Sacrificial Magic (25 page)

Was she kidding? The question was so odd, Chess stared at her for a second. “It’s never enough.”

A few seconds of fumbling with the door handle until it caught, while Beulah watched. “Thanks for the ride.”

She stepped out onto the soft dark street.

For the first time in hours she could breathe, really breathe, the familiar, comforting scents of leather and smoke and pomade, that enginey smell, invading her head, sinking into her muscles. The streets slid by; the Chevelle floated through them ten feet off the ground, fifteen.

“You right, Chess? Ain’t got hurt?”

“No, no. I felt the symbol’s energy and then it caught fire and exploded, but I’m fine. Just fine.”

He glanced at her, streetlights illuminating his face at intervals, washing over the scars, the deep-set eyes, the broken nose. She loved watching it. Loved
him
. “They get she body out first?”

“No, I started to do it, but—”

“What?” He looked so angry for a second she thought he was going to slam on the brakes, and braced herself. Well, braced herself as best she could; she didn’t think she could have picked up anything heavier than a cigarette at that particular moment. “They made you— Fuck. Shoulda fuckin known.”

His thigh was tense under her palm. Shit, she should have kept her mouth shut. But then what was she supposed
to do, lie? “No, it, it wasn’t that bad. I had my gloves, you know, it just—the spell changes according to energy, like whatever energy it finds when you touch it. It wasn’t that bad, though, really.”

He shook his head, his anger still filling the car. “Sure it weren’t. ’Swhy you tanked up soon’s you left, aye?”

She blinked. That stung. A lot. And what was she supposed to say in reply? Especially when it was true. “Are … are you mad at me?”

“What? Why? Naw, baby. Just ain’t can believe they made you do that, is all.”

Even high as she was, she could read the look on his face, and it clearly said she needed to drop the subject immediately. He wasn’t mad at her, sure, but he was mad enough at Lex, and she wanted him to cheer up before they got to his place. She had definite plans for once they arrived. The kind of plans that made her temperature go up several degrees.

It was already up a bit anyway, because he was there, and, she had to admit, kind of because he was so mad. It made her feel … cared about. No one had ever gotten mad on her behalf like that before, or upset that she wasn’t being treated the way they thought she should be. Most people in her life who’d seen her treated badly—and there were a fuck of a lot of them—had laughed or joined in. None of them clenched their fists around the steering wheel with murder in their eyes. Maybe it was wrong of her, but it made her feel good, and she couldn’t help it.

Still, she didn’t want to make him any madder. So instead of speaking she just sank back into her seat, watched the empty buildings go by, watched them appear in the distance then suddenly snap past, leaving streaks of black and gray behind them, until they reached his building.

The walk to his apartment took forever and no time
at all, and then she was inside behind the heavy gray steel door. She always felt so small there; the building had been some kind of multilevel warehouse and he had an entire floor, one big wide rectangular room with black metal posts set at intervals to support the steel-beam ceiling. A single wall broke the space in half on the left side, creating a kitchen and living room. A bathroom hugged the other wall.

Her shoes made a dry scuffing sound against the cement floor as she crossed to the couch, planted in the middle of a gray carpet worn thin from feet and vacuums.

But it was comfortable, and cool, and she waited for him to join her with her perma-smile in place and her stomach doing cheery swoops. The familiar room welcomed her, the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, the bookshelf, the rarely used TV and the often used stereo. If she hadn’t known whose place it was, she would have known anyway; it looked like him, smelled like him.

“So Slobag ain’t seemed to got any knowledge on it?” He appeared in front of her with a beer in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, the latter of which he handed her before sitting down with his arm along the back of the couch behind her.

She always felt so awkward at this part. Should she cuddle up to him, tuck herself under that arm and kiss his neck? She never did. Better to wait for him to do it, so she knew he wanted to. Forcing herself on him wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all her.

It all seemed so easy before they started “officially” doing whatever it was they were doing. Then she knew exactly what she wanted to do, and how. Sex was simple.

But affection, this whole relationship thing … wasn’t. It was complicated and messy and terrifying. Scarier even than almost everything she’d seen in the symbol at Mercy Lewis, and far more dangerous.

He was watching her expectantly. Had he— Oh, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he? “What?”

“Askin if Slobag seemed like he got knowledge on that magic. Iffen he say aught make you think he do.”

“I don’t think so, no.” She took a swig of water, cool and crisp, and felt her eyes moisten. Hydration was good. He didn’t look quite so blurry that way. “I can’t be sure, but he seemed—I mean, he was—really pissed off when I suggested it might have been him.”

Terrible rubbed his chin, smiling behind his hand. “You said on it?”

“I did. He was all— Oh, fuck, did you know Eddie worked for him? He said Eddie worked for him. He was really surprised when I said Eddie was dead.”

The smile weakened. “You said on Eddie?”

“Beulah brought it up. I couldn’t, I couldn’t really think of a way to lie about it when she mentioned it, you know?”

She drank more water. Some of it spilled down her shirt; she giggled. Fuck, she felt good, better than she had in days. “He said his witch was busy, that’s why I was there. So he definitely has one, and he really didn’t like it when I sort of asked if his witch had done the ritual. Oh! And it’s a man. I asked about his witch and he said ‘he’ was busy. So it’s a man, his witch.”

Terrible nodded. His arm still rested on the back of the couch; she was acutely aware of it, almost touching her hair. If she tilted her head back it
would
touch. “That magic, that the one happened when we was inside? The one you felt, meaning. That one. Same as Eddie?”

Oh, good question. Good thing she had an answer, too. “I think so. I felt the energy again before it caught fire. It was different, in the structure, I mean, but I think it was the same as with Eddie. And it was definitely what was happening while we were—the male part of it was stronger than we felt—I mean, than I felt—inside. That
felt more female, but I think that was the ghost. The sigil felt almost totally male. But it’s the same person. The same people. I think.”

