A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

“And see.” Love’s voice had gentled, almost regretful. “Even thus is the Lord’s vengeance properly delivered. With all your might, you’re flesh and blood; no more, or less. Soon you’ll be dead as Sophy, or my boy . . . dead as me.”

Eyes bulging, lips blue, Chess choked out a final jibe: “Buh ahll—stih—look—behher.”

The revenant nodded. “I’m sure you’ll have fresh admirers aplenty, in Hell.”

Granddaughter—look, now. See.

Yancey let her gaze slip back down to her own yet-dripping blood beading bright on what was left of the floor, the Weed’s writhing bed. Where it landed, a faint scent and smoke rose up and the tide calmed, vine smoothing to wet grass, thick with possibilities. One incautious itzapapalotl flew over top and cracked down the middle, both sharp wings bisected, still fluttering even as they fell to smash below.

Remember what he said, your little Hataalii’s travelling companion. Remember how it sounded . . . so plausible.

“The Weed eats blood, and dies,” she whispered, eyes straying again to Mister Morrow. “You have to—cut yourself, and pray. In his name.”

“Wife,” Uther said, slow, from behind her, “what do you mean by that, exactly?”

Yancey held up her hand, brought the half-knife down again. “Watch.”

The sheer keenness of the edge delayed the pain a moment, just long enough for her to begin to cry: “Mister Pargeter—here—” And then her hand was afire, her warning a wordless wail as much shock as pain, though both were almost equally bad.

The Weed sucked up her fresh-let blood swifter even than Love’s pie-crust flesh had absorbed Pargeter’s hexation, digging ever deeper, writhing as it fed. After which a ripple lashed upwards, twining tight about the man in question’s purple-clad legs, and colour surged back into Pargeter’s whey-pale face; he chopped one hand clean through Love’s left-hand-side jaw hinge in a white-powder smash, so hard the Sheriff’s head fair spun, whipping-top style. Yet Love’s stranglehold did not shift, fingers thinning to circle Pargeter’s

throat completely and pull in sharp, a leathery, granular noose.

Not enough, Yancey realized, and clawed her way past the pain “More!” she screamed, to all those agape at her. “Blood kills the Weed, and that gives Pargeter strength—strength enough to put this thing down, where we can’t hope to!”

Mister Grey, over by Haish’s fallen body: “Hexation ’gainst hexation? Sounds dicey at best, if that’s even what Sheriff Love is packin’.”

Yancey waved his words away, impatient. “What other choice? If all of us spill a little, then . . .”

“Yancey, no!” Uther hollered, and grabbed for her wounded hand—trying to exert his husbandly authority, she guessed, much as it wouldn’t do either of ’em any good, if he succeeded. But Morrow, rising from where he’d fallen, slit his own palm open to the meat, not even waiting to let it spill; reached down to grab the Weed straight-on instead, forcing it to his spurting wound. The soundless green pulse which erupted was near-visible, surging up through the Weed into Pargeter, who gave out a shout: high, wild, inarticulate. A wildcat’s coital shriek.

Sheriff Love let go and staggered back, covering his ears. Cast eyes on Morrow, Yancey as well, like he was disappointed to his very core, and hissed: “Unbelievers! Ye have set up false idols and made worship unto them, as the Israelites with their golden calf, and God’s judgement will be certain, swift, severe.”

Maybe so, Yancey reckoned. But her half-cooked plan was definitely working; ’round Morrow, the mess of Weed was already a tight circle of rich grass, so fast the change barely registered. His sacrifice even seemed to have boosted hers, retroactively—for she and Uther both now also knelt in a patch of vibrant growth, fit to pasture the best of livestock.

Here a new voice intruded, odd as Love’s own, though in a far different way. It came from Morrow’s mouth, though his dumbfounded face would seem to belie it, chanting—

“Now, oh friends,

Listen to the word, the true dream:

Each spring gives us life,

The golden ear of corn replenishes us,

The young ear of corn becomes our necklace.

Blood of men, so precious—

So flowery, like jade.

Our flowers will never end,

Our songs will never cease to be.”

This—prayer, one could only assume—rose up like a drone, lulling the townsfolk quiet. Beside Mister Grey, who knelt cradling the unconscious Hugo Hoffstedt in his lap, Mister Frewer arose and stepped toward Yancey, bending to pick up the blade she’d dropped.

Uther caught Frewer by the wrist. “You’d best not be thinking of doing anything foolish with that, sir,” he said, low and flat.