Sacrificial Magic (45 page)

She didn’t. Instead a man leaped from the shadows, a huge man with black hair. He knocked Aros down with a horrible splatty
thud
. She knew him, didn’t she? Her heart somersaulted, but her mind … couldn’t quite seem to grasp it.

Terrible. That was his name. What kind of name was that?

Whatever. What mattered was ending the spell.

She could close the gate now, end the spell herself. And she knew in that strong part of herself, that big well of hope and joy and confidence and magic, that big well that looked forward to the next day and the next and the next because only good things would happen to her from then on, that she could close them easily. They wanted something in order to close, and she had something to give them.

But she could keep whatever of the power she wanted.

And she would. She’d keep it. She’d hold on to it. That old Chess, the addict Chess, the one who hated herself and whose life was one long story of pain and horror? She was gone, just a vague memory like a movie Chess had seen once and hadn’t enjoyed. She could be gone for good, she didn’t need to come back. She wouldn’t come back unless Chess agreed to bring her back. Eventually she’d forget it had ever existed, ever happened. She’d forget all of it, and by forgetting, she’d make it so it didn’t happen.

She’d needed to sacrifice something to open the gate, needed to let go of something. It still waited for another sacrifice. To close the gate, to close the hole, she had to give it some power, some piece of her. Something.

She could get rid of all the pain. She could throw Old Chess onto the fire and rise like a phoenix fresh and
new, start the rest of her life—the life she should have had—that very minute.

One simple movement, and nothing but happiness from then on. All of her hopes and dreams coming true. What the heck was she waiting for?

The pieces of that old Chess—not pieces, more like images, quick flashing images that didn’t make a lot of sense, at least not to her—raced through her head. All so miserable, so painful. This was hardly even a sacrifice, it was a mercy killing.

She stood there staring as those images flashed in front of her. The last memories, the last vestiges of that other girl who’d been in her body. She owed it to her to watch them, didn’t she?

“Chess?” Not a familiar voice, not really. Not to her. But it should have been. It meant something.

The images in her head slowed, and she turned to see that big guy standing there, an uncertain look on his craggy, bleeding face. “You right, baby? Be a problem?”

Terrible.

He never called her
baby
, though. Did he? That didn’t seem quite right,
baby
.

Movement to her right. The man and the woman— Lex and Beulah were their names, right?—and they looked so sad and shocked and pale, and she remembered them, too. Slobag was their father. Lex … she’d
slept with Lex, hadn’t she? Gee, she’d really been kind of a slut.

But then, she could see the attraction. He was a handsome guy, even though he looked awful at that particular moment. But the old Chess still had those memories, saw him at his best. Saw him laughing. Saw him naked—well, that was interesting—saw him sleeping and smiling and smoking and being her friend, saw him fighting at her side, being fond of her. Liking her.

And Beulah. A new person but one who actually seemed to like her, too, who she actually sort of seemed to understand, didn’t she?

What difference did it make? She could get new friends. She didn’t need these people, who were they? They certainly weren’t good people by any normal standard. Not by the standards of decent, proper people. Lex sold drugs or something, didn’t he? And she thought she remembered him killing people. And Beulah was kind of a bitch, right, and—she was an adulteress, if Chess remembered correctly. She was sleeping with a married man, in violation of the law. Shameful.

And Terrible … he was just a thug. A violent thug at that. And he had something to do with drugs, too, and prostitution and all manner of other things. He was not a good person. What redeeming qualities could a person like that have?

No. She didn’t need those people. None of them were worth her time. She could move on, she could find new friends, have a new life, the one she’d always dreamed of. It would be so good, so darn good, fun and happy and easy, and she could leave all the bad behind once and for all and really live.

Decision made. She gathered it all up, all of the memories and thoughts and tics and habits and everything else that made up Old Chess. Gathered it in her head like a bundle in her arms and got ready to throw it, to
cast it into the hole and close it for good. And when it closed and the power left, the gate would close on its own.

“Chess? What’s troubling?”

He loved her.

It came to her in a flood then, one huge hot rush of jumbled memories and images. But not like last time. Not painful ones, not rough ones. These were … they were security and warmth and happiness, and they were even brighter because of the contrast. They were safety and kindness. They were feeling cared about and special and protected, caring about someone and protecting him and feeling that together they were unbeatable, and its being all so amazing because it was new. And— Whoa, some of those memories were pretty intense, too, intensity that made heat rush to various parts of her body that kind of embarrassed her.

All of the bad stuff came with it. All of the horrible memories and pain, the insecurities, the hatred of herself and the rest of the world, the exhaustion and the drugs and everything else.

But Lex came with it, and Beulah came with it. Elder Griffin—she remembered him, he cared about her, too—came with it.

And Terrible came with it, and those long nights lying in bed barely able to breathe because she thought her happiness would choke her as his chest rose and fell beneath her head. Or the mornings when she woke up and he was looking at her, watching her sleep, and there was something in his eyes that she knew was hers, just hers, that nobody else in the world had ever seen before.

With that came the uncertainty, the fear. She’d been terrified, hadn’t she? Somewhere inside her she’d been terrified every minute of every day that she’d lose him and go back to being alone, only worse because she’d know what she’d missed.

But somehow the knowledge that if she threw it away now, threw it into the hole, she wouldn’t actually remember, wouldn’t know what she’d missed, didn’t help. She didn’t want to forget it. She didn’t want to lose it. Even if it ended, even if she ended up with her heart broken into thousands of pieces, she couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting it. She’d fought for it, she’d fought so hard, she’d earned it. It was hers and hers alone, the only thing in the world that really and truly was.

Her power was hers, yes, but she wasn’t the only witch in the world. She wasn’t the only Churchwitch in the world, or the only Debunker. Not the only addict, not the only one with pain, not the only one who hated and feared and felt sick and wanted to die but didn’t have the guts to do something about it. Not the only one who listened to the music she listened to, drove a car like hers, wore her hair in that dyed-black Bettie Page cut. Not the only woman in the world who dressed like her, ate the same foods, drank the same things, read the same books. She wasn’t the only one of any of those things; yes, she was unique, but only in the mundane way that everyone was unique.

But she was the only woman—the only one in the entire world— Terrible loved. And he did love her; the new Chess could see it so clearly, how obvious it was, how obvious it had been for so long.

If she lost that, she’d lose what made her special. She’d be happy, yes. She’d find some other man eventually, probably, and maybe he’d be good enough. She’d look different, act different. Be different.

She would never again feel that, though, that feeling of being the most special woman in the entire world, of knowing no one else could possibly be as happy as she was because they honestly didn’t know how