Her tongue was too big for her mouth; she could feel it hitting her teeth when she talked, feel the words forming before they wandered out. She wished she had something else to do with that tongue. “And it feels like stealing. Whatever they’re doing, they’re stealing. Stealing power from the earth. That’s bad.”

She quickly gave him the same explanation she’d given Beulah, waited in silence while he digested it. “Thinkin that why it bein done? Like maybe them Lamaru, or Maguinness?”

“No. It felt too, too clean. Maguinness was so dirty, his magic felt like, like bugs or something, but this one is bad but feels kind of, well, clean. Like the caster’s not right in the head but learned magic from someone who is, if that makes sense. I guess it could be to cause another Haunted Week or something but it doesn’t feel like that.”

Oh, right. Speaking of which. “The energy can be other things, too. It’s pure, you know? Not formed. So, it can turn into anything. Any sort of power. Does that make sense?”

“Be just power? An they holdin it just that way, till they use it an turn it into what they needing it for.”

“Right. Exactly.”

He shifted in his seat, but left his arm where it was. Maybe he did want her to curl up next to him? Maybe he was waiting for her to do it?

But why would he do that, especially after she’d just been spending time with Lex? She was the one who’d lied and betrayed; she was the one who’d had to beg. She was the one who’d kissed his worst enemy that very afternoon. She couldn’t take his forgiveness—or forgetfulness, whichever of the two she’d been blessed with—for
granted and just assume it was okay to crawl all over him like some sort of parasitic nymphomaniac. If he turned her away …

“Been thinkin,” he said. “Got the wonder why they done it there, dig, outside the school an all. They know you inside? Or they tryna make a point, let the body get seen? Got any thoughts?”

“I didn’t even think of that.” She twirled a lock of her hair in her fingers, enjoying the cool slide of it over her skin. Hoped she looked alluring doing it, because she was starting to get tired—heart-pounding horror and Oozers tended to wear a person out—and she wanted to make sure they didn’t miss out again. Her body heated and squirmed below the false Oozer soothe, wanting to be touched, kissed; wanting to be pressed against his. “Yeah, it’s a really good thought. Why would they do it there, and with Jia? She’s a student. Was a student. The dead girl, she was a student.”

“Damn. Why her, wondering.”

“Oh!” She jumped in her seat. “She had the book! Jia did, earlier. She’s the one I took the book from. Did I tell you about that? The book? She had the—a ghost-summoning book. I took it from her. And they summoned a ghost, Lucy McShane, right?”

“So she weren’t just some dame them grabbed theyselves. Took her on purpose.”

“Right. Maybe, maybe she knew them or something. Maybe, oh, shit, yeah, maybe we can find out who she knew, and that’ll help, d’you think?”

He smiled and touched her hair, gentle fingers brushing it out of her face. “Aye, got a good sound to me.”

That was it. She couldn’t take it anymore. It was probably the wrong thing to do, yeah, but she had to try anyway, because sitting there so far apart was a slow torture she couldn’t endure.

The banked fire inside her burst back into ravenous
flame when her lips touched his, when her arms wound around his neck. She’d practically jumped into his lap, his thighs beneath hers; when he responded she shifted position so she straddled him, reveling in the feel of him so close to her.

Not close enough, though. His shirt buttons stumped her numb fingers, but she managed to get one, then another, all the while keeping contact, deepening the kiss. She wanted to kiss his neck, his chest, but she couldn’t bear to leave him, not even for a second. She’d been so desperate for this for so long, and the rush of getting it was so fucking sweet.

His hands rested on her thighs, squeezed them gently. She waited for him to slide them up under her shirts or in her hair or her face, the back of her neck … all those places he usually touched her at first, the places that made her feel special and safe.

But he didn’t.

Okay, something was wrong. She shifted her hips, found no physical reason why he’d have a problem—on the contrary—but he didn’t touch her, or kiss her throat or ears or collarbones.

She pulled back far enough for their eyes to meet so she could let him see how much she wanted him, once she managed to focus. Damn, she was really high.

“Let’s go to bed, okay?” She ducked her head to kiss him again, but missed his mouth and had to slide over to hit it properly. “Take me to bed.”

Shit, she should have known. She
had
known. Making the first move like that was a mistake. He smiled, but she didn’t see anything in his eyes, or not what she wanted—needed—to see. His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Thinkin you oughta get you some sleep. Lookin worn up, aye?”

Sleep? Was he joking? “I can sleep after, I can sleep
late tomorrow. We finally have a chance, I mean, it’s been a week …”

The words died in her throat. No. He wasn’t looking at her. Wasn’t picking her up to carry her to the big gray bed, or grabbing the hems of her shirts to peel them off.

“Always the morrow, aye? Got plenty of time. C’mon, tired myself, too. Let’s us get you resting.”

Her eyes stung. “I don’t want to rest, I want to—”

“Awful late, an you havin that magic you had to handle … Just got the thought might be better if—”

“It wouldn’t be. It won’t be.” Panic lurked around the edges of her voice, struggling to break through; she swallowed it, hard, so he wouldn’t hear it. “I don’t want to sleep, I want
you
.”

“I got a fuckload to do on wakin, an so do you, ain’t want you up so—”

Holy shit. As she leaned back and looked at him, really looked at him, it hit her. Like seeing pictures in her head, all the things she’d let slip past her because she was fucked up. “You don’t trust me.”

“What?”

“That’s it, right?” She scooted off him; her feet hit the floor and she struggled for a minute to get her balance, grasped the low arm of the couch to do it. “I told you Bag-end Eddie was working for Slobag and you didn’t even look surprised. You knew. Didn’t you?”