A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

He made him small and pretty, as bright as any pin,

And set that red-head pistoleer to tempt weak men to sin!

I could kill you, Chess thought, head at once blessedly clear, if aching. All of you. Each and every damn one. It’d be easy. Pleasant, almost.

All he had to do was pour every last drop of his rage down the web, turn booze-sodden cheer to the same killing fury burning up his spine, let them all loose on one another and then just sit back, while the blood pooled at his boots. Or maybe he’d just let it rip in all directions at once, unguided: a barrage of grapeshot, grinding everything into chuck— meat on meat blended together to make one red flurry, like it was raining screams. All guts, no glory.

You . . . think you know, ’bout Rook and me? You don’t know shit.

“Chess, fucksake—” The light turned strange, and Chess realized Morrow had stepped close between him and the crowd, shielding the one from t’other. “We can’t, not now. Jesus Christ Almighty, look at yourself!”

Since there was more panic in Morrow’s voice than Chess had heard, well . . . ever, he did. And found that the sight did not ease his fury in the slightest, though it did come wrapped in blessedly dispassionate curiosity: A sweaty crimson sheen was leaking from his pores, slick and coppery, backlit by the subtle green luminescence outlining his bones. He turned his hand over and back, yet more sick light spilling forth like he’d cupped his hand on a green-flamed candle, so hard he’d bled in the cooking.

Now if he’d never met him, the Rev might still be right,

But Pargeter, that red-head tramp, a-turned him from the Light.

The Devil gave Rook magic, those mocking him were slayed—

And thus the Rev was proved a hex, and stays one to this day.

They scoured the state from east to west, a-robbing as they went.

Good men they killed, their widows left, ignoring their laments.

They took both trains and coaches, good folk were all appalled,

And the whole town of Bewelcome, the Rev, he preached to salt. . . .

What must his face look like, by now? Chess wondered, idly—some unholy mask, going on Morrow’s horrified look alone: raw meat and cut vines, bad things growing wild. He felt the glamour slip from him, part by part—saw those closest widen their eyes as he shimmered and shrunk, gaze greening up, reddening from tip to tail. Danger, his mind sang out, dangerdangerdanger—

For them, Hell yes: danger aplenty. But not for him.

He was beyond that, and knew it, every fibre lit up with some deep, abiding grin.

“Wasn’t no joke,” he said, voice mud-thick, all uncaring who besides Ed might hear. “Not to me. And I ain’t no vaudeville-hall act. Laugh at me, it’s the last damn thing you’ll ever do.”

Then: more fingers—not Ed’s, too small and soft by far—touched his. He wanted to peel ’em off, like leeches, or crush ’em, just to hear ’em squirt. But they slid down to encircle his wrists without trembling; his pulse hammered hard against them, a caged rat.

“Then they won’t,” said Yancey Kloves, simply. “Not anymore.”

’Cause . . . I can do that.

It was her wedding, after all.

He swayed, pried his eyes open, but she was already gone, flitting through the crowd like a white-veiled wraith, as that damn refrain howled out all the louder:

Ohhhh, the Good Lord wrote the Bible, Lincoln freed the slaves,

But the Devil made Chess Pargeter to drag fools to their graves.

He made him small and pretty, as bright as any pin,

And set that red-head pistoleer to—

“’Scuse me, gents. Excuse me!”

Slipping her way betwixt musicians, one hip moving Toe-Tapper Joe aside so forcefully he lost his breath, Yancey waved an empty glass at the crowd, overriding their complaints with effortless cheer. “Can’t tell y’all how much it means to me, and Uther,” a doe-eyed glance at Marshal Kloves, owl