Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

(Lightless cracks in the earth, felt more than seen, seeping slow poison and dream-sickening corruption. One beneath the ruins of Mexico City, one in a Tampico hotel room, one under the salt-flat plains of a devastated town named Bewelcome. A half-dozen others, opening even now — as they “spoke” — in various strange and silent places.

(And that voice once more — Oona’s, but not. Informing all three of them at once, with a scornful, half-crazed cheer: Went on ahead and ended the whole world, him and you, with your Godlessness: that’s what you did. Sure ’ope you’re happy now. . . .)

Did you really think you could go down so far and come back up alone, little kings? Little priest-consort, little sacrifice-turned-god, little husbands?

The mind-flood cut off at last, a sluice-gate slamming shut. Morrow collapsed to his knees, painful-sharp aware that Rook had just nearly done the exact same thing over a thousand miles away, only holding back for fear of her attention.

Shock and awe, not just at how bad things really were, but also from the sheer scope of what’d come along with it, from Chess: hatred, true as a blade. Not just the spite of a born pariah for the world ringed ’round against him, nor the casual cruelty that had always let him kill as surely and impersonally as a force of nature, but a near-Biblical fury, a desperate pain and loathing, which could come only when unlooked-for love found itself abruptly used up, betrayed, destroyed.

A low sound rippled up from Morrow’s chest, and he felt sick to realize Rook was laughing.

Chess’s green eyes widened. “You motherfucker,” he whispered. “What makes all this so funny, to you, again?”

“You, darlin’,” Rook wheezed, “you. ‘My only love, turned to my only hate.’” He made Morrow get up, regaining control. “Listen, Chess — I made a mistake. I know that now. I need for you to set it right, even if you gotta kill me to do it.”

Chess smiled. “Oh, you don’t have to fret yourself none on that account. I’m comin’ for you.”

Rook made Morrow’s mouth smile in reply, oddly gentle. “I know.”

“I think . . . I might be stronger than you, now.”

Morrow felt Rook’s hold start to fade, releasing him one part at a time, yet saving his mouth for last. “Sure hope so,” Rook murmured.

Why? Morrow thought, numb. But the answer wasn’t long in coming.

“ Listen. You hear that?”

“What?”

“Shut up, darlin’. Listen.”

Chess opened his mouth. Stopped, brows furrowing. Then turned, a hound tracking a cry on the wind. Helplessly, Morrow strained his own ears, more than half certain it was pointless — ’til he heard it too, at last, a distant echoing howl sliding through Rook’s hex-senses into his. Rook’s grim consent pulsed within him, a wordless nod:

You need to know, Ed, just as much. If not more.

It came from nowhere in the graveyard. Only the faint noise trickling in from nearby streets, the mutter and rumble of human traffic, made any real sound here. But behind that there rose a noise that Morrow could name, immediately — a high, nasal wail, underscored with rattles, clacks, and irregular thumps, strange glassy crashes, guttural growls and roars. And not a single note in all this cacophony that sounded even halfway human.

Morrow’s skin didn’t just crawl. It lurched, as though his primordial fear was trying to rip it from his body. And a sickening second later, his stomach plunged as he realized the fear was as much Rook’s as it was his own. Which meant —

Oh, shit, we’re well and truly fucked.

No beginning, and no end — only an insistent grinding, a key turning in some locked door so large it kept two whole worlds separate.

But — no more. Distant dark places full of hateful, clamouring things. Fissures forming.

Chess scrubbed at his mouth, hard, and looked straight through Morrow’s eyes, into Rook’s. “All ’cause of us, ain’t it?” he demanded. “’Cause you ripped

me outta the dead lands, and left the door open behind you — some almighty sorcerer you are, for all your Goddamned airs. Your new wife know how bad you fucked up yet, Reverend?”

Rook set Morrow’s lips. “Suspect she’s startin’ to, yes. But then again, for all I know . . . she might not really care.”

Chess shrugged at that.

“’Course,” Rook pointed out, “it ain’t just about me and her, Chess, or even me, her and you — you know that. There’s that other fella, too.”

The Smoking Mirror.

“He says he don’t mean me any harm.”