My body and blood, here, take, eat. All flesh shall be grass.
But that last, that ain’t me either, bein’ how I’m a God-starved whoreson queer raised in knocking-shops who’d rather spit on the Good Book than have it read at him. I don’t know any of that crap. That’s . . . Ash Rook, you faithless fuckin’ fucker, HELP ME . . .
And Smoking Mirror, smiling down: Pelirrojo, conquistador. Red hair, red face, my own red self, little brother, o brother mine. . . .
“Born t’ live fast and die young,” it said, meanwhile — out loud — at the exact same time. “Born to raise ’ell. That’s what your man an’ my sister wanted, all right — a Flayed Lord fit to sow a fresh new crop of gods, all the way ’cross this empty West of yours. ’Course, the people as already live there might ’ave somethin’ t’ say on the matter . . . but then again, that’s ’alf the fun.”
“What are you?” Chess repeated yet one more time, hoarse and hollow.
“I’m your Enemy, son — yours, an’ every other’s. Chess Pargeter, English Oona’s boy, Asher Rook’s lover. Trickster. Killer. Destroyer of worlds.”
Its voice dropped, intimately, effortlessly reassuming that other, interior tone — But the real thing to keep in mind, when you’re calm enough to do so, is this . . . I am your enemy’s Enemy, as well.
“The” Smoking Mirror gave Chess a push, right over the miraculously unscarred area where his stolen heart should reside: a mere flick, the easiest of keep-aways. And Chess felt himself drawn down, down, back down into his body again, the soft box of his flesh locked shut on him, a movable, woundable, wounding coffin — ’til finally he woke up again, mid-leap, while rocketing out of bed: a spent shell, momentum-burnt, dead to the touch.
Still screaming.
Next door, in his hotel-room, Morrow heard Chess come to and whipped ’round, staring at the wall. From the mirror, Reverend Rook followed his actions, though only with his eyes.
Showtime, son. So . . . you do know what it is you gotta do now, right? Chess’s scream went on, arcing high, every new second of it a further lost opportunity — but Morrow hung back nonetheless, letting all his breath out in a huff, long enough that Rook’s amusement started to slide to annoyance.
Right, Ed?
“I’m thinkin’.”
Well, think fast, damnit. Songbird ain’t but a few steps behind. “No doubt.” Morrow straightened up, full height, shoulders squared — then added, as he turned to stare deep into Rook’s phantom face: “Oh, and speaking of which . . . you do know since she already broke your spell, that means you can’t make me do shit, anymore.”
Rook shook his head, sadly. Aw, Ed, c’mon. It’s Chess who’s laid the spell on you now, much as he don’t even know it . . . and deeper by far than anything I could’ve whipped up, seein’ he’s finally let loose all the explosive power of a lifetime’s stored-up hexation at once — with not an ounce of skill to temper it, in the expression.
The scream had long since lapsed to an air-hungry half-sobbing, less bereft than infuriated. Morrow could hear Chess blundering around, circle-caught and hammering at the invisible walls Songbird’s wizard-trap had set up ’round him, cursing freely in a dry, exhausted whisper. In consequence, both rooms seemed quieter now, even somehow smaller — cramped with intentions, both good and bad.
“Lie down with hexes, that’s what you get, huh?”
Dogs and fleas, Agent.
?
??So I’m fucked either way, is all.”
Maybe so, yes.
Which was no sort of surprise at all, of course. And all Morrow could do, in the end, was take it, with a sigh.
“Best not to keep him waiting, I guess,” Morrow told his suddenly empty quarters, as the mirror irised securely shut once more. And opened up the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cramps racked Chess and pitched him back onto the bed, doubling him over. He managed to roll far enough to get his head over the edge and retched up onto the floor. No stranger, that particular feeling . . . almost comforting, for sheer normality. Until he cracked his eyes open again and saw what lay steaming on the floorboards: a wide, scarlet puddle of blood, with insects all a-wriggle in it, wings buzzing. Blood fell away to reveal rainbow glitter and huge crystal eyes.
Dragonflies.
They took to the air, filling it with a skin-crawling buzz. Several seemed to have been vomited up mid-bugfuck, careening awkwardly ’round in pairs, their black segmented tails still fused. Mouth open, Chess followed their flight and then froze, eyes locked on the corners of the bed’s headboard, where two dark reddish rings of powdering metal hung broken from bright new chains. Like a score of years had passed in a night, making wrought iron shackles into useless rust, easily shattered with the flick of a wrist.
Two at the head, for his arms. Two at the foot, equally decayed, for his new-freed ankles. A folded set of duds on the nightstand, drab but serviceable. And — his guns, laid out neat, polished and repaired. With his belt and holsters coiled next to them.
How his hands itched to strap those back on, and draw! But there was no way that wasn’t some sorta trap, same as the ring of Chink scrawl drawn ’cross the floor beneath — circling him with a net Chess couldn’t seem to fight free of, no matter how hard he instinctually rammed and thrashed against it.
Heart trip-pounding, eyes wide and wild, ricocheting back and forth and back again: door, bed, floor, guns. Door, bed, floor, guns guns guns guns —