Unholy Ghosts (23 page)

“You want me take you back to the Church? Tell them?”
“I can’t. I still don’t know who’s involved in it, you know? If the plot goes as high as Goody Tremmell, it could be anyone.”
“So we handle it, aye? Send the thief back where he come from, an it all ends?”
“Yeah. I hope so, anyway.”
“Still think we got time to check all out, your place? Like to ask your neighbors there. Oughta not take the chance we miss ought, dig, something snap back at us later. If them Lamaru’s the ones break in, could be they nearby watching.”
“We can’t do the ritual until it’s full dark at least, anyway. We might as well.”
The evening stretched before her like an obstacle course. So many things still to do, so much to prepare… And later still the ritual. The ritual that would either kill her or save her, would either defeat the Dreamthief or defeat her.
For a moment she considered Terrible’s suggestion again. It would be easy to head back to the Church. It might even be easy to bypass Goody Tremmell and head straight for the Grand Elder.
But even if she did, and he listened, what would happen? He hadn’t taken Bruce’s concerns very seriously, and she’d heard his thoughts on the Lamaru before, his utter confidence that they were little more than a band of amateurish thugs.
He might be willing to help, eventually. She might even be able to think of a good reason why she’d been out at Chester Airport to begin with, why she’d found Slipknot’s body.
But in the meantime…while she waited for him to come around, while she waited for help, her soul would still be food. She had enough monkeys on her back, didn’t she? Enough memories to suck all the joy out of her life and crush her under their weight.
Her addiction she shouldered willingly, even eagerly. She refused to do the same with the Dreamthief.

Chapter Thirty-one

“Remember, you’re not a Church employee—some spells will simply be beyond your reach. That’s okay! There are still lots of fun rituals to do in the privacy of your own home, and the results will amaze you.”

—
You Can Do This! A Guide for Beginners
, by Molly Brooks-Cahill

Chess followed Terrible up the rickety stairs of the building across the street from hers. Perhaps it was a wasted trip at this point, but if there was a chance someone had seen something, they might as well get the information.
Lex had called again, twice, but she let the voice mail get it. Hadn’t he understood when she said she was with Terrible? Didn’t he understand how important all this was?
They reached the dingy landing, lit by one weak naked bulb hanging on a wire. A rat huddled in a corner, its bare skinny tail whipping the air. Chess shuddered as Terrible knocked on the door of number five.
They waited, then he knocked again, and again, until finally the locks clicked and the door opened a crack.
“Ain’t got no dealings with Bump,” said a husky voice. Chess couldn’t see the speaker’s face.
“Ain’t about Bump,” Terrible replied. “About the apartment across the street. The old church, aye? Your windows look in there?”
“That Churchwitch? I see her sometime. She wander around in there like a ghost, all by herself. Ain’t right for a woman to be alone like that. She in trouble?”
“You see anything there this morning, before sunup? Last night, maybe?”
“Seen some dude in there t’other night. With her. Looking like he trying to make some moves.”
Chess’s face felt hot. Must have been Doyle, when he’d come back and taken care of her hand.
“Last night, I’m saying. You see anything last night, this morning?”
Pause. “Could be I do. What’s it to you?”
Terrible reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded bill. “You see, or not?”
“Aye. Aye, I see. Two guys, dig? Didn’t see no faces, not good. Pale guys. Dark hair. One snuck back into her bedroom, carrying something I don’t know. T’other poking around her main room there. Look like he take something, but left something else. From he pocket.”
“How long they in there?”
A hand slipped through the crack, palm up, and waited. Terrible slapped the bill into it.
“Half hour, maybe. Could be longer. I ain’t watching. I got my own shit, aye? But I see them.”
“Where he leave the thing? You see where he put it?”
“She mighty sweet, Terrible. Sometime she hang around in just little underwears.”
Chess made a mental note never to open her curtains again. She’d thought with the smudgy filth covering every window in Downside she wouldn’t have to worry during the day. She also never attempted to look in her neighbors’ windows. Obviously they had none of the same disinterest.
“Just answer. Where he put it?”
“On the shelf somewheres. Near the top.”
Terrible nodded. “Aye.”
“Cool, then.” The door started to close. Terrible put one hand out and stopped it.
