Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

Ixchel tilted her head at Chess, as if examining a bright-carapaced insect. Rook gave an exasperated headshake, and opened his mouth — then surprised Morrow by closing it again, suddenly thoughtful. For if Chess was the only one with the nerve to protest, none of the other men in the room looked particularly happy, either.

“Private Pargeter’s reservations,” he said. “Am I right in guessing they’re shared at large, fellows?”

“Aw, Rev, c’mon — ” Hosteen flushed. “You know we’d follow you into, um . . . wherever takes your fancy.”

“I know, Kees, I know.” He clasped his hands behind his back and took them all in with a level look. “But here’s the thing . . .”

Oh good, Morrow thought. It’s damnation and a lecture, tonight.

“. . . since all of you know how hexes can’t work together long, seein’ me here with the Lady, you must think: what viper have we taken to our bosom?” He glanced at his “wife,” who had not taken her black eyes off Chess even the once, in all this intervening time. “But Lady Ixchel here, she’s more than just your ordinary hex — more than me, Songbird, or any other sorcerer you may have heard tell of. Where she comes from, them that use magic are powerful beyond the dreams of any minor mage or witch. They don’t gobble each other up, ’cause they don’t have to. They got other ways to get what they need — ”

— by takin’ it from us somehow, no doubt —

“ — and that alone’s what proves she’s got the goods to show me how to bind any other hex — every other hex — I meet to our cause.” He brought his hands together and knotted them in one another, as if strangling a ghost. “Or just suck the life outta any won’t join up anyhow, whichever comes first.”

As Rook’s voice took on an unnatural resonance, the steel-spike pain flared in Morrow’s skull once more. He saw the other men’s eyes glaze over too, and knew hexation was at work.

“We’ll live like emperors, boys, doing whatever we want, whenever we want. No more running and hiding, just sweet cream and an endless river of gold, once I gain my apotheosis — become a god, or damn near like unto one.”

“The God ain’t bound t’like that much, I’d think,” Hosteen muttered. “I mean . . . ain’t makin’ yourself a god somewhat ’gainst Bible-lore, at least a little, for a preacher?”

Morrow felt the hairs on his neck ruff just a tad, and braced himself for yet more offhand killing. But Rook just smirked.

“Almost certainly so,” he replied. “But I hate to tell you, Kees . . . me and the Good Lord ain’t been on speakin’ terms for quite some time now.” He shot a hot glance at Chess, and added: “Obvious reasons.”

Usually, Chess would have returned the look in kind — but not today. Not with Lady Ixchel looking on.

“Me a god, Chess,” R

ook said. “You too, maybe. How’s that sound?”

Chess reddened. “Sounds like . . . well, no sorta fun at all, t’me,” he finished, and fell sullen-silent, as if even he could hear the whine in his own voice. A balky child quibbling over wrapping, when the present itself was rare beyond belief.

That did make the whole room laugh, right out loud. Even Hosteen smiled, and Rook himself guffawed with deep hilarity. But there was an odd, almost unconscious affection in it as well.

“Joe,” Rook called out, over the laughter, “uncap every bottle you got.” He reached inside his coat, pulled out a purse heavy with strange metal, and flung it at the barkeep, who caught it one-handed. “Should be enough in there to cover it all, with gold left over. Gentlemen — tonight, the drinks’re on me. ’Cause tomorrow, we spit in the Devil’s eye, and take the world for our own!”

A general maddened hurrah erupted, with Morrow, Hosteen, and Chess the only ones who didn’t immediately rush the bar; Chess stood still where he was, glowering at the Rev while trying to ignore Lady Ixchel completely — which didn’t bode well, for anybody. So Morrow risked both a hand on Chess’s shoulder and a nudge forward, praying Joe might have just one more bottle of absinthe he hadn’t admitted to still in store.

“Look kinda green, Chess,” he said. “Let me stand you one.”

Chess didn’t fight, but didn’t shift his eyes, either. “Tryin’ to get me gay? Hope you’re not lookin’ for some sort of repeat performance, Morrow.”

“Hardly. Naw, I reckon you’re still the Rev’s just like he’s still all yours, tonight and always.”

“Just like,” Chess repeated, with even less affect.

“You got any cause to doubt it?”

“No.”

“Well . . . act like you mean it, then.” Glancing back at Lady Ixchel, Morrow added: “I mean — you can’t be worried over her account, can ya? Long as you and the Rev been — together?” He shook his head. “Throw it off, son. It’s a chigger-bite in a windstorm.”

“You ain’t my damn daddy,” Chess snapped, automatically. Then, after a moment: “She smells like him, you get in close.”

Morrow shrugged. “She is like him.”

“That ain’t what I mean, and you know it.”