Sacrificial Magic - Stacia Kane

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is—Damn it, I can’t help where they assign me, and I shouldn’t have to—”

      “They tell you head back his place after?”

      She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself. “No. But I thought maybe I could find something out, maybe I could find out who the spy was, how they knew the pipe room was empty last night.”

      The silence changed a little, thawed a little. “Get anything?”

      “No. He wouldn’t talk to me about it. At all. I asked as soon as we got to his bedroom, but—” Fuck. Oh, motherfuck, what was wrong with her? She’d almost been off the hook, or at least on her way to it, why had she just said that? Why had she said it that way? Damn it. “Nothing happened or anything, okay? Nothing.”

      “Stayed a while, though, aye?”

      “I just—I almost died on that fucking catwalk—I was on a catwalk and it fell, that’s how I hurt my cheek—and I didn’t feel like being alone and I knew you were busy, and he was there.”

      “Oh, I dig. Hey, maybe you give me the number that dame Cassie, the one wore your face? Next time aught happens to me, I give her a ring-up for company. No worries, aye?”

      “He’s my friend, okay, that’s all, and you know that, you know I still talk to him. You said—”

      The ringing of his phone interrupted her, loud and annoying. Terrible shot her a this-isn’t-over glare and checked the phone, then answered it. More bad news, probably. The only people she could see him taking calls from at that moment were Bump or Felice, the mother of the daughter he had in another part of Triumph City. No one except Bump and Chess knew about Katie; Katie didn’t know Terrible was her father. And Terrible wanted to keep it that way. “Aye.”

      His face paled, so pale her heart skipped a beat before the dull red flush of anger started creeping up his neck. “Aye, what—Aw, fuck. Aye.”

      What should she do? Should she touch him? Or would that just piss him off more? What the hell did people in relationships do when shit happened, when the other person was probably regretting being there to begin with and wondering how they could have ever thought they actually wanted to be?

      “Coming.” He snapped the phone shut, scooping up his long-sleeved shirt in the same movement and slipping it on. Even in the midst of everything Chess felt a pang of regret seeing his chest disappear; not just because it was his or the fact that she liked to look at it so much—which she did—but because of what its disappearance meant. He had to leave, probably right away, while something awful and painful and all her fault crouched between them like a troll under a bridge.

      And he might not be able to come back that night. Hell, he probably didn’t want to come back. Ever. Fuck!

      “Get yon shoes on.” His voice was flat; he didn’t look up from buttoning his bowling shirt.

      “Why, what—”

      “Found a body. Corner man, name of Bag-end Eddie. Just find him in the pipe room, half-burned, dig. Gotta get us up there.”

      The fact that he wanted her to go with him should have made her feel better. And she had to admit it did. But not much.

      Why did he want her to go? Sure, maybe he wanted to finish their “discussion,” but he was going to look at a dead body. Surely he didn’t think she should be forced to look, too? Looking at dead bodies wasn’t really very high on her Things-Chess-Enjoys list. And yeah, her total knowledge on what people in relationships did might fill a shot glass—especially if she used extra-large letters to write SEX—but something told her “looking at dead bodies” wasn’t a generally accepted togetherness-type activity, either.

      Of course, not going might look—Oh, fuck this. “Um, I’m fine to go with you, but … do you actually want me along? I mean—”

      The look on his face cut her off, grim and dark. “Bump say me bring you. Ain’t just killed. Say got magic shit all around. Somethin you oughta see.”

      Chapter Nine

      The presence of dark or evil magics should be reported immediately. That is your duty as a citizen.

      —The Church and You, a pamphlet by Elder Barrett

      They’d almost hit Brewster before Terrible finally spoke again, his voice a low rumble over Black Sabbath on the Chevelle’s stereo. “Ain’t like you seein him.”

      “I know.” Relief flooded her chest; at least she hoped it was time for relief. “I’m sorry. I just, I thought maybe I could find something out. And yeah … I was kind of shaken up, and having some company sounded good.”

      “Aye, guessin it did.” Something in his tone made her narrow her eyes, inspect him more closely. He almost sounded … upset? Pissed off? Hurt? She couldn’t tell for sure, but he definitely didn’t sound the way he usually did.

      But then there was no reason for him to, was there.

      They rode on in silence for another minute; he hooked a right onto Brewster. She’d been this far north before—of course she had, the day before during the fire—but only once or twice before that. If they kept going, eventually they’d be as far up as the Crematorium, and the Nightsedge Market she’d been to once with Lex.

      Terrible made a sound next to her, a sort of half-laugh. “What a time you choose to gimme the tell.”

      More relief. “I didn’t want you to think I was hiding it from you or being sneaky or something.”

      He didn’t say more; she knew he probably had more to say, but she hoped when he did he’d say it like that, and they could talk about it, and she wouldn’t have to sit there with terror icy in her stomach because she’d fucked everything up—again—and the minute hand on their relationship’s internal clock had just moved a tick closer to midnight.

      The very thought made her already chilled skin colder. She grabbed her pillbox and water bottle from her bag and took two more Cepts, hoping they might warm her; the three she’d taken when he’d arrived at her place had hit, but not enough. She needed to get rid of that cold inside her, that frozen-solid knot of fear and guilt she couldn’t stand, didn’t want to feel anymore. Five was pushing it, she knew, but what-the-fuck-ever.

      If she was lucky they’d kick in before they got to the body, and that would be a help, too.

      Why did she even bother thinking what might happen if she was lucky? The only luck she’d ever had in her life pulled the Chevelle up to the curb and threw it into neutral, and she seemed hell-bent on fucking that one up for herself no matter how hard she tried not to.

      Spring had come and the cherry trees were in bloom, but the nights still held the remainder of the dead winter, and the breeze, heavy with the acrid resinous scent of charred wood, cut through her clothes when Terrible opened her door. Good thing she’d put her bra back on, but she should have remembered her cardigan.

      Candlelight danced in a few windows, making the buildings look like carved Festival pumpkins with horrible greedy eyes. The burned-out shell of the pipe room, destroyed walls supporting nothing, sat there in silence. Dull moonlight revealed the ruin beautiful in its destruction, dignified in death. Chess shivered.

      Bump’s unmistakable drawl rode the wind to where she and Terrible stood. The anger in his voice didn’t ease the feeling of foreboding.

      Nor did the open doorways on the street, tall lean shadows like upended coffins. Anything could be hiding in those openings, in the alleys and empty spaces. She was glad of Terrible’s arm touching hers as they walked, grateful for the knife she knew he could grab instantly if necessary.

      Details on the dead building grew sharper as they neared it; well, of course they did. Black streaks above the glassless windows, the fire’s signature. Ashes collected in the cracks on the street, covering the sidewalk, obscuring the garbage

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