“What? You need more? Ain’t know more, that’s all I see.”
“You see too much, dig? Keep them eyes away from her windows. I find out you peeping in her windows, I come back.”
“Shit. Stealing all a man’s fun.” The door closed.
Chess bit her lip as she followed Terrible back down the stairs and across the street. Something left in her apartment. A charm, maybe? Some sort of curse? Or something worse than that, a camera or recording device to keep tabs on her.
It was both.
Precious minutes disappeared while they hunted for it, flipping through books and dropping them on the floor. Chess was starting to wonder if she shouldn’t just leave them there. The top shelf yielded nothing, not even when she slid her fingers over the bottom of it and probed the space between it and the wall. She was thinking of giving up when Terrible picked up the small silver wolf she’d bought a few years back.
“No, that’s mine,” she said.
“Aye? What’s the little mouth hole for?”
She took it from his hand. “Shit. This one isn’t mine.”
The drill hole was so minute she couldn’t imagine how anyone had even managed to find a bit that small. Further inspection revealed they hadn’t. The wolf was molded around the camera. Masterful. Masterful, and almost certainly created by a Church supplier. Several companies did special contract work creating just this sort of thing, useful in especially difficult cases.
“These things can take weeks to make,” she said. “Unless someone pays extra to put a rush, or has some real juice.”
“Figure that—” He grabbed the wolf from her and strode into the kitchen with it, then tossed it into the fridge, closing the door on it with a thud. “That Goody you mention got some right, ain’t she?”
“Yeah, but they would have made this in, like, two days. I don’t think any of our contractors can work that fast.”
“Why two days?”
“The first break-in was only two days ago.”
Terrible shrugged. “Who said that was the first?”
Suddenly she was very tired. Terrible watched as she slumped down onto the couch and dug a battered pack of cigarettes from between the cushions. Empty. He lit one of his and handed it to her.
“Bump only asked me to investigate the airport on, what, Friday? Yeah, Friday. And I got the Morton case the next day. That’s not even a week.”
“But your friend across the street there says something planted here this morning. So they left the camera first, aye, then come back today, drop off Brain and leave something else.”
“I don’t see anything on the shelves, though, and he said they put something on the shelf.”
“Maybe he only checking the camera. Don’t mean nothing else got left, today or before. What’s the last time you gave the place a lookover?”
She would have felt it, wouldn’t she have, if something magical had been left in here? Like she’d felt the power sneak up her legs when she walked over that spot by the runways.
She hadn’t felt anything different here, or rather, she hadn’t felt anything she didn’t attribute simply to the general creepiness of having strangers in her home. But if it had only been planted in the last couple of days, and she’d spent hardly any time here at all…
Terrible’s dark gaze followed her as she stood up and started pacing the room, keeping her eyes half-closed. It wouldn’t be by the bookcases. She’d stood there and felt nothing. But the rest of the room, the rest of the apartment, she’d barely touched.
They wouldn’t have put it under the bed, which was the most obvious place to put a curse bag or anything of that nature. They wouldn’t put it there because it would be too easily discovered when she changed the mattress. It wasn’t under the couch, because she would have felt it when she sat down. So where else did she go all the time, where else would she be in close proximity but not close enough to immediately sense it?
She got her answer when she stepped close to the old armchair. The minute her foot brushed the heavy brown corduroy valance, her stomach did a flip.
“Terrible. Grab me my bag, okay?”
She heard him moving but didn’t turn her head. The warped lines of the chair merged and spread as she stared at it, an optical illusion she couldn’t seem to look away from. Whatever they’d hid, it was powerful. Powerful enough that her heart rate sped up and she had to force herself to stay still or she would run away.
Terrible placed the bag in her hand and she fumbled in it, finding by feel her gloves and slipping the left one on. Her knees creaked as she crouched beside the chair and lifted the cushion with her right hand so she could poke around beneath it with her left. That was a mistake.
The ache in her palm, a constant low presence since the day she’d cut herself on the amulet, turned into a screaming, searing burn. With a cry she dropped the cushion, and rocked back so hard she almost fell over. Her hand throbbed, the stinging pain shooting up her arm to her shoulder and down her side.
“Chess? Maybe you ought not—”
“I’m fine.” She grabbed her other glove and forced her hand into it, trying not to touch her palm but failing. Sweat beaded on her brow.
