A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“But half of it’s my fault, too. And I know it.”

“Well. You do surprise me, Mister Pargeter.”

“Nice to know it can be done.”

And here, there occurred something utterly unexpected, something so strange in even this hundred-Hells world that Chess could only blink dumbly at it. Love looked away, shook his head . . . and smiled. A worn look, its bitterness muted only by long weariness, yet honest in its mirth as in its rue — and that mirth self-mocking, too. Then the smile died, and Love’s eyes went bleak, looking off into the distance.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I’ve been humbled here, in many ways. So any startlement brought my way by you is nowhere near the worst.”

Not much caring to think on Love’s purgatorial tribulations, Chess cleared his throat, looking ’round. “So — where exactly is ‘here,’ anyway, if I might wrangle you away from your penitences for a moment or two? And while we’re at it . . . don’t suppose you know a back way out?”

“Are you two pursued?”

Chess snorted. “Always, Sheriff.”

Love gave a nod, once more as grim as ever. “Others here have called this place the Anchorhold, after those Papist hermits who brick ’emselves into walls, to better serve God undistracted. Which fits, since from what I’ve gleaned, it’s for those who need to contemplate their sins — to think on what they’ve done, before going on. As for how one leaves, however — ” A shrug. “Might it be you’ve come bearing repentance in your heart for your crimes, Pargeter? All of them?”

“Fairly certain that’d take longer than we have to spare, even if I felt like tryin’.”

“At least you’re honest, in your fashion.”

Beside them, Oona hooted softly; Chess shot her a glare.

“I looked for a way out of the ’Hold at first, and never found one,” Love admitted. “Yet new souls do arrive — and some who were here when I arrived have gone, though none saw them go — ”

Chess cut him off with an impatient wave. “Yeah, yeah, suffer, be purified, get saved,” he spat. “No offence, Sheriff, but that’s for them’s been killed true and final. I still got a body up there, and I aim to get it back. And given who-all’s holding its reins right now, I was kinda hopin’ you’d have something a bit more helpful to offer me.”

“Who would it be you think I share your antipathy for, exactly?”

“Old friend to us both, I’ll wager he’d say; a certain big black motherfucker, got a mirror for a foot. Ring any fuckin’ bells, Sheriff?”

Love closed his eyes, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea, Pargeter,” he asked, after many moments, “how long I’ve prayed God to quench the hatred in my breast? And now you storm through, and blow all my heart’s ashes back to Hellfire in a second. For that alone, I’d have you gone — back home, to another suffering gallery, even Heaven itself, little as you merit it. But to tell me that creature, that — ”

“Enemy,” supplied Chess.

“ — that the Enemy still walks the world, using your flesh for his vessel? Where my Sophy and Gabriel dwell, and me powerless to help them . . . how can I forgive, or be forgiven, knowing that?”

“It’s a conundrum, for certain.”

Love shook his head. “You terrible little man,” he said, without rancour. “Is there any one place you’ve ever appeared, where trouble hasn’t followed?”

Now it was Chess’s turn to look down, own head shaking in response. Because, Goddamnit — he didn’t know.

The Anchorhold’s air had been so quiet thus far, but for their voices, that the sound which next intruded — a splintering crack, as of ram-smashed stone — made them all start, even Love. Oona yelped in fright, reeling away; Chess spun, just in time to see the wall at his back bulge out, white-edged fractures webbed all across the dark granite. Before he could react, the rest collapsed, pouring down ’cross the floor like sand from a cracked hourglass. Cold white light spilled in, glittering with windblown snow so white it burned blackly, reflected off of Love’s narrowed eyes.

Once again, Chilicothe was the first man to step through — lurching stiff-legged, punctured hamstring braced with the stock of his own useless rifle, strapped to fashion a crude splint. For all that the morbid lack of expression on his face did not change, Chess yet felt the lifeless gaze transfix him, a lamprey-like force locking on.

What is it you think you’re fixing to do to me, you dead-ass motherfucker? Don’t even recall your first name, if I ever knew it.

He drew in a slow illusion of breath, wondering in turn what tricks he had left to work which might throw the dead man back — ’til, without warning, a long, tall back transposed between. Chess jolted awake once more, catching Oona by the arm; Love looked back over his shoulder, head jerking sideways to indicate a potential path of escape, even as he brought fists up pugilist-style.

“Go,” the Sheriff ordered. “If this is truly not your time, Pargeter, then there may be an exit for you, and the lady — find it, while you can. These, on the other hand . . . being damned like myself, they hold no terrors for me. I doubt I can hold them for long, though, without aid.”

“But — ”

Love squinted down at him, fiercely. “No buts. Do you swear you’ll oppose him, up top, with whatever might you can lay hand to? The Enemy?”

“He’s mine as well as yours, and everybody’s, so . . .”