A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“Bad,” Morrow supplied. “Awful enough it’ll take the whole lot of us to make a dent in that bitch’s hide, and even then . . .” He shook his head. “Well, right now, I’m damn glad they were able to get you top-side again for better reasons than the usual — ’cause ghost or no, you’re just about the biggest gun we got.”

Not that he wanted confirmation of Morrow’s words, but flashes reached out from the big man nevertheless, whether Chess called ’em or no: a swooping, skull-faced creature with two fistfuls of razors, wigged in bells and wreathed in cold fire, tearing men seam from seam the way a hawk will mice; someone so horrifying that Ixchel was content to simply stand by as she did her will, picking her teeth. The idea that Chess, especially in his current state, could form any viable sort of opposition at all to such a creature would’ve seemed purely laughable, had it not been for the sadly hopeful look Ed was throwing his way — as though if Chess didn’t suck as much blood as it took out of he and Yancey and step on up, even if he left ’em emptied in his wake, then everybody might as well either put up their hands and go home, or just shoot each other outright for good measure.

And how fucked are you, exactly, if that’s so? Chess thought, stolen warmth deserting him somewhat, as his stomach thicked with cold. How fucked are we all, for that matter?

No point in asking, red boy, Grandma’s pitiless mind-voice told him — and Yancey too, he suspected, from the way her eyes fell and her breath quickened, like she’d been caught peeping. As I said, we stand at the crossroads — and these people, only, opt to fight with you, no matter the cost. Which is why they need as much hope as they can dream up for themselves.

“There is a reason these women’s powers have increased,” Grandma said, aloud, before he could object, “and I think we all know it. In the wake of this morning’s battle, the Crack has opened yet further, tearing Balance from balance, as threads cut crosswise destroy any fabric. It must be shut again before we have any hope of confronting the Mother of Hanged Men, let alone of defeating her — or the Enemy.”

“And why do I think you already got some sort of plan in mind?” Morrow asked. But Yancey already had her brows knit, grey eyes all the paler for intent concentration.

“Songbird’s wound-suturing,” she said, at last. “We’re gonna . . . what? Travel along the Crack itself, pouring in hexation like mortar, so we’ve already got the war half-fought by the time we arrive?”

Grandma inclined her “head,” rock dust puffing quietly. “It will take all our effort,” she confirmed. “My granddaughter will lead and guide, while the White Shell Girl and red boy unseam whatever infection keeps these lips from closing and lay down healing instead, as though spinning silk for a web — and though it is hardly in his nature to cure instead of kill, you will teach him, dead-speaker, even while shedding blood along with your soldier to keep him rooted here, until he can re-take what is his. Sophronia Love will do the same for her son, of course. And the others, Glass-eyes Hank’s wives and this man who risked himself to free them — they will do their best to protect us on our journey, ending off whatever horrors slip through from Beneath.” Turning, she addressed the rest once more, all at once: “Do I have your promises?”

Young Mister Carver exchanged a glance with the first witch-girl — Berta, something whispered behind Chess’s eyes, in that way he’d finally brought himself to trust; other one was Eulie, casting her own eyes on Carver behind his back, unnoticed, and getting nothing but a squeeze on the hand from that “sister” of hers as reward. Yet he seemed to have made his mind up, all the same.

“Ma’am,” he told Grandma, gruffly, touching hat and rifle-stock together, in an odd sort of improvised salute. “Don’t know how much it’ll help, me bein’ only humanish — but given the stakes, I’ll sure as hell do my best if I can’t do any better, an’ keep on ’til I can’t do no more.”

“You do us great honour, soldier,” Yiska said, seeming to mean it. “A brave man is welcome always, no matter where he comes from.”

Berta and Eulie turned Grandma’s way. “Us too,” Eulie said. “That’s right, ain’t it, sissy?”

“It is.”

And so it went ’round the circle, faster and easier than Chess could ever in his life have suspected it would: Songbird (with a shrug for Yiska), Missus Love on her boy’s behalf, Yancey and Ed, Yiska herself. By the time it came down to him, he felt almost guilty for hesitating — almost.

“What is it you’re gonna be doin’, meanwhile, while all this is goin’ on?” he demanded, of his fellow not-ghost.

To which Grandma didn’t quite shrug — her frame wouldn’t support the movement required, he suspected — but answered, just the same: “Oh, one thing only, but without it . . . no plan, no hope, no chance at all. Better simply to lie down and let them walk on us. Ixchel, her demon and the Enemy, too.”

So tell me, red boy, will you do your part or pout over some mistreatment while the rest die, along with all this world? Give me your vow as well, to stand with the others so long as they need you, and I will count myself well repaid for the sacrifice I am about to make.

Again, temper swept Chess up and down, pricking him all over: oddly pleasant, a tonic, raising his fever ’til he felt like he could ride bulls and throw cows. Making him snap back at her, if only inside his own head —

Think I won’t, you rattletrap? Well, maybe you ain’t been payin’ attention: I’m Chess Pargeter, him who

laid Mesach Love’s town to waste and brought it back, likewise; killed bluebellies, robbed trains and burned homesteads groundward too, plenty times over, and that was long before I even got myself hexified. So don’t you dare think there’s any damn thing you name I can’t do, I only put my mind to it.

“Count me in,” he told her, loud enough so’s everyone in earshot could hear. And saw her slab-face crinkle with just the slightest hint of a smile, in return.

“Then I am answered. Yet now I must do something for which the Old Drying Woman, this rock’s protector, will be very angry with me. And rightly so.”

“Why?” Yiska asked, a hint of fear in her flat black eyes.

Grandma raised those four-fingered rakes she used for hands, conjuring a flash between ’em might’ve made a blind man think he could see once more. Replying, as everyone else cringed away: “Because . . . of this.”

Elsewhere, while Clo still harried the hex-train’s remains and Geyer, Asbury and Fitz Hugh Ludlow made their escape from the Emperor’s forces, Rook pulled Ixchel back up out of the earth by her blood-fused topknot, and stood back a deferent pace or two.

She spat mud, clearing her throat enough to snarl: What did you mean by this, little king? I gave no orders!

Rook shrugged. “Sorry for that, ma’am; thought you might’ve not wanted to be crushed, considering the difficulty you were already expending to keep that body of yours intact. My mistake, and my apologies.” He glanced skyward. “But may I ask you to consider the sun a moment? Most specifically, its position?”

Ixchel glared at him, but couldn’t help a quick look, after which she met his eyes with no less anger, but more uncertainty. An hour has passed? More? How have I lost this time?

“I took you under the earth, Lady, to your sanctuary ’neath the Temple,” said Rook. “You were near gone as made no never-mind; don’t surprise me you didn’t feel my sacrifices and supplications. Thought you might react better coming up where we went down.”

He dared one more swift lick of power, murmuring an verse of Genesis he’d always liked — “Then Jacob said unto his household, and to all that were with him . . . be clean.” — and swept the mud and dirt from her in one warm caress of shimmering air, re-gathering the warmth into both hands only to offer it up, going on one knee, like it was the proposal they’d skipped altogether.