LITMIR.BIZ

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that with Bump. Fucking with Bump meant fucking with Terrible, and the only people who did that had death wishes even more serious than Chess’s. If that were possible.

      Through the tiny spaces between people, she caught glimpses of … something … what the fuck? The street red with blood, a shoe lying in a glistening puddle of it …

      She reached the center just as Terrible pulled back his fist and slammed it into the face of a man in the circle. That man stood over another man—a dead body—and was swinging the corpse’s disembodied left arm like a bat.

      The man stumbled and fell onto the bloody cement, the arm in his hand waving as he went down. Chess automatically glanced at Terrible, only to see his eyes close, see him waver on his feet for a second before shaking his head and straightening up.

      Her tattoos tingled and burned. A ghost. A ghost and magic and—oh shit. Dark magic, and just punching that man was enough to cause a reaction in Terrible. She had to find a solution to that. No more fucking around. Nothing had worked so far, and she hated being reminded of her failures, but seriously.

      Bad enough that Lex knew about it. If the rest of Downside found out … she couldn’t even imagine how awful that would be.

      This wasn’t the time to picture it, either, because the killer—she assumed he was the killer—started to stand up. His buzz-cut hair and the back of his dirty white shirt dripped with blood, vibrant and horrible in the darkening air.

      Terrible knocked him down again with a savage kick to the throat, using the sole of his boot to shove him to the pavement.

      Chess tensed. If the magic affected him that badly from a momentary touch …

      Nothing. Her sigh was so deep it made her weak. The sole of Terrible’s boot—what was it made of? Did it matter, or was it simply having a barrier that made the difference?

      Whatever it was, the killer didn’t like it very much. He writhed on the cement, grunting, his fingers slipping uselessly off Terrible’s boot and his other hand slapping the arm against Terrible’s leg. Gross. The sight of that limp hand flapping, as if it was trying to grab back the life that had been stolen from it, made her stomach lurch.

      Someone else came out of the crowd and grabbed the killer’s legs, holding them down. And still that awful, sly sensation crawled up and down her arms, across her chest and shoulders. Still the black fog of magic intended to hurt and kill oozed into her chest, into her soul, to connect to the filth already there. It countered her high, stole it from her, made sadness and misery and hatred fall on her in a hellish downpour of pain.

      At least she could do something about that. She started to turn, intending to run back to her apartment and get her bag, when something struck her.

      The killer still lay on the cement. Still fighting against Terrible, still waving that gruesome appendage around like a Church flag at Festival time, still struggling against the other man—Burnjack, Chess thought his name was, one of Bump’s lieutenants—holding down his legs.

      How long had he been like that? Why hadn’t he passed out yet, with Terrible’s foot crushing his windpipe?

      Terrible wasn’t holding back, either. He was putting weight on that foot, and his weight was considerable, considering he was about six foot four and packed with muscle. She’d estimated it at two-seventy once, and while that had been a bit too heavy, he wasn’t exactly light.

      So how was the killer still moving, still breathing?

      Terrible must have had the same thought. His eyes searched the crowd for her; when they caught hers he raised his eyebrows, gave her a small tip of his head she understood. She nodded in reply. Yes, something magic-related was going on, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

      She jerked her own head back toward her building, letting him know where she was going, and he nodded.

      She’d run that fast before, but not very often. Her chest ached by the time she reached her bedroom and grabbed the stack of hardcover books she used as a step stool when she needed one. Usually she didn’t anymore, because Terrible got things down for her, but she figured he was pretty well occupied in keeping down a homicidal maniac who seemingly refused to die and radiated black magic and ghost energy like blood spreading through clear water.

      She kept all the standard stuff in her bag—iron filings, graveyard dirt, asafetida, iron-ring water, and blood salt; the sort of all-purpose things she used a lot. The box on the top shelf of her closet was where the other stuff was, supplies she’d bought just because, or in case she ever needed them. Always good to be prepared, and almost everything in that box would be helpful in breaking curses or hexes, weakening dark magics, crossing the Evil Eye.

      Okay. Powdered crow’s bone, of course. She had some dried chunks of snake, some goat’s blood, tormentil, ground rat tails, a handful of lizard eyes and cat claws. Hell, she should just take the whole box, except someone would steal it.

      Her hands shook as she tossed everything she thought might be useful into her bag, catching the silver glint of her pillbox in its pocket. If only … Too bad all the adrenaline in her system made it totally useless to even think about taking more. Maybe after all of it was done she’d take an Oozer or two. If she could; if she was still alive to do so.

      Maybe that was being dramatic, but if there was one thing her life had taught her—one lesson it had rammed down her throat until she choked on it—it was that nothing was ever safe. Positive expectations were for idiots.

      The crowd had grown in the short time she’d been upstairs. It spread out into the yard of the building across the street, into the corner itself. Some people had brought chairs to stand on or rickety ladders; others sat on the walls edging the staircase to her front door. It was a hell of a show, after all. Nobody wanted to miss it.

      Nobody except her, anyway. Too bad she didn’t have a choice. She fought her way through the forest of bodies, pushing as hard as she could. What were they going to do, attack her? Fuck them. They needed to get the hell out of her way, and they needed to do it immediately.

      With every step—with every person she shoved to the side—the buzzing of her tattoos, the creeping sensation through her body, the cloud of despair and horror, grew, until she wondered how she managed to stay upright.

      Luckily she did, and so did Terrible, although he definitely looked paler than he should. Whatever that was, it was clearly starting to get to him, to infect him, and she didn’t have much time.

      The killer still struggled to get up, still waved that arm around like a fucking winning lottery ticket. No way was that guy alive by normal means; she could see his throat almost crushed under Terrible’s foot.

      So how was he alive at all?

      First things first. She grabbed the iron-ring water—clean water with iron rings in the bottle, left to purify under a full moon—and watched Terrible take a swig. Some of his color returned. At least that was some weight off. For the moment, anyway.

      More of that heaviness lightened when she took a drink herself. Excellent. Start with the iron filings, then; clearly iron had some power over whatever the spell was—it usually did—and what she needed most was to neutralize it enough to think.

      “Arkrandia bellarum dishager.” Her hand swung in an arc over the supine killer, spreading a fine dust of iron. The power lessened again.

      But the killer hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t blinked and he hadn’t choked. Chess bent down, trying not to get too close but needing to see it anyway.

      Holy shit. Either she was in the presence of some unbelievably fucked-up magic or this guy was out of his mind on Burn—a drug even she wouldn’t go near—or both, because he hadn’t blinked, and tiny shards of iron dug into his eyeballs. As she watched, blood welled around one of the largest pieces, started trickling down to the outer corner.

      He could certainly see, though. His free hand—the one not clutching its grisly souvenir—shot out and grabbed for her, caught her ankle in a grip so strong she cried out.

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