Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

Initial rage expiated, he stood back up again, but his glare didn’t lessen. “You spent one half your whole life thinkin’ you were dirt, but the next thinkin’ you were a man above all other comers, just ’cause you could draw faster and shoot better’n any of the rest of us. But ain’t nobody gets to call himself a man who don’t clean up his own fucking messes.”

The new door in Chess’s brain swung open a moment. Immediately, Chess was submerged, still and breathless, under a bitter surge of anger, frustration . . . contempt, marrow-stunned with the hurt of it, the shock. Maybe because of its shee

r inside-out impact, if nothing else, for to be loathed, looked down on, was certainly nothing new. But — Morrow’s rush of disgust, temporary as it might prove, had nothing to do with the truths-turned-insults flung out. No. What riled Morrow ran far deeper — was the sheer perversity of Chess’s own nature, that unbreakable wilfulness he’d always revered in himself, as sign and source of his innate freedom. His stark refusal ever to be bound, to obey aught but his own whim and want.

Because while he could walk free and hold a gun, Chess Pargeter answered to no man — no man, no law, no damn body, motherfucker. No ideal, no cause, no force but sheer chaos, bound and determined to move unimpeded and burn for the sake of burning. To never submit himself to ghost or hex or priest or even God, ’less he damn well wanted to.

No man except Ash Rook, that was — for a time. And after this last betrayal, from now on . . . not even him.

’Course not, Morrow’s anger spoke back, unimpressed by Chess’s well-tuned inner litany. That’s ’cause you’re nothing but a brat who never grew up — a skillet-hopping little hot-pants who knows everything ’bout killing and nothing at all ’bout living. Who spits on friendship, duty and honour not ’cause he’s above them, so much, as ’cause he don’t know what they even mean — same way you don’t really grasp how anything’s real, ’cept if you want it, or it hurts you. And that’s why you ended up givin’ everything you had to a man who skinned you alive, then left you stranded down in Hell — ’cause he was what you wanted, and Christ forbid Chess Pargeter ever admit what he wanted was a goddamn bad idea. You made it easy for him, Chess, you damn fool. ’Cause you couldn’t believe you deserved anything better. And me? I’d never do that to you, or anyone. Never.

The door between them slammed shut once more, leaving Chess alone in his own head, wrung out with surprise and confusion. And Morrow — he didn’t seem to have even noticed their momentary communion. Just folded his arms, jaw set, and repeated: “So get dressed, I ain’t gonna tell you twice. There’s more goin’ on than just you — and for once, you’re gonna help fix it, instead’ve doin’ every damn thing you can to make things worse.”

And me wearing guns, Chess thought, amazed. Of course, Morrow had gone ahead and emptied the damn things first.

Chess knew he should be spitting mad, going on history alone — but it seemed more effort than it was worth. Still equal bone-tired from his long sleep and sharp awakening, he unfolded the shirt slowly, barely able to pry its buttons apart. Morrow evidently saw his fatigue as well; after a moment he huffed impatiently and stepped over the pictographs Chess could barely stand to skirt, bracing himself to help Chess dude up.

Damn, when’d you get so nice? a voice from the past said, in Chess’s ear. But Chess brushed it away, like it was one of those dying dragonflies.

Boots now firmly wedged on, Morrow got his shoulder under Chess’s arm and lifted him to stand. Freshly rendered decent, Chess felt the shirt and pants grate all scratchy-stiff against his skin, yet managed to force at least half a smile. Asking, “No pomade?”

Morrow snorted. “This ain’t no Presidential Suite, Chess. Just have to wait ’til you’re back on American soil for the little amenities, I — what the shitfuck Sam Hill?!”

Came so out-of-nowhere quick it almost made Chess bust out laughing, ’til he caught a snatch of his own shirt-sleeve going by. The plain denim was simply gone, replaced by his clothes — same rig he always bought, no matter where, or from whom: purple shirt, near-black trousers, burgundy-bottle vest, all clean and fragrant, as if fresh-laundered and pressed. Even his gunbelts were back around his waist, guns neatly holstered. And the boots were the exact ones he’d broke in months ago, no matter he knew they and all the rest were still lost somewhere outside this entire world.

