A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

Still, the one thing left he couldn’t afford was for any of the rest to think him afraid.

“I’ve been advising the Lady to stop the Call for some weeks now,” Rook lied. “Obviously, it’s done all it can; just swelling Pinkerton’s ranks more than our own at this point, anyhow. Once it’s no longer drawing power, meanwhile, the Machine’s . . . appetite should diminish, enough to give us time enough to find another source.”

“Source of what, exactly?” Clo asked. “Feedstock?”

“Sustenance,” Rook corrected. “All cities are gluttons on their own flesh. New York any different in that respect, Hank?”

“New York’s got close on a million lives to spare, Reverend,” Fennig replied, “whereas if we’ve topped five thousand, it’s news to me. How many hexes die a day on the Moon Court’s altar? Six? Eight?”

“Used to be, sure. Less by far, since the Mexes turned up.”

Leaning forward, Fennig’s three-fingered hand jabbed the tabletop. “’Kay, then: let’s say, without the Call, the Lady don’t need more’n one or two. Anyone care to wager on her choosin’ to settle for what she ‘needs,’ ’stead’a whatever she damn well feels like takin’?”

Rook’s voice hardened. “We’ve all gone that bet, Henry,” he rumbled. “All staked our lives on her bein’ wise enough not to waste what she can’t replace yet, not before we’ve won for good. You’re lettin’ your fear run away with your temper, and this ain’t the time.”

Fennig held still a moment, but subsided, his breathing harsh. “Not like we don’t have options, either,” Rook added, “unkind as they might strike certain tenderer ears amongst us. Auntie Sal — in your informed status as Midwife General, how many of our hexaciously inclined female citizens are currently about to bear progeny, ’sides from the obvious?”

Followell sniffed. “Marse Followell an’ all his kin dead now these good four year, Reverend, which means I don’t have to be nobody’s ‘auntie’ no more. But as to your question — three score, just about, with ten to fifteen ready to drop within the fortnight.”

“So many?”

“All witches work a charm to keep their childbed empty, but some gave it up after comprehendin’ they could survive havin’ a hexacious babe, here. Still, since most’ve ’em never expected to keep a babe anyways, they got about as much fine motherly feeling as alley cats — give you whatever you want, probably, long as there’s money or privilege in it for them.”

“Just you wait one damned moment, Reverend Rook.” Clo fought her way to her feet, bracing on Eulie’s and Berta’s shoulders. “Are you telling me you’ll order our womenfolk to rip their own childer from their breast, render ’em up to be boned like fishes on that Hell-shat slut’s altar, just to keep this City alive another month?” The rage began to spark off her hair, spontaneous flares of magic crackling from fingertip to scalp, actinic-bright. “Anyone tries the same wi’ me, an’ I’ll — ”

“Not one of us will take any babe against its mother’s will,” Rook assured her. “But you recall your Oath, Clodagh Killeen.” He touched the name with power, enough to still her where she stood. “Disobey Lady Ixchel, break your word, it’s your life and your babe’s, with nothing I can do to stop her — not me, not Henry, not your sisters here. That what you want?”

Chest a-heave, Clo sat back down, heavily, into Eulie and Berta’s arms — a four-arm hug, half embrace, half restraint.

“If all else fails,” said Rook, “the Machine can be fed with the blood of the non-hexacious, as it was by Her worshippers of yore; them Mexes ensconced in the Moon Court alone prove that, as Miz Marisol could tell you. Which ain’t as potent, but means that even if we don’t have as many such as we’d like, we can still do what they did: take prisoners.” He tried to smile. “And fortunately for us, we just so happen to have a literal army of potential donors encamped outside these very walls.”

“The Pinkertons?”

“Who else?”

Fennig nodded, ruminating. “Cert, I see it now. Like back home, when they swelled the constabulary with any man-jack could stand a beatin’, no matter if he’d been gang-bound before — or stayed so, after.”

“Exactly. The strength that army gives us, once taken, will give us the strength to take other armies . . . any, however many are sent, whosoever sends them, each victory making us all the more invincible. Go forth to meet them like the Israelites of old, with Ixchel’s banner before us like the Ark before Moses.”

“Conquerors,” said Fennig, voice suddenly gone flat. “That the way of it, Rev?”

“Moral qualms, Hank? You never struck me as a man scared to do what needs doing.”

“When it does, and t’protect my own? Hell, no. But I — we — didn’t come here with it in mind to become no new Alexanders, neither. Just to rake our plot, raise our seed and live like we never could, back in the Five Points.” He reached out a hand, not even looking to see if Clo, Berta and Eulie would all put theirs atop his, which they did; as always, Rook envied his easy trust in their affections, so much it almost made him green.

“That Goddamn Oath,” Clo growled. “Times like these, I wish I’d plucked me own tongue out before uttering its first word.”

“You had, you or your babe’d most like be dead, by now,” Followell pointed out. “An’ don’t you glare at me none, miss — but seein’ you don’t know my tale, I’ll tell it. I come on late, didn’t flare up with my bleedin’, so I had three babes laid in to suck who died on me and never knew why, not ’til I woke up ravin’ with fever, too delirious t’see I was so strong now, I’d already brung myself back from the dead.

“Even then, when I did know, could I stop? No ma’am. I went on an’ killed my own boy, ate ’im up like candy. Was after that I finally broke an’ run, for fear Marse Followell’d try to keep on breedin’ me — he was just the sort of fool gotta have all his dogs and niggers be top merchandise, and wa’nt ’bout to quit the idea just on my account. Not like he could stop me, though, once I got my mind made up. And that’s why there ain’t no Marse, no more — no Followell Plantation, neither.

“So. Say the Machine stops, and the Oath falls to pieces — you pondered much on that? A thousand hexes, all turned on each other at once; you an’ your babe, your sisters — yes, your man, too! ’Cause love won’t help, as I’ve lived long enough to know, Miss Clo.” Her voice roughened. “Think on why ‘mages don’t meddle,’ an’ you’ll find the truth right quick. Without the Oath, we’re all of us naked to our own hunger, just meat served up for judgement. Myself, I’ll do whatever best be done, to keep that day from my door . . . and you — will — too.”

Such eyes that old woman had! Rook found himself fair melting under their regard, worn away like soap, reduced to a seat-shifting boy. Knew the others must feel much the same, considering how their own gazes fell, guiltily, to the tabletop. Soon enough, however, the spell was broken by a voice he’d frankly never hoped to hear within these precincts — soft yet horribly present, as though it sprang full-blown from the brainpan of every hex there.

“Well put, my dark daughter. Your wisdom is admirable — your loyalty, also.”

And in stepped the one woman-shaped thing none of ’em would have ever conjured on their own, given the option: Rainbow Lady Ixchel, the Suicide Moon herself, who came melting through the wall like all the chinks between bricks were one door split in a thousand pieces, each opening only to her command. Then hung there by Rook’s side with the exposed bones of her feet barely scraping against the floor, while her dragonfly cloak swarmed in to meet her — wrapping her close ’til nothing remained of that half-flayed corpse-face but a shimmering veil disclosing just her eyes, her too high brow and an inexplicable glimpse of purplish-dark lips strained back over teeth rendered wolf-long by her gums’ retreat.