A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“You could teach me, I guess. If you wanted to.”

“If I wanted to, sure. You sayin’ I should?”

“I ain’t qualified to know what you should or shouldn’t, Mister Pargeter. Just . . .”

Just I’m the only other queer you ever met, let alone the only hex, Chess thought, suddenly exhausted, though it was hardly gone ten in the morning. Just like you look at me like I’m Jesus, like I could multiply fishes and turn water into wine — and Goddamn if I couldn’t, either. Goddamn if I couldn’t do any damn thing I want, even now.

It was a heavy burden, all this possibility. He didn’t remember ever feeling that way before, but maybe that was what coming back from the dead — twice, with different results both times — did for a fellow.

“Paradin’ ’round town dressed like that, let alone the rest, your Ma and Pa must’ve hated you somethin’ fierce,” Chess said, at last.

“By the end? I somewhat think they did. Named me after a king, though — Charlemagne, first of France: ‘Charles the big.’ Guess they hoped it’d fit.”

“Good thing you grew into it.”

That made Charlie preen a bit, which prompted Chess to crack another smile. But the next turn in their dance made it all slide side-a-ways, when Charlie asked: “You was . . . with Reverend Rook, is what I heard.”

“From them songs, and such? Sure was, and famous for it.”

“Dead, too, for some of that same time . . . that’s the other rumour.”

“That too, yeah. Twice over.”

“And then — you came back. Why?”

Didn’t care to stay prone, he thought, but didn’t say. “’Cause I still had work needed doin’,” he averred, instead.

“To kill him, then. For . . . killin’ you?”

“That was her idea,” Chess heard himself snap. After a moment, with difficulty: “Ash Rook didn’t need me to get himself killed. No more’n — ”

I needed him to get killed, myself.

Truth was, as Chess only just now understood he already well knew, if it hadn’t gone the way it did, it’d’ve gone one of a hundred others. Chess had been moving toward fatality all his life, all unknowing of the cost. The moment when his inborn payload finally exploded, destroying everything ’round him sure as double canister shot.

A bomb, a plague, one more slice of walking doom. One more hex in a world that hated hexes, all the more so whenever they managed not to hate each other, or themselves.

But now there was Hexicas, at least. And that, too, was Ash Rook’s work, along with all the rest.

“Wanted him dead, that’s true ’nough — a thousand times over, and more,” Chess concluded, his own voice so low, so rough, he barely recognized it. “But even that he took pride in deprivin’ me of, by the end. Judged himself by his bad Book’s standard, found himself wanting and passed sentence, ’fore I had a chance to do more’n curse him over it. For Asher Goddamn Rook never could stand to be outdone by anyone, at anything.”

Something on his cheek now, warm enough, but not wet: Charlie Alarid’s big hand, cupping his cheek and half his chin. One guitar string-callused thumb, tracing the track where tears would go, if only there were any left to shed.

“I’m sorry,” the kid said, and seemed to mean it. Chess shook his head.

“No need,” he replied. “I’m sorry enough for the both of us.”

The barkeep, gazing studiously elsewhere, let out a dry little prompting cough: Time, gentlemen. Please. Which made Chess hiss a bit, but only a bit; more for show than anything else, and not much for that, either. He rose, Charlie following like a too-long shadow, and stalked over, as the barkeep recoiled.

“Get a lot of trouble like last night in here?” Chess demanded, placing one fist on the countertop.

“Uh . . . somewhat, I s’pose.” Jaw wobbly as a turkey-neck, the man stole a squint at Charlie, adding: “Mainly when Mister Alarid’s about, truth to tell.”

“You do know how he ain’t the only bent creature in this world, though, right?” Chess asked. “Or me, neither?” As the man shifted even further back, visibly uncomfortable, Chess leaned in, confiding: “Hell, there’s even ladies like ladies, if you could credit it. Or them who take what’s given, without pledging any sort’a allegiance at all — all manner of strange creatures, roamin’ ’round out there in the dark! And any given one of ’em might sometime want a drink, a plate or to just set a while, without some drunken moron runnin’ their mouth.”

“Uh, I . . . don’t know nothin’ on any of that, Mister Pargeter. I just . . .”

“Run a bar, yeah. Need the custom, no matter who brings it. So I’m gonna make sure no fool like Sam Holger ruins your prospects on that score, ever again. Now, how’d that be?”