“Whyn’t you let me—”
“I’m
fine
.”
He didn’t speak again. She felt him close to her, the warmth of his body on her bare arms, and after a minute she took a deep breath and tried again.
The ache in her hand strengthened when she touched the cushion, but it did not slice through her with razor-sharp blades as it had a moment ago. Her left hand slid along the fabric covering the seat base, into the crack down the left side, along the back…and brushed against something with the semi solid consistency of rotting fruit. An itch like thousands of tiny demons holding pokers inside her skin started in her hand, worked its way up her arm, across her body. Chess gritted her teeth to keep her stomach from revolting and yanked the curse from its hiding place.
Instantly the itching worsened. Her right palm caught fire again and went damp inside her glove, whether from sweat or blood she did not know, and she was afraid to look. That fear pissed her off and she did look, turning her hand to see through the whitish latex of her glove.
It took her horrified brain a minute to realize exactly what image it was receiving. The glove, pinkish now with blood but still white in the center, a dirty white like curdled milk…squirming movement…that maddening itch, deep in her bones…
Something fell from the top edge of the glove onto the floor, writhing feebly. A worm. The worms were back. Oh shit the worms were back, and she was screaming, trying to tear the glove off as worms poured from the wound in her hand and made the glove bulge out, as they crawled out of the glove and pattered to the floor like obscene, bloody pearls from a broken antique necklace.
The glove finally left her hand with a snap. The curse bag lay on the floor, surrounded by worms, with her blood slowly seeping toward it. Instinctively she reached for it with her right hand, pushing it away, but when her skin touched the bag, agony tore her apart. A new gush of filthy life vomited from her skin, from the gaping red wound that looked like a vicious mouth.
Hard hands grabbed her and lifted her, just enough so Terrible could slide his arm under her legs and scoop her up like a child. Into the kitchen he carried her, heedless of the worms falling from her hand onto his bare skin. He set her on the countertop next to her cracked sink and turned on the water, holding her hand beneath it while he flipped on the disposal switch.
“Cool, Chess…Don’t look at it, just look at the wall across, aye? Stare at it real hard. Keep starin.”
His footsteps sped across the room, then back to her. Her head started to clear as the pain receded, but her stomach almost lost the battle when she looked down into the sink and saw it filled with nasty brownish-red water, saw whitish bits of flesh still wriggling as they drifted into the whirl pool at the drain and were sucked down. Her drain never had worked very well. She swallowed and stared back at the wall, trying to erase the image of those hundreds of horrible little bodies, squirming their blind way out of her skin as if her own soul had become filth.
Or rather, as if the filth in her soul had become flesh.
Terrible returned a moment later. “Looks to be about finished,” he said, grabbing her hand and turning it, prodding it with one big gentle finger before sticking it under the faucet. “I moved yon bag away from the blood, aye?”
She nodded. “Th-thanks.”
“Cool.” His eyes met hers for a second, barely the amount of time needed for her to acknowledge it had happened at all, before he turned away and grabbed some paper towels to dry her hand.
“What you figure? This need bandaging, or leave it open in case they comes back?”
“Clean it and close it, for good. Those things…the wound created them, the wound and the curse. At least I assume, because the wound’s been clean.”
He rubbed his chin. “Close it, though…close it good’s gonna hurt, Chess. Leave a fuck of a scar.”
She nodded.
“Right.” He disappeared for a minute, coming back with her bag. “I’d fetch you some pills, were I you, and give me them lockpicks you use. They steel, aye?”
She told him they were and watched as he lit the burner on her stove. Her hand itched as she clumsily dug out the picks and her pillbox, and crunched three Cepts between her teeth. She’d taken two only a couple of hours before. Nothing was going to make this painless, but hopefully it might make a difference, even if taking pills for actual physical pain felt like such a waste.
Terrible examined the lockpicks with a practiced eye, then selected the largest one, which she hardly ever used. Her ears started ringing when he held it over the blue gas flames of her stove.
“Maybe you oughta sit on the floor. Ain’t want you falling off.”
