Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

But that was when the doctor tossed the other end of the thread forward into the circle, to land squarely between Chess and Songbird. And that, that . . . was when shit commenced to hurt.

Compared to what-all he’d suffered down Mictlan-Xibalba way, ’course, this agony was second-rate at best. But for sheer surprise alone, it nonetheless took most of Chess’s will to keep his teeth together as his body locked up, and all that freshly accessed hexacious firepower came sliding greasily out of him.

Songbird was far less sanguine. She threw back her head and screeched, indignant, as pinkish-white-green lightning arced from her and Chess both straight to the silver thread’s end.

“Ai-yaaah! Zhè shì shénme làn dongxi?”

Which meant something like what is this garbage? — if Chess recalled his Chink insults aright. Though damn if he didn’t almost feel he could “hear” it in its entirety, red-on-black-lettered inside his own skull, with the part she hadn’t said at all — only thought — as an echoing aftertaste: Kewù de lao bàojon (horrible old bastard), hao le ma (that’s fucking well enough, okay?) — or was that maybe huàile (shit on my head)?

Meantime, the symbols she’d inked upon the floor turned black, smoked, and melted into char as twisting, writhing arcs of power leapt from them too, lashing down the thread, through Morrow’s device and out the window. Light flashed outside with deafeningly sharp cracks, the sound of a revolver emptying its chambers right shy of your ear. Followed by silence but for echoes, Chess all a-sway with his part-blinded eyes blinking, feeling light-headed and horribly empty.

Faint tendrils of steam curled up from the silver thread, snake-ghosts dissipating slow on the heavy air. Chess stared at them like the thread itself was a king rattler with its warning beads took off, bare inches from his naked heel.

“Private Pargeter, as wa

s,” said Pinkerton, his voice gone distant and buzzy in the racket’s wake. “Seein’ we all already know your reputation, I’d like to introduce Joachim Asbury, late of Columbia University’s division of — what’s the formal name, Doctor?”

“Experimental Arcanistry,” supplied Asbury, with a smile both unsteady and forced. It came to Chess that Asbury maybe hadn’t expected quite so violent a reaction himself. Then again, from the glare she was sporting, neither had Songbird.

So this ain’t nearly as picture-perfect planned an operation as you-all want me to think, is it? Left hand and right not talkin’ much?

“Though Mr. Pinkerton flatters me with the term ‘division,’” Asbury continued, voice gaining strength. “With some experimental proof of my theories, however, I’m anticipating considerably more interest in the cross-application potential of individuals such as yourself, Mr. Pargeter — and you, of course, Miss Songbird — ”

“Potential?” Songbird snarled something else in Chinese. “Cong míng de, chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo!” (Very clever, animal fucking bastard.)

Then whipped her hand backwards in Asbury’s general direction, all five fingers tiger stance-clawed — and spasmed again, letting fly another yowl of pain admixed with sheer disbelief, as whatever hex she’d formed broke apart and crackle-sparked down into the silver thread on the floor, vanishing out the window once again. Rubbing her hand, Songbird glowered at Asbury with eyes full of furious venom.

“Unkind,” she managed, eventually. “And . . . impolite, given our current alliance.”

“As any wire of iron or steel grounds the galvanic energies of lightning, or similar phenomena,” said Asbury smugly, “so a certain alloy of silver, iron, and sodium in its metallic form serves to ground magical energies where they manifest, conducting them away to discharge harmlessly elsewhere. Which is why any further active hex-working in this room — young lady, young sir — ” he bowed to both Songbird and Chess, who shared an equally enraged glance at the inappropriate familiarity of being thus linked, “ — will be neutralized in the moment of its launching.”

Active hex-working? Chess had no idea what that meant. A hex was a damn hex, far as he was concerned. But he could still feel the smugness coming off Asbury as the man droned on — and only all the keener, now, with Songbird’s far more sophisticated spellbinding self-evidently pulverized by the same device. With narrowed eyes, Chess forced himself to focus in on it, willing himself to relax and open up rather than lash out.

All at once, the smug buzzing transmuted, with shocking suddenness — same way Songbird’s Chink-to-English inner babble had, into genuine words: A lifetime’s worth of unexpressed hexation, and more. Clearly this young man has no idea of just how powerful he could be . . . already is. And so we see why Reverend Rook chose to usher him through his transition with such overblown violence. Because doing so would allow him to keep control, stay the dominant partner in this invert ménage of theirs, thus avoiding the sort of overt conflict which might end in his own destruction. . . .

Chess couldn’t help but shy at the feel of it, so thumb-in-the-eye pointed as it rung, fair bruising his skull’s bony confines. His gaze whipped over to Pinkerton, hoping for respite. But the crack only widened further, damage irreparably done — he plunged headlong into a burred Scots stream of words and images combined, oft times so close-knotted as to be barely coherent.

Sly little sodomite/catamite, properly, if Morrow’s reported right/ wouldn’t trust him so far’s I could heave him, and that’d be some distance/ killer’s eyes/take what readings you need and fast, doctor, then distract him/a bullet in the pan ought to do nicely/Madam Songbird’s hex enough for our purposes, and you already have to keep her leashed/a mad dog/ for all your curiosity, can’t think even you’d be foolish enough to let this monster live.

Mouth open, Chess turned to Songbird again and slapped up against an invisible barrier, hurting-hard — she’d locked down, no doubt feeling his intruding thoughts creeping loose through her brain. But after only a second’s concentration, he began to make out shadow-show silhouette-cutter shapes moving behind those shields, coming abruptly into clarity with black-edged focus.

Big man in a flowing coat, shredding under a stream of flying shapes . . . Ash?

Same man, standing atop a mountain with a web of black strands tying him to a hundred, a thousand different figures everywhere, a great dark shadow rearing high behind him . . .

Ash, yeah . . . binding every hex in Arizona to him, maybe, like he’d said. And was that her, now, in the back? Or . . . Smoking Mirror?

A bearded man and a balding one, sinking down, with black blood flowing from their mouths. . . .

Pinkerton and Asbury, snared fast in whatever revenge Songbird had planned for their double trespass, their malfeasance toward her.

Oh, you stuck your damn hands in the hornets’ nest for sure, boys, cuttin’ a deal with that one . . . but then again, maybe that’s why you ain’t too inclined to want to do the same with somebody like me, anytime soon.

He slammed the door shut himself, cutting off the triple influx of soul-talk at its root. Jesus Christ, was this the sort of shit Rook’d had to deal with all the damn time? How’d he stood it? Panting, Chess made himself straighten. It all seemed to have gone by far faster than actually hearing the same “words,” out loud. Indeed, Asbury himself was still talking, clearly having noticed nothing amiss at all.

“. . . how the scientific study and deployment of your powers would offer vast benefit to our war-weary nation. Not to mention, of course, the spectacular opportunities for profit, for yourself. . . .” Asbury gave him what was clearly meant to be a sly, coaxing smile. Chess met it grimly. Nobody ever really got that it had never been about the money, did they?

I did what he wanted, and he returned the favour, in spades. ’Cause that’s what a marriage of true minds is: loyalty. To hold fast and stay true.