Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

Rook drew a stream up from beneath the lumpy white crust, cracking it open ’til the fresh water bubbled free, and fed it to Chess a fingertip at a time, for fear he’d puke and die. Then hoisted his slack weight high, carried him over to the same hill they’d once stood on and kicked it open, creating a cave. Since the trip hadn’t drained him overmuch, Rook was still so stuffed-full of stolen power he felt bloated as a tick — like he just had to use it, or pop.

Inside the cave, he nursed Chess through a day and night more of fever, flensing his lover’s burnt skin away gently throughout, onion-careful. Beneath the worst of it a fine new layer of skin had already re-grown, bright pink, painfully smooth and sensitive to the touch.

Ignoring its delicacy, Rook folded Chess close and refused to let go, even when he cursed and kicked and bit — dripped the run-off from Grandma’s legacy into Chess’s mouth along with their kisses ’til the energy he was giving out began to return to him, as Chess’s fierceness rekindled. Eventually, the blaze of him rose to such an intoxicating level that Rook had to rein in hard, pry free of Chess’s grip and leave him sleeping, lest hex-hunger tempt him to push the little pistoleer back over the edge and suck him dry once more . . . permanently, this time.

When the sun set, the cave stayed warm — an oven-stone cut to just fit two, so long as they lay close. Chess’s skin had firmed to the point of cooling, his sweat no longer smelling of anything but itself. So it came as no grand surprise that when — as though to celebrate his escape from death — Chess curled a bit further into Rook’s chest, slid one hand down the front of Rook’s flies, and commenced digging for treasure.

At the cusp, however, he suddenly opened his green eyes wide, staring at Rook as though he were a dream conjured to offputting life. Like he’d never thought to see him again outside of sleep, and wasn’t too sure how he felt about finding himself proved wrong, even under such delirious circumstances. And the next morning, while Rook was pissing in the scrub, Chess came wavering out after him, barely able to stand — weak as a newborn colt, but with guns still a-droop from either hand, cocked and ready.

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You son of a bitch.”

Rook tucked himself away, and turned to face the music. “Don’t you slander my Mama just ’cause yours ain’t worth a damn, Chess Pargeter,” he replied.

“You left me behind, when I told you Goddamn not to. One fuckin’ thing I told you, one. And . . . you went ahead and left me.”

“But I came back.”

To which, a breathless moment on, Chess gave only a hoarse cry for answer — and fell, headlong, into Rook’s open arms.

They found Hosteen back at Splitfoot’s, drinking himself incontinent, perhaps as a crude form of mourning them both. Rook and Chess came in with the hot breath of the desert still on them, and once they recognized exactly who was letting in the flies, the bulk of the barflies leapt back — not just ’cause they remembered all Chess had done the last time he was there, either.

Hosteen turned at the sound, gaping. “I wanted t’stay!” he yelled out, voice a whole octave higher than usual. “T’look after him, like you said! He wouldn’t let me!”

Rook: “I know, Kees.”

“Shot at me, point-blank, wouldn’t let up! ’Til I ran, yeah . . . but that was ’cause I just had to, honest, Rev! He’d’a killed me for sure, else!”

Chess laughed. “Hell, I already told him all this, you old fool. Ain’t nobody here holds a grudge.”

Rook pulled a pair of chairs out from around the nearest table, settling himself down in a third. “So there: all’s forgiven,” he concluded. “Now sit, Kees, ’fore you go ass-over-teakettle. ’Cause if you’re really all we got left for a gang, seems we got plannin’ to do.”

“Need to find us a nice, fat strike, first off,” Chess said. “And if you want to pay me back for leavin’ me all that time in the sun, I’m gonna need new clothes.”

“Oh, we’ll get them for you, all right — store-bought, tailor-made. You’ll be fine.”

“Sounds expensive.”

Rook smiled again, wider — “Anything for you, darlin’.”

After news of Bewelcome spread, other bad men either flocked to join up, tried to take Rook and his newly resplendent lieutenant on directly, or got the hell out of their way. Rook paid little attention, letting Hosteen handle such affairs. He had Chess, and Chess had him. Familiar now with the feel of power’s thirst for power, from both sides of the circuit, Rook found himself able to control the flow from Chess to him more finely — slow it to a trickle, enough so that Chess seemed well-able to replenish himself, without ever noticing the loss. Grandma’s education had been good for that much, at the very least.

1865 slid over into ’66 in a haze of loot and murder, the seasons indistinct in the desert dust, and the Smoking Mirror drew ever closer. Vague rumours of pursuit, by army or locals, rarely came to anything much. Whenever the Railway wasted their money to hire Pinkertons, Chess killed them, with or without Rook’s help. Claimed he had a nose for that sort of stink, and that usually proved true.

So yes, Rook found himself startled when Hosteen brought Ed Morrow by, ’round about Christmas of ’66. He said he’d found the tall man moping at the back of yet another Border-bar, looking for dishonest work. One glance told Rook Morrow was a Pinkerton, almost down to the number on his badge — sent in Bewelcome’s wake, more to gather information and assess the sort of threat could reduce an entire township to Dead Sea salt, than as any sort of inside man placed to save fellow agents from the Wrath of Pargeter. But the funny part was, Chess’s sharp eyes skipped over Morrow, like he’d been wax-coated.

Another hex’s influence? Intriguing, if so. But Rook knew it didn’t matter, in the final go-’round. Things were much too far along already, for that.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Ed,” was all he’d said.

My oracles tell me you must seek this grim Lady who sends you her dreams at the Place of Dead Roads, Songbird had told him back in ’Frisco, once Morrow was off looking for Chess. Adding: And do not rush to demand of me where that is, Reverend — that business is for you and she alone, to settle between you. But though she may not want exactly what you want, your wishes do coincide; she will certainly take you there, if you only allow her to lead.

Granted, he hadn’t felt too inclined to believe her, right then — with her still drawing energy from him in crackling bursts, the way a church’s weathervane draws lightning. So he’d quoted on Jericho City and pulled Selina Ah Toy’s down around her, easy as stamping on an anthill . . . but taken the Smoking Mirror with him nonetheless, all the same. ’Cause Christ knew, he’d damn well earned it.

And then, finally — leaving Chess safely asleep, with Morrow set to watch over him, or get shot as a damn Pink — Rook had left the Two Sisters without a backward glance, moving so quickly his boots barely skimmed the desert floor. Above, the moon shone on, dead as Judas. It was almost full.

You’ll have to do something about that, little king.

“I know,” he said, out loud. “Heard you the first time, woman.”