She slid onto the cracked linoleum and waited, watching him heat the pick until it glowed.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
She nodded and held out her hand, bracing her elbow on her knees to keep it steady. She could still back out, she could tell him she’d changed her mind, he wouldn’t think any worse of her if she did…
Too late. His left hand grabbed her fingers, squeezing them together with bruising strength, and he pressed the bright red steel into the wound on her palm.

Chapter Thirty-two

“Do not be fooled into thinking penitence is possible through any means but those designated and performed by the Church. Pain itself does not cleanse.”

—
The Book of Truth
, Laws, Article 82

Her entire body convulsed. Her arm tried to jerk away—she didn’t move it, it was pure reflex—but Terrible held it fast. Tears poured from her eyes. She lunged forward, hoping to surprise him into releasing his grip, but he simply twisted his upper body, capturing her arm between his biceps and chest with enough force to cut off her circulation.
Her throat was raw from screaming. Her head ached. With her free hand she hit him, beating his broad back, and when that didn’t work she leaned over and bit him like an animal caught in a trap. She shook, she forgot her name, forgot where she was. All she knew was pain, unlike anything she’d ever felt, pain which lessened for a few seconds at a time while he reached up to reheat the pick, then exploded again when he applied it to her skin.
Nothing had ever sounded sweeter than the clattering of the pick as he dropped it onto the floor. Chess rested her head against him, breathing in the comforting scents of smoke and pomade and soap, wretched sobs erupting from her throat. She didn’t think she’d have the strength to lift her head. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to stand.
Terrible did. Disentangling himself gently from her grasping arms, he got up and opened her freezer. She watched through blurry eyes as he wrapped ice cubes in some paper towels and came back, pressing them into her hand. It felt wonderful. Adrenaline rushed through her body in a tidal wave, leaving her with the inexplicable desire to laugh. She did laugh, weakly, a hysterical giggle that sounded nothing like her, and tasted blood on her lips. Not her blood; her lips felt fine. His.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“No problem.”
“But…”
“Just keep that ice on for a minute. An tell me how to break yon curse.”
“Shit.” She gave another shaky laugh. “I actually forgot about it, can you believe?”
“Aye.”
“Okay.” Deep breath. Deep breath. “Bring it here.”
He looked doubtful, but did, setting it a safe distance away from her. The burning cold of her palm made it impossible to tell if the bag affected her or not, but she didn’t think so.
Following her directions, he used the picks to ease the bag open and empty it. Her eyes bulged. “That’s not just a curse. That’s…that’s a death curse.”
He nodded. “Figured it were some heavy shit. What do I do?”
For a minute she just sat, clenching the wad of soggy paper and ice in her hand. A dead insect. Black powder. Broken pins and a coffin nail. A ball of black wax that proved, when carefully scraped at, to contain a slip of paper with her name on it, and a long strand of hair, crinkled from the wax.
Her hair. How the fuck did—right. Someone from the Church. Someone got hold of a piece of her hair. Harvested it. Plucked it from her shoulder, from her bathroom floor or her bed. Taken from Doyle’s pillow, perhaps, the morning after? The worst thing she’d ever done was let that slimeball put his sticky little hands on her.
Well, obviously not the
worst
. That was a long fucking list. But it had been a stupid mistake, one she wouldn’t make again.
Terrible’s lips twisted as the last items fell out. A fleck of copper that made her shudder and press her lips together, but didn’t surprise her. A smaller ball of tight, curly hair, and a wad of fabric stiff and brown with dried blood.
“Hair from a corpse. Menstrual blood,” she said, answering his unspoken question. The blood could be hers, too, for all she knew, taken from the Church’s supply. At least Doyle hadn’t gotten hold of
that
during their night together.
He shook his head. “Some nasty. What happen iffen we ain’t find this?”
“I probably would have died. Eventually. Death curses take time to work. Weeks, maybe. If I spent a lot of time at home it’d be faster—it would have had more time to affect me—but I haven’t been around much lately.”
He nodded. “So who done this, then? Any clues?”
“Lots of clues. No answers. Something like that requires a lot of fucking power, more than I would think—whoever it was probably performed another sacrifice for it, but that body would have been discarded somewhere.” She moved her legs and tried to get up. That seemed to work, so she stood. The room spun onto its side for a second, but righted itself quickly enough.
“Shit. Ain’t even know you can do that shit with magic, for real an all.”
