexacious smother-flesh struck like a haymaker, knuckle to knuckle; it put him over with his wrist on fire, either broke or paralyzed. The Manifold, caught in between, burst outright, taking the spell with it — greasy shreds and gears sprayed everywhere, pattering down into the muck, while impact knocked what was left of his weapon from his hand, leaving him defenceless.

Morrow rummaged for his pistol, praying ’gainst all hope he’d somehow managed to keep his powder dry. But his eyes stayed on the girl, similarly froze maybe ten feet away, rain skittering clear of her like she was galvanized: no more than twenty, tall and lovely, her hair a braided mahogany crown. The ragged hem of a once-fine green dress mended with thread of living light just brushed her ankles, disclosing bare feet sheathed in black mud.

Poised to attack? No. Might be she didn’t understand his Manifold was gone, or had actually never before seen one at work, in close quarters. Might be she was an essentially gentle girl in bad circumstances, unfit for fighting, except at self-elected Hex City general “Reverend” Asher E. Rook’s beck and call. One way or the other, however, and with all power disparity momentarily set aside — in that same throat-catching shared heartbeat, she seemed almost as terrified as they were.

The instant Morrow finally got his gun free, her horror flashed to panic like lucifer-lit touchpaper. She flung one arm skyward, calling out to someone unseen: “I’m threatened, can’t see my way clear — help me, sissy!”

Was that flat-vowelled accent of New York extraction? One of Hank Fennig’s wives, then, Morrow thought, only to have it confirmed when the answer came back from high above — feminine likewise, but well-touched with County Cork, its hoarse musicality worn thin by shouting above the storm.