A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Morrow cast his mind back to the Hoard, how he’d felt the sheer force of his and Yancey’s worship spin almighty-powerful Chess between ’em like a child’s whipped top. A double possession dragging alien words from both their lips—rendering centuries-old jabber-squawk to English, while the power they’d unwittingly harnessed went surging forth through the newly greened ground, fighting its way up into Chess like a flooded river spilling its dam. It was the sheer responsiveness of the tremendous energies they’d dallied with that scared the bejesus out of him, even now. Yet in the end, Morrow knew none of the power was his, or hers. It had been placed under their temporary command for one purpose only: to render it up to Chess, even as Chess fought it off with every last particle of bone and sinew.

A sick breath out of the dark, memory-borne stench of cold draft and wet rock walls: “English” Oona Pargeter’s raddled whore’s pan, opium-cooked from the inside-out, cured like meat. A woman reduced to nothing but need, just dead flesh still teetering upright, wrapped like Hell’s own candy in hate and poison.

The only thing Ed Morrow knew for sure Chess Pargeter feared, in life or death, was the thought that he might be likewise helpless one day before a similar hunger. So to find himself a hex, after all that—and not just a hex, either, but a damn blood-drunk god of hexes, power magnified beyond all comprehension alongside the clamouring jones for more, ever more.

If Oona had ever thought to put a curse on him, that’d’ve been a doozy, right there. And seeing how hexes bred hexes, who knew? Having met her the once, Morrow certainly wouldn’t have put it past her to try.

But now he blinked free of contemplation, realizing Yancey was repeating something. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, I’ve drunk my fill; looks to me like you have, too. Time to retire, for both of us.”

“Probably best, yes.”

Now even Joe was gone, leaving the whole place vacant. As they paused on the landing, poised to go their separate ways, he asked her (again without thinking, as seemed to be the pattern): “You’ll be all right?”

Fresh ridiculousness piled on top of a whole heap, enough to make him grit his teeth ’til they squeaked. But she didn’t even seem to notice.

“Don’t rightly know, Mister Morrow,” she replied. “I’ll have to, I expect.”

Then, quick as a fawn, she had already crossed over to her room—Geyer’s, rather—and clicked the door to, shutting him in the hall.

Inside “his” suite, meanwhile, nothing stirred, though Morrow doubted Chess was sleeping; he didn’t appear to need to, these days, no more than to eat or drink, dress himself, or keep track of his possessions. Whatever he wanted for, he could conjure—just like anything he didn’t want could be as easily disposed of, with even less warning.

Inside, the moon paled things so they looked almost clean. Chess sat cross-legged on top of the bed, still mainly dressed, back turned and staring out the window, apparently unaware he was no longer alone. His boots lay shucked on the floor, puddled all over with silverish light; the same light touched his hair, and rimmed his sideburns with frost.

But when Morrow came up sidelong, quiet as he could, he realized that Chess might as well not be there at all. Deep in some sort of trance, his green eyes were open but empty, pupils invisible. His skin, cool as a too-deep sleeper’s, barely dented to the touch.

The most amazing thing, seeing him this way, was to realize once more just how young the most ruthless off-hand killer Morrow’d ever met really was—barely older than Yancey herself.

No play tonight, he thought. Just as well, given . . .

So, with a presumption born of long-stood intimacy, he stroked Chess’s eyes shut to save them from dust and pressed him prone, then crawled in next to him and cuddled up, one arm flung ’round him for warmth; no earthly way to tell if that was how Chess wanted it, so why not? They could debate it in the morning.

Ed Morrow let his own eyes close, heavy as though individually weighted—felt his breath slow, ’til his lungs barely seemed to strain.

Then, in the dream he hadn’t even guessed was creeping up on him, he opened them once more . . . only to find himself perched on a ludicrously tiny, filigreed bench in the rock garden out back of Cold Mountain Hotel, with Yancey sat up next to him: ankles crossed delicate, hair neat-dressed, wearing the exact same clothes as when he’d first met her.

“This is where my Mama’s buried,” she informed him. “Where she was, anyhow, if it’s still there. I wonder where they buried Pa?”

“I’m sure someplace just as nice. People liked Mister Colder.”

“They did, didn’t they? I always thought it was more for show than anything else, since there were some at the start—Hugo Hoffstedt amongst ’em—who claimed having a saloon in town invited dicey elements. But after Mama passed, I believe that softened folks toward us.” She wiped at her cheek, briskly. “Knew all along I’d outlive them both, of course; it’s no tragedy, like being forced to bury your children. I just . . . hadn’t thought it would come so soon.”

“I’m sorry for that,” he told her. “Truly so.”

“I know you are.” A pause. “She was born into the Hebrew faith, I think; him too. Don’t quite know what that makes me, considering I was married in a church.”

“Never cared too much on religion, myself. The Rev used to say all it was good for was reasons folks could kill each other over, and I suppose he’d know.”

“What was he like, Reverend Rook?”

Awful, he wanted to say. The sun struck hard against those neat-laid border stones at their feet, picking out the quartz, and dazzled him; there were tiny green sticker plants growing in between, furled and succulent, like thorny roses.

“Gave a fair impression of being good, sometimes,” he made himself reply, “and Chess did love him, in his way. But to tell you the truth—I hope to hell you never have to find out.”

“Am I dreaming this, Mister Morrow? Ed?”

He’d been wondering that himself, somewhat. Beyond the garden, the Hoard’s main street shimmered slightly; the garden’s dust glittered like mica. Yet Yancey stayed cool and fresh, her calm eyes infinitely inviting. Morrow yearned to watch his reflection fill them up, like little grey mirrors.