Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

Obviously, Rook thought.

Love raised his “gun” hands higher, declaiming: “Get out, Satan! Oh, I am strong in the Lord. I cast you out, you sneakin’ Serpent! I am full in His power, filled up brim-full with His infinite and unforgivin’ might — ”

Rook regarded him with curiosity. “You’re fulla something, that’s for sure,” he replied.

Chess, from behind him: “Can I shoot him now, Ash?”

To which Rook just shook his head, firmly — Not while I’m still enjoying myself.

Since this first engagement had proved such an obvious stalemate, however (his power just jumping away from Love, like hands off a lard-slick hog), he must need to up stakes a tad. So, with full awareness of the irony, Rook reached down deep into the anti-Sodomitical grab-bag he’d once used on Chess and began to quote it back at Love, wholesale.

“Nice little town you’ve built here, Sheriff — shame to see it fall on your sin alone, don’t you think? For — Behold, THIS was the iniquity of thy sister Sodom, pride, fullness of bread, and abundance of idleness was in her and in her daughters, neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy.

And they were haughty, and committed abomination before me: therefore I took them away as I saw good.”

Beyond the swirling barrier, Rook heard the creak and crack of timbers, the shudder of opening earth, as Love’s church-to-be folded in on itself, a house of cards.

Further on, Love’s wife was crying out thinly into the wind’s heart, her terror all for his life, rather than her own: “Meeeeeesach! Where are you? Fear nothing — God will help you, husband, in this your hour of need! God will — ”

Rook forced himself a pace or so forward, catching long, tall Mesach Love by both wrists and pulling him close. Saw those God-drunk eyes of his widen prettily, their pupils suddenly aflutter in the wind-tunnel’s ever-changing grey light.

“Scared yet, Sheriff?” He asked.

Love bared his teeth. “Not of you, I ain’t.”

“’Cause you got the Lord on your side.”

“Miracles go both ways, ‘Reverend.’ Long as I’m doing his work, I trust in His good will.”

“‘His work,’ huh?” Rook threw a glance back at Chess’s wrecked face, and felt his rage whip up higher than the wind itself. “Well, all right, then: Try this on for size.”

The verse was from Psalms — 139, to be specific. This close, it rained down on Love in molten silver-black, a cursed shower of wriggling worm-words blind-seeking for every entrance-point they could essay, to the very pores of Love’s straining skin. A blood-beat soul choir run anticlockwise, screaming out.

Surely thou wilt slay the wicked, O God: depart from me therefore, ye bloody men.

For they speak against thee wickedly, and thine enemies take thy name in vain.

Do not I hate them, O LORD, that hate thee? And am not I grieved with those that rise up against thee?

I hate them with perfect hatred: I count them mine enemies.

Love took it full to the face, but Rook had to give him credit; all it seemed to do was make him madder.

“How dare you?” He demanded, bitter-thick, through near-clogged lips. “How dare you take the Lord’s Word in vain, when you stand already on the edge of damnation — ”

“Oh, it ain’t in vain, believe you me. Still, if this ain’t proof enough of that, already . . .”

Rook clapped one hand against Love’s forehead, knocking the preacher-hat groundward, and forced himself inside: a healing in reverse, opening that invisible third eye in Love’s skull up like a glory hole with one violent thrust forward into darkness, sure to his back teeth he could fuck anything he found inside ’til it screamed. And fully expecting that what lay beyond would be nothing more (or less) than the contents of his own brain-pan — a hollow core of ignorance and doubt, wrapped in memorized words. Good intentions, masked in a bag of wind.

He’d never seen any angels, after all. Never heard any still, small voice . . . not ’til after he was hung. And even then — only hers.

Instead, Rook gasped out loud, staggered and went down hard, all a-tremble. Around them, the sand stuttered, thinning far enough in places to show the crowd outside what was happening, and Love’s champions literally leapt to his defence — Tree-trunk at the fore and grabbing for Chess yet again, only to take a bullet straight in his growling mouth. Meanwhile, more shots rang out from a handful of very different positions, as Hosteen and the rest weighed in at last.

Love’s woman hit the dirt, baby tucked against her with both arms. And Love — nose bleeding, but otherwise unscathed — yelled back at her over Rook’s head, which had begun to flail back and forth as the contents of Love’s soul coursed through him: “Sophy, take the boy and run, ’fore our Lord’s vengeance busts its banks! He’ll keep you too, girl! Run run run — ”

Sophy, Rook knew, wishing he didn’t. Sophronia. And the boy, the boy is — Gabriel. Like the angel.

Chess grabbed hold of Rook’s shoulder and shoved, hard. “Ash! What the shit — ”