“Oh, shit, Ed.” He looked back up at Morrow, mouth open in dismay. “I’m a damn hex.”

“All but indubitably, Mr. Pargeter.”

As Chess’s eyes went to the door, Morrow stepped smartly back over the circle, realigning himself with those who had just entered. So they told ya don’t come in here, Chess thought, and filed it away.

Songbird came first, her all-red rig pretty much the same as when he’d last seen it, except for wearing her too-white hair down rather than up. Still as elegant and finely dressed as a bleached-out baby whore could be.

She met his eyes full-on and threw him an evil little smile, murmuring: “Ni hao, English Oona’s boy — so nice to see you once more, even after all the trouble you made for me, back at Selina Ah Toy’s. But very much especially so, now that we both know each other . . .” For what we actually are.

That last part “said” extra-loud and direct, a spike punched straight through to his brain’s own stem, the way most hexes probably joshed with each other — ’cause they damn well could, and get away with it.

Allan Pinkerton, on the other hand, he knew from posters — a big, burly, check-suited man with a full bushy beard and a bowler hat. And then came a third figure, the man who’d spoken — some white-haired, bespectacled old fool, looked like the dimmer sort of medicus you sometimes found taking refuge from parts Eastern or Northern. Or would have, if his washed-out blue eyes hadn’t held the most keen regard of all.

Chess tensed. He’d expected fear, smug triumph, stupid dismissal — all the old touchstones — and there was more than enough of all of them in Pinkerton’s and Songbird’s eyes to go ’round. But the old fool’s gaze was different — clinical, passionate with fire Chess barely understood. As though Chess was the walking answer to some riddle gone unsolved all his life, a living quizbook ripe for reading. Or maybe a vivisection-bound (in)human curiosity, all fit to get strapped down and cut into.

It pissed Chess off — and spotting Hosteen hangdogging in back, like the bastard didn’t have enough nerve to push past these strangers stink-eyeing Chess, only made him angrier. Guess this here’s the sorta situation where you’re finally apt to be more careful ’bout your own skin than mine, for once, old man? You hypocrite —

But then a strange thing happened. Hosteen squinched shut his eyes, fast as if Chess had actually pasted him one ’cross the chops with the above, rather than just thought it at him. Held his head, morning-after skull-ache style, and stared at Chess with wild, wounded eyes. At which point Songbird turned, silks flowing, to look first at Chess, then to Hosteen, then once more to Chess — like she’d just caught him at something, and it was making her happier than a shit-dipped hog.

With a tiny little smile, she raised one finger and wagged it back and forth, approving-reprovingly. Then whirled the finger and yanked, sharpish, as if first wrapping, then snapping some invisible thread.

For half an instant, Chess saw something — a flicker of light, a shimmer of heat — ripple up from the circle around him. A stinging chill came both down and up him at once, a giant pair of tailor’s shears, cutting the air between Chess and Hosteen. Chess had no idea what, hadn’t even known it was there, ’til it snapped back into him.

He staggered, grabbed the bedpost and glared at Songbird, who only shook her head with that same tiny smile: Ah-ah-ah-ah, gweilo!

Oh, that is fuckin’ well it.

Chess felt it rush into him with a tingle, an ill-summoned current of power sent flooding outwards to prickle in both palms, which he clenched into fists. Almond eyes narrowing, Songbird’s lip lifted in a snarl — and just as suddenly, a heat-haze crackled between the two.

“Doctor,” said Pinkerton, low but urgent, to — the white-haired man, who’d been staring in open awe and delight, but now came to his senses with a shake of the head. Swiftly, he popped that odd timepiece of Morrow’s from his own weskit-pocket. Morrow frowned to see it but said nothing.

Old Doc Whoever flipped it open, releasing its usual frantic clicking and clattering into the air. From another side-pouch, he drew a reel of dull, silvery-looking thread, spun off a length and snapped it free. He wound its middle once ’round the watch’s fob and threw the end out the window, deftly swift, like he was laying a fuse. Chess followed it all only from the corner of his eye, barely truly clocking it, gunfighter-poised to meet whatever Songbird was conjuring with the hardest possible return strike he could muster. That he had no idea either what he would do or just how to do it didn’t matter, not right then.