A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“Is it the little ghost you describe, dead-speaker, or your friend the red boy?”

“How you think I came to figure this all out?” Yancey shot back. “Songbird’s got way too many scars for a girl as young as she is, and she’s way too used to power. This . . . she . . . isn’t safe for you, ma’am. Or any of the rest’ve us, something goes awry.”

The Diné woman’s smile went lopsided. “If I liked only safe things, the track of my life would not run where it does. All I know is that some wounds cannot heal, if left on their own.”

“Or some people, either?”

Yiska rolled her eyes, snorting — but whatever she was about to say next was lost in a sudden ripping crack like a tiny thunderclap, followed by a high-pitched scream that jerked her ’round. “Ai-eh, now?” she snapped, grabbing up her spear, and bolted back up the path; barefoot and weaponless, Yancey tore after her, on sheer reflex.

They rounded a curve behind a rise in the rock, and stopped, gaping. In front of them, something like a dog bounded back and forth — but no dog stood near as tall as Yancey at the shoulder, nor clawed at its victims with leathery five-fingered hands like an ape’s, ruff of black glass spikes bristling with every growl. Around it, dozens of deerskin- and wool-clad albino Chinese girls shrieked as they ran in all directions, crab-walked backward or stood paralyzed, hands to hidden faces. The creature took the head off one in a single vicious swipe, only for both head and headless body to burst in a damp cloud of ectoplasmic mist and vanish; it sent up its own cry of cheated hunger, an unnatural soprano yipe.

Illusion! Yancey thought, throwing the word straight at Yiska’s mind. She focused her Sight, struck through hexation’s layers to find the real Songbird perhaps ten feet away, backing just as slowly and silently away from the monster as she could. A damn good plan, in Yancey’s opinion. But you couldn’t say any shred of the Enemy was without sense, and maybe realizing Songbird’s intent was enough to draw attention to it, for the dog-thing paused, hunkering down — cocked its head and shifted, nostrils flared wide, dragging in deep, snorting breaths, ignoring the ghosts in favour of the girl’s real scent.

Without thinking, Yancey found herself leaping forward, waving both arms wildly. “Hey!” she screamed. “Here, you son of a bitch! Here!”

The thing whirled, drawing bead on Yancey, and she went still — not in fear, so much, as sheerest concentration. Danger slid her senses to their highest pitch, so far she could see lines of power like greasy tendrils running from beast to the Crack and beyond, from whence it came. Even if she had no hexation herself to smite it with, those power lines she could seize . . . could, and did.

Contorted in mid-leap, the creature crashed to earth, flailing at her feet with those inhumanly human hands while its soul pressed hard ’gainst hers, tight as any lover. Yancey shook with effort, alternating blasts of rage and hurt lighting her mind with dreadful images: Chess Pargeter and Sheriff Love in full array, tearing at each other hopelessly; the reborn Sheriff under her gun, his skull bullet-hollowed, wife screaming his name like she had Uther’s. Ed Morrow sprouting claws and fangs, savaging her. The creature hunched itself closer, flooding out hunger so fierce it was its own agony. Yancey tried to step back but found herself paralyzed, her grip on the spirit lines slipping.

The monster began to rise — then slammed back down as Yiska drove her spear hard through the back of its neck, pinning it to the earth, before dodging away. Ear-scraping squeals drowned to gurgles; it writhed, spewing gushes of stinking black blood Yancey avoided only by inches. Songbird’s many selves winked out, leaving a single version, striving hard to seem unimpressed. And when Yiska saw that she laughed out loud, triumphant — wheeled back, poised to count coup, eager to show off in front of at least one of them.

But it wasn’t to be. Without warning, a massive foot made of dirty bone crashed down on the thing, flattening it to silence in a single stroke.

Angrier looking than she’d seemed at any previous point, Yiska glared up at the only vaguely human figure towering over her and Yancey. “You broke my spear, Spinner!” she shouted, fists on hips. “Am I to slay the next foe with my knife only?”

Grandma looked blankly down without speaking, then turned, trudging back up the slope. Yiska grimaced and muttered under her breath; Yancey couldn’t catch the sense of it, but felt a hint of fear under the anger. Which, given how little fear she felt from Yiska generally, was worrying enough.

“Hell was that, anyway?” she asked her.

“Huehueteotl,” said Yiska. “Tools of the Enemy, when he wishes; more dangerous still, when he gives them no orders.” To Songbird: “A good tactic, White Shell Girl. You remembered what I said.”

“Which was?” Songbird called back, shrill and breathy, arms wrapped ’round herself with the blanket fallen from her white face.

Yiska’s smile returned, wide as ever. “If you can’t be strong, be clever.”

Songbird opened her mouth to refute this, but found Yiska half-gone before she could — slipping past Yancey, shattered spear already snatched up, following in Grandma’s wake to meet her braves, who’d come running down to “help.” She yelled something raucous at them, earning laughs in return.

Songbird stared after her, face shaded, yet bewilderment plain.

“Spend half our time killing whatever comes out of that damn crack,” Yancey complained to Songbird, later. “Dogs with hands, fish walking, snakes with a head at each end, what’s it gonna be next? And for all the . . . stuff . . . comes out of that Goddamn thing, you’d think it’d be easy to send one thought halfway into it, right? Well, no such luck. Like trying to cast a fishing line through mud.”

Instead of snapping, Songbird actually cast her an amused look. “Are you sure you have not yet contacted English Oona’s son? Your imitation astonishes.”

Against her will, Yancey found herself laughing — and was surprised as all hell

, after a moment, to find Songbird had joined her.

“As for this-all with . . . Yiska, and you,” she said, finally, “I just hope . . .”

Songbird bristled. “Hope what?”

“. . . you’re not taking advantage, that’s what. Not trifling with her affections, such as they are, since she’s treated you well in harsh circumstances. That you’ll consider how she’s an honourable creature, in her way, and act the same, if you can. But I’ve said my piece, so that’s where I’ll leave it.”

Schoolmarmish in the extreme, Yancey chided herself; she’ll never fall for it. And indeed, the albino first stared at her askance, before having the grace to seem just a touch guilty.

“Look at me,” she said, at last. “This place . . . I am hardly suited to it, or anywhere else. I have spent my whole life in a box, surrounded, always a possession; I cannot take care of myself. I must have a protector, especially now, and — she wants that role. Shall I deny her?”

Though Yancey could hardly object on moral grounds, she nevertheless heard herself say: “Might be kinder.” To which Songbird only laughed again, this time more bitterly.