“It’s just energy,” she said. “Everything has energy, you know? It’s just a matter of how you use it, whether you have the ability to use it. The more powerful you are the more you can do.”
“So them made this, they powerful.”
She nodded. Fear slid down her raw throat; fear not just at what they were facing, but at the reminder that some of that power was
her
power, thanks to the stupid blood connection. A mishmash hybrid ghost comprised of sick and evil, made stronger by her own blood. And nothing to do but fight it.
Speaking of which…”Want to wash that all down the sink and come lurk menacingly in front of a dull suburban family?”
His face broke into a grin. “Lead the way.”
They were too late. The Morton house was silent as death, the harsh light from the overhead bulbs leaching the color from the Mortons’ faces until they looked ethereal, the babes in the suburban wood forever sleeping.
They
were
sleeping, the deep, untroubled sleep of the just, no matter that they were guilty. Their still bodies curled like newborn kittens on the couch and floor. Either they hadn’t made it to their beds or they’d become too afraid to sleep in them.
From outside the house came only the sounds of crickets chirping, of wind rustling through young trees. Every house on the street was dark, revealing nothing as they’d walked past; was everyone asleep? Had the thief already begun stockpiling power?
Chess raised a nervous hand to her forehead, careful not to smudge the sigil there but wanting to reassure herself. Terrible’s eyes rolled up as if he could check his that way, but outwardly he seemed completely unconcerned. She tried to tell herself that was because Terrible hadn’t endured having red-hot steel thrust into an open wound, but that wasn’t the case. Terrible also hadn’t dealt with the Dreamthief before. She didn’t think either of those facts truly accounted for his calm.
Still his presence reassured her, loath as she was to admit it, and she made her way up the stairs with more purpose than she felt. About halfway up she stopped to examine the blank space she’d seen in the picture. It wasn’t as clear in the eye-crackingly glaring light, but it was still visible.
The Morton bedroom hadn’t changed much either. Still just as tidy, but
The Book of Truth
was nowhere to be seen. They probably stuffed it under the bed.
“What we hunting for?”
“Anything. Pictures, especially. Spellbooks or books on entities. Charm bags. Letters.”
He nodded. “Any worries on keeping this hidden?”
“No. Let’s just be quick.”
They worked without speaking for a while, with the sounds of drawers opening and hangers rattling the only sounds. Terrible was handier than she’d thought he would be; he could see on top of furniture and along the top shelf of the closet, and he could move furniture with ease.
The charm bag hid between the headboard and the wall, just as Albert’s had done, and when she opened it she found the contents identical.
“But they sleeping,” Terrible said. “Because they away from the charm, or because the charm ain’t work?”
“I don’t think it works,” she said slowly. Shit, those extra Cepts might have helped her hand, but they sure weren’t helping her head. “Whoever put it together didn’t activate it, or they didn’t use enough power to do it properly. Amateurs.”
“Like them.”
“Yeah, like them. I wonder if…hmm. I wonder if they were given the ingredients and told what to do? Maybe someone wrote it down for them.”
Terrible started hunting again, dumping drawers out onto the pale carpet and sifting through the contents, while Chess stared at the objects on the bed.
It was possible someone was trying to kill the Mortons. Screw
someone
, she might as well say Goody Tremmell, using the Lamaru as her instrument. It was possible Goody Tremmell was trying to kill the Mortons, and she’d deliberately given them inadequate Dream safes to make them think they were protected. Possible she’d hatched this little plot at the Bankhead Spa with the Mortons, then figured she’d double-cross them.
Goody Tremmell issued the payout checks. Goody Tremmell could easily make the check out to herself, or funnel the funds into a separate account, or whatever other scam she could think of.
But why give them these safes at all, then? With materials that Chess’s reading had indicated would certainly hold some sway? She almost could have believed they were powering Ereshdiran in some way, except the amulet that powered him was still in her bag and the soul that powered him—aside from hers—was due to be moved back to the airport later so she could break the spell.
The Lamaru wouldn’t summon the thief from here, but if her theory was right—and it had to be, it just had to be—there had to be something here. Something to direct the entity, something to ward it, something to control it, something.
