Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

“We need one of them left upright, at least. To tell what happened.”

“So they’ll be warned, next time? Where’s the fun in — ”

“Not all of us’re quite so fond of murder as yourself, Chess. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed.” He indicated Hosteen, staring sick-white down at what was now Joe’s corpse.

Chess just sniffed, disapprovingly. “Well, you don’t have to coddle them, do ya?”

“Like it fine enough when I indulge you, don’t you, darlin’?”

Back to the grin. “But that’s different. Ain’t it?”

Rook couldn’t deny how something in him came ticking up to meet that wicked smile, even right now — like sticking his dick inside Chess had turned the key in a door that the whole world would’ve probably been better off keeping shut. And it would have been shamefully easy to believe it was Chess’s fault, but Rook knew the truth: he was changing himself to fit Chess. To be the mountainous man Chess dreamt on, fit to finally crush his rebel heart into submission — a man truly worth kneeling before.

“Think Kavalier was right?” Rook asked him, that night. “Am I the Devil?”

Chess snorted. “I’ve been called that, for a hell of a lot less. What I think’s that if there even is a Devil in the first place, we’re all him — and as for God, him and me ain’t ever met, ’less you count him puttin’ me in your path.”

He nipped hard at Rook’s lip, the pain of it both increasing familiar and increasingly pleasant. But the Reverend wasn’t quite done.

“With Joe, though, or the Gatling-operator — I never meant to do that. Jesus Lord God of Hosts, that was awful.”

“Yeah, well, Joe knew what he was gettin’ into. We all of us do, or should. As for the rest, meanwhile — hell, they was just Pinkertons, and I surely do hate all them fuckers. Stole my first gun from a Pink, I ever tell you that?”

“Not as I recall, no.”

“Yeah, I lifted his roll while he was busy feelin’ up my Ma, so he hauled me out into the back alley, beat me somethin’ bad. Didn’t know I had a razor in my boot, though — more fool him. ’Cause that’s the first damn thing that junked-out lunatic ever taught me, the only one I ever found worth remembering: sell yourself high, and dearly.”

They drifted off at last, soaked and sticky — replete, even in the face of Rook’s own deepest doubts. And Rook dreamt that old Indian lady again, sitting so close near a fire he could almost glimpse her face, nested in shadow beneath the overhanging folds of her shawl.

You should come and see me, grandson, she told him, without moving her lips. And soon. Before your Lady finishes the web she weaves, and sets her snares for you.

And how would I know where to go?

She shrugged. Easy enough, to let your feet move where your instincts point you. There is a mountain which we Dinécall the yellow Abalone-shell. She is a good place to go, if one wishes to make one’s vision quest . . . which you have not, as yet.

Thought that was just for — your people.

The People, we call ourselves, as all peoples do. But we are both of a very different tribe than those we were born into, you and I — and your Lady, too, once upon a time.

Meaning you’re a hex. Like I’m a hex.

We say it differently, of course, but . . . yes. And in my tradition, grandson, we do not wait for misfortune to push us headlong into power — nor shun and spurn the powerful, as your blackrobes counsel. What would be the point of that? But for the gods, we alone see the future, and make it come to pass. There must be balance. If we break it, it breaks us. Should we not help each other to keep it, then, if we can?

Rook hesitated. On the one hand, it did sound logical — hell, the idea of seeking out mentorship’d sounded logical even coming from Chess, and that was really saying something. Yet he also recalled hearing rumours to the contrary, especially as regards to magicians.

I . . . don’t know, he said, at last. What’s happening to me?

This I have told you already, grandson. Until you do come to me — or to someone — you will always be a danger . . . to yourself, as well as to others.

Got no reason to trust you —

No more than you have to trust anyone, even yourself. Yet there is someone else involved, after all — one you would do no hurt, if it might be avoided. Am I wrong, grandson?

She wasn’t.

Well, then. Come, if you decide — when you decide. I will be waiting. And do it soon.

But they both knew he wouldn’t.