LITMIR.BIZ

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silence. It only made it clearer and stronger. His voice was an insult to it, one it paid no attention to. Bump would be gone soon. The silence would stay.

      The horrible creosote smell of smoke burned her throat, stung her eyes. It was so heavy, thick enough to make her want to gag; it made her desperate for even the air around the Slaughterhouse.

      But she couldn’t head over there, couldn’t go anywhere at all. Instead she stayed at Terrible’s side, walked through the crumbling archway that had once been the door and into the short dark hallway just inside.

      To her right was the bar, the chairs and charred countertop now exposed to the city-gray night sky, the floor littered with chunks of metal and wood, scraps of black-edged rags, broken glass. To her left a wall covered with curled strips of wallpaper, its pattern indistinguishable. How old was that building? How long had it stood there?

      Once it had been someone’s home. It had survived Haunted Week. It had seen thousands of people over the years it had been a pipe room. And now … it was destroyed, thanks to Slobag and his attempts to wrest territory away from Bump. It had outlived its purpose. It had nothing more to give except perhaps a few bricks that would always bear the imprint of its death.

      She reached out, touched the wall with one tentative finger. The building was finished, but at least it knew that. At least it didn’t have to wait and wonder anymore. She blinked, fast. Her eyes were damp.

      Terrible’s hand found the back of her neck. Blindly she turned in his direction, hit his broad solid chest with her forehead and wrapped her arms around him tight. After a second, his closed around her, his lips brushed her hair.

      It didn’t last long. Ten seconds, maybe. Fifteen. But warmth spread through her anyway; it could have been her Cepts kicking in, but she didn’t think so. And those seconds chased some of the darkness’s threat away, so she could move again. She curled her index finger in his belt loop and let him lead her across the wreckage-strewn bar and through a short hallway.

      Narrow streams of light spilled from cracks around a door at the far end of what had been the actual pipe room, lessening the gloom and revealing the blackened skeletons of couches and pipes. The place should have been hopping, filled with Dreamers … she could have lounged on one of the couches herself and left all of her worries behind for a few hours, and wouldn’t that be the most welcome fucking thing in the world right about then.

      Instead she stood in a charred death-pit about to go look at an apparently mutilated body, absorb the images of it. How typical.

      Something else hid there beneath the horror of sudden, violent death. Magic. Not that she expected anything else; from what Terrible had said, she expected exactly that. But it wasn’t … wasn’t right. It felt muted, distorted somehow. Like a spell that had been done there years before and simply never cleaned up. It didn’t feel fresh, and it didn’t feel like horrible death, either. That could have been the fire, of course. It fucked with magic, changed the energy. So it probably was the fire. She just couldn’t be certain.

      Terrible reached for the door. She let go of him as he pushed it open—“pushed” being the operative word, since it was just a slab of wood blocking the room and not a proper door—revealing something that made her wish she’d kept holding on to him.

      Bump, standing against the wall beside them, gave them an annoyed glance as they walked in. “Bout fuckin time you get your fuckin show-up on, yay? Ain’t hardly fuckin dig standin round this shit.” He gestured toward the scene with a wave of his hand. “Had me a fuckin meal before the fuckin call finding me, almost fuckin emptied up me again.”

      Agreeing with Bump wasn’t something Chess usually did, but in this instance she agreed wholeheartedly. The sight before her was horrifying.

      Bag-end Eddie had been … crucified. Not in a standing position, no, but it was clear from the position of his charred body. Crucified on the cement and burned, the flames turning his corpse into an overcooked bone-in roast spread-eagled on the floor like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Unburned flesh remained on his face and chest, and in strips down the centers of his thighs.

      His eyes, wide open in horror, stared at the dull moon above through the hole in the roof.

      “What you think, Ladybird? I fuckin saying, looking fuckin witchy to me, yay? An ain’t fuckin wrong, do I? Bump never gets the fuckin wrong side.” He looked so smug, as if the gruesome death in front of them all only mattered as a way to prove his intellectual superiority again.

      Or like it had taken a fucking genius to figure out there was magic involved in this. Like the body arranged carefully on the floor, the precise lines of soot she picked out around him, were some sort of obscure clue to the presence of witchcraft and not a blinking sign.

      “No,” she managed. She should have taken three more Cepts instead of two. She should have brought a kesh or a bottle of vodka. As it was she’d have to settle for water. “No, you’re not wrong.”

      “Yay, see?” Bump turned to the man beside him, grinning. The man’s face was a horrible shade of pasty, as if he’d covered himself in glue and let it dry. She’d always wondered what that would actually look like, if it would be shiny or not, but then she was just trying to distract herself so she wouldn’t have to look again at what had once been a living person.

      Distraction was good. So was delay. All those D words, especially “drugs.” Another Cept would make six, and why the hell not. She dry-swallowed it while she was reaching into her bag to pull out a pair of latex gloves and her small camera. What else might she need … She’d have to get a closer look to know.

      A closer look. Great.

      Within reach of where she stood were Eddie’s feet. Just beyond those were the soot lines she’d noticed, dark lines, as though the cement itself had burned.

      But the energy still didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like death magic. It definitely didn’t feel like any kind of spell she was aware of that needed a murder to help power it. Those were—Wait.

      “His—his face, the top of him, isn’t burned.” She looked at Bump and the pasty guy. “Why is part of him burned?”

      Bump’s lips went thin; he stared at her for a long moment. “Had we a fuckin fire, Ladybird, ain’t you was fuckin here on the last—”

      “Gee, really? No shit. Why is his body burned everywhere except on top? He’s burned from the ground up but the—his skin is still there, on his nose and forehead and chin.”

      Pause, while they all inspected the body. Ha! Look at her, actually noticing something that might be important. She gritted her teeth to keep from smiling. Six was definitely her magic number after the food she’d forced herself to eat earlier. Or it could be the five finally really hitting, in which case six would be too much. She was too high to worry or care. If blessings were legal, that would certainly be one.

      But smiling around a corpse wasn’t really appropriate, so she managed not to, concentrating again on standing still so her high flowed through her body in a smooth arc, making her feel like she was floating. Like maybe things were okay after all. Like maybe she was okay after all.

      “Fuckin metal all on, yay,” Bump said. Oddly festive sparks of light danced on the walls as he waved his beringed hand; Chess followed it to see a slab of sheet metal—what had once been the reinforcement of the floor above, she guessed, which had probably been some kind of processing room—leaned up against the wall. “Got he on the fuckin find neathen it.”

      “It fell on his body?”

      “Ain’t it what I fuckin saying?”

      Whatever.

      So the metal slab had fallen on the body, and on the symbol. And had kept the parts touching it from burning. That had to mean something. What did that mean?

      “The fire was here before the metal fell. I mean, look. Look at the lines. He was on fire, the fire started on the floor. Or, maybe it didn’t start here, but the floor was on fire

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