Black salt was common enough. Most Banishing spells or controlling spells used it. The claw was more unusual, but as she’d noted when she found the safe in Albert’s room, it wasn’t completely out of place. Lots of magic systems used bird parts to signify dreams or sleep, and the pink witch’s ladder would bring good dreams, too, provided such intentions were tied into the knots. The fleck of copper and the single black hair. That had to be it, it had to be.
The hair could be anyone’s. Not any of the Mortons’, but anyone else, any one of the Lamaru. Whoever had committed the murder that summoned Ereshdiran could in theory control him with that hair, at least to some degree.
“Cool, Chess?”
She jumped. “Shit! Sorry. I forgot you were here.”
“Look like you a million miles away. Been starin at that stuff for five minutes, like you listening to it.”
“No, I just—what?”
“Look like you trying to make it talk.”
Her knees went weak. “Trying to—of course. Of course! They’re trying to talk. They’re trying to keep tabs. Remember what Edsel said about copper conducting electricity, so it conducts magic, too?” Shit, she should have thought of it herself, would have if her head hadn’t been so fuzzy.
“The amulet is copper. These bags have flecks of copper in them. They conduct together. There’s probably more bags, too, I bet everyone involved has one, so they can sense if the Dreamthief is active and gaining power, keep tabs on him, you know? The…the power sends out a signal, like a shiver, and if you’re sensitive to it you’ll feel it.”
“So sayin I got a bag on me, and the Dreamthief is moving around by one of the other bags. I might know it?”
“Exactly. And it…even that little bit of charged copper would draw him. Keep him under control, by limiting his movements—fuck, so would the damned bird claw, birds are psychopomps too, they conduct spirits to and from the City. So he can’t be brought here and then just disappear somewhere else in the country. He’s forced to stay in the area, it’s like one of those electric fence things.”
One of those bits of copper had been in the death curse at her place. A calling card, or a summons?
“Stay in the area, or stay nearby the copper bits? Ain’t they summoned him partly so he could haunt here? So they build their safe thing, to keep him from killing the Mortons, aye, but they put yon copper in to make sure he stays here and haunts em.”
She could have kissed him. Might even have done it, if he hadn’t been all the way across the room and…well. He was right. It wasn’t so much a fence as a magnet. They’d bound him to certain places, certain spots. At least they’d made some attempt to minimize the risk, although only the truly arrogant could have thought it would actually work for long. But then they didn’t need it for long, did they? She had no idea when they planned to stage their breakout.
So in leaving that piece of copper at her apartment, they’d tried to bind him there as well. To kill her. Maybe they thought she no longer had the amulet? Or maybe it was simply to strengthen the effect. Either way, she’d had enough.
She thought of the Church, of all the employee cottages and the larger buildings where the Elders lived. Dozens of hiding places there. Hundreds. Had the Lamaru and Goody Tremmell already planted them, or were they hoping to get the Morton payout first?
Her hand still throbbed as she started going through one of the file boxes Terrible had dragged out of the closet. All she wanted to do was get to Chester and get this done, but she needed to find out if she was right about Goody Tremmel or not, if money really was the only motive. The key ring and the tossed-out invoice were good, but she needed something better. Something she could give someone in authority, anything to prove to them and to herself that she hadn’t climbed quite as high on the crazy tree as she felt she had.
It was so tiring, all of it. She was sick of this case, sick of these people, sick of it all, and her back ached under the strain. Bump, Terrible, Lex, the Mortons, the Lamaru, Doyle, Goody Tremmell…it was enough, it was too much. If her life and the Church’s very existence hadn’t been in danger she would have abandoned all of it and holed up in a Dream den for the next week.
She kept digging through the files like an automaton, her body working in dependently of her mind. Bills, bills, bills. Receipts. She discarded them one by one. None of them contained anything that might possibly relate to Ereshdiran or Goody Tremmell or anything else.
But then, Goody Tremmell would know where she would search, and when. Which made possible hiding places in the house few and far between. Chess hadn’t yet gotten authorization to go into the Mortons’ safe-deposit box.
But then, Goody Tremmell wasn’t the most imaginative woman as a rule, right? It had been pretty careless—or arrogant—to just throw out that bill or toss it into her purse instead of shredding it, hadn’t it, even if the Goody usually took her trash to the incinerator herself? So perhaps the Mortons were just as dull.
“Help me lift the mattress,” she said, turning around.