A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

Hell you won’t. You uncivilized, rude, improvident young man.

Improvident—that mean selfish?

Rash, thriftless, not providing for the future. Which you don’t much, do you?

Hell, no. I’ll be dead long ’fore I gotta worry about that.

Into Chess’s ear, a hot breath chased with a gentle bite: Not if I can help it.

And now you think you got me well in hand, don’t ya? Chess thought, anger and desire messing with each other all through him, the way laudanum could be used to cut liquor. So he raised his chin to pin Rook fast with a backward glance, felt the Rev huff in quick, and smiled just a touch at the rush of power that reaction afforded him: See? Still got it. A quarter-turn more and they were staring straight at each other head-on, without the mirror to mediate; Chess felt it like a touch of fever, mildly vertiginous.

But then the whole scenario slid sideways, as it so often did in dreams, ’til Rook and Chess stood together on a balcony overlooking what Chess could only think must be Rook’s new home. All around reared up buildings slapped together from rock, mud and magic, black and strangely shaped; smoke billowed up from a hundred chimneys, limned in heat-shimmer. The sky was the colour of sugared absinthe.

So, Rook “said,” weirdly sociable. Since you don’t seem all too eager for my regular blandishments . . . here we are. He swept one hand out, leaning back ’gainst the balcony’s oddly sharp railing, its wrought iron curlicues reminiscent of those Chess had seen on row house verandahs. Gaze upon New Aztectlan, o pilgrim, and wonder.

Chess snorted. Uh huh. This where you and her are supposed to be rulin’ all America from, one of these days?

That’s the plan . . . part of it, anyhow. How’s Agent Morrow, by the by?

We have our fun. Chess shot him another look. Jealous?

With a tiny tilt of the head: Should I be?

Just another mask, smirk and all—another prepared face, be it Good Man Gone Wrong, High Priest of Darkness or Unflappable Mastermind with a plot for every contingency, surprised by nothing. Might’ve even fooled Chess, he hadn’t already seen its like so damn often. And maybe it was just the smoky gloom around them—the dream-sick unreality of everything that green light touched—but for a moment, Rook’s face really did seem bone-hard, frozen in something more grimace than smile, its eyes dark as glass.

You’re not lookin’ too good, Ash. The words came out flat and quiet, wiping Rook’s visage further, a scrubbed slate.

And after a moment, the answer came back—his mouth’s utter stillness betraying this whole illusion, almost absently: Probably not. But . . . I made my bed.

Sure did, Chess thought, whip-quick—not at Rook per se, the way he had thus far. But not caring all too much if he happened to overhear, either.

Turning away, he saw the city’s black blur immediately resolve, as though it felt his attention—ripen all over with squirmy detail, like a dead dog bred maggots. A raw smell struck him, all gunpowder, vomit and hot blood, like Chinee New Year in a San Fran slaughterhouse. Crowds reeled through the streets, their ruckus peculiarly muted, even as magic spilled brilliantly off them. Shapes blurred in flux; power arced from open mouth to open mouth; men and women danced and fought on empty air, easy as though it were solid ground.

Around them, meanwhile, buildings even larger than the front line could now be observed overhanging in unnaturally rock-smooth drapes, and it took Chess a moment to figure why: not a one of them bore the lines of brick and mortar, or even daub-sealed log palisades. Instead, every structure was a single seamless piece, some of granite, some marble or sandstone, some of wood still lined with bark and dripping with sap—as if they’d been raised up like clay out of living rock, or force-grown from tortured tree roots. And the tallest of all reared high directly opposite them, a step-pyramid temple with a great bonfire blaze at its peak, black column of smoke pouring upwards into the green clouds, an unending river of night.

What you got on the grill over there, exactly, makes it go so hot and bright? Chess demanded.

Oh, this ’n’ that. Care to see?

Chess gave an angry sigh. He felt Rook work on him un-ceasingly—a pull like falling, the inexorability of sheer mass—and fought it, the only way he knew how: dirty.

I’m thinkin’ it don’t matter much to you, whether I do or don’t, he snapped back. But let me take a guess—that’s your Moloch, ain’t it? The Satan-hole you throw your own children down, on her command, and watch ’em as they burn to flinders.

He’d known it soon as he laid eyes on it, from the very stink of the smoke. Tasted the power in the back of his throat, burnt and burning, the way that last drink you guzzled before puking left behind a taste you couldn’t quite seem to part with.

The lure of it pulled at him like fish-hooks, so horrid, so profane. So . . . delicious.

And you did that to me too, you big bastard, Chess thought, dizzily nauseous with rage. Gave me your disease, like you were dolin’ out the clap; made me into just another hop-head. Put your jones into me and let it fester, knowing once I’d took my first jolt, I’d never be able to pull it back out.

But Rook just shrugged. Oh, it’s only the stupid who go to feed the Machine. Those as can’t keep control long enough to be useful.

Chess felt that space under his ribs clutch again. You doing them same’s you did me?

Hell, no. Think the Lady and me want more little gods runnin’ ’round? No, they kill ’emselves, mainly—jump in the cistern, or throw ten-at-a-time necktie parties in the yaxche forest, down where the big roots grow. Seems they somehow got the idea it’ll complete their ‘transition.’

’Cause you told ’em so.

Well, we sure don’t tell ’em any different.