A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

“Likewise.” Another grin. “’Course, I understand ‘worship’—used to be the Rev I knelt to, in all senses. But since he made me this, I don’t do nobody’s will but my own.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, ‘Private.’ You’re no god—not even a graven idol, like Moloch, or Baal.”

“Oh, I’m a god, all right: the Flayed Corn King, He-With-No-Heart, somethin’ new, and something very old. Responsible for every bad thing that happens ’roundabouts, too, they tell me—so who knows but that ‘angel’ you think God sent you wasn’t my doin’, somehow? All along. Ever think of that?”

If he’d expected this last shot to tell, it didn’t, visibly. Yet Love’s pale eyes slid sideways, fixing upon Morrow.

“I do note, however,” he said, “that even without Rook, you still seem to have something left to lose.”

At this, Morrow tried to push by, take up his protective stance once more—but Pargeter swept one arm out behind him, and the bigger man soon found himself abruptly up against the nearest wall, legs a-flail, ’til he lost his balance and fell to the same knee, with palpably painful impact. He’d already struggled halfway back up before an outthrust palm stopped him in his tracks—not more hexation, just a clear signal: Stay back, Goddamnit!

So he does care for him, Yancey thought. Like I guess Love’s counting on.

Pargeter raked Love up and down, with fine contempt. “Threats on a third party?” he asked. “Don’t seem very Christian. Better make up your mind. Is vengeance yours, or the Lord’s? You want an eye for an eye, for real?”

Not waiting for Love’s reply, Pargeter beckoned, seeming oddly happy at the prospect.

And snarled—“Then come take one of mine.”

Chapter Eight

Without thinking, Morrow surged automatically forward one last time, then felt the air around him slam shut, and ceased to struggle. Jesus God, he wished he had some sort of firearm handy! His shotgun, reckoned too long to conceal under Chess’s imperfect glamour, he’d left behind in the Honeymoon Suite, with the rest of what little gear they retained. If Yancey’s plan had actually worked, they would have had ample time to retrieve it.

But—Sooner or later, Sergeant, every plan stops working—with the very first shots, more oft than not. Colonel Stockwell’s prissy-vowelled New York memory-voice, snapping back at him all the weary way from Marais des Cygnes. The test of a true leader is how he deals with what he couldn’t have planned for.

Morrow’s fists clenched. What he needed, by those lights, was a distraction, something to jolt Love off-guard long enough for Chess to whisk ’em both away and send the Sheriff rocketing after, leaving these poor people to thei

r own devices.

As though she knew his mind, new-made Missus Kloves gave him a head-toss over toward where the church’s back door was working its slow way open. And Morrow nodded back, schooling himself to not react as a hunched figure—her father?—crawled back inside, dragging a burlap sack heavy with what looked, even at this distance, like weaponry.

Get set, he thought.

Yancey didn’t dare turn further, not and hope to keep Love’s attention wholly fixed on Pargeter; to meet Mister Morrow’s eyes, see the hope flaring there, was dangerous enough. Still, she could feel Pa’s presence again, and her heart went helplessly out to him—a soul-scared man straining to act the part of brave father, convinced his daughter’s life depended on him doing it. Which she could only hope it didn’t.

Meanwhile, undistracted by any of the above, Sheriff Love bent his awful head over folded palms and whispered, like wind stirring gravel: “Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are moth-eaten. Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. . . .”

A deafening crack split the air, unseen thunderbolt-swift. Before his expression could twitch toward even the beginning of surprise, Pargeter went up like a roman candle of searing, blue-white flame.

With a yell, Mister Morrow lunged blaze-wards, only to reel off almost immediately—face shielded, beat back by waves of heat. The crowd moaned. Yancey fought all the champagne she’d drunk thus far back down.

Can’t be that easy, though. Can it?

Seconds later, two only slightly pinkened hands thrust upwards from the inferno and spread apart, ripping their way free; the fiery shroud tore wholesale, shredded into streamers, rewove itself into twin whips of actinic flame dangling from Pargeter’s palms. He stepped clear, no more high-coloured than usual, his imperially hued suit not even scorched.

“Good one,” he said. “But I’ve heard better.”

Not taking his eyes off Love, Pargeter whirled the fire-ropes ’round his head so they buzzed, trailing blue sparks. The very air above shimmered terribly, roaring as if cut, ’til he flung both Hell-lariats at Love headlong. They struck the Sheriff with a noise like two locomotives mating; Yancey braced herself against the crash—which never came.

For a heartbeat, Love glowed equally hot, if far less bright, as Pargeter’s whips collapsed straight into him, sponged up. But the light faded, draining down into the floor, planks set a-flash like moonlit water. Once more, Love stared unblinking, untouched.

At last, Pargeter’s grin faltered.

But, just in time . . . here came her Pa, creeping, weapons-bag in hand, to touch random crowd-members’ elbows and handing ’em on toward escape, as though he were directing traffic. Catching hers, he bore her away to meet from Uther eeling his own way downstream, making for them with eyes glued fast on that swinging, faintly clinking bag of tricks. . . .

“Think your Satan-got might impresses me, you trousered harlot?” No brag in the preacher’s dead voice, just plain, scornful fact. “I have the very Thrones and Principalities at my back. I have His Word, always, in my ear.”

Pargeter shrugged. “Well, you don’t listen, that’s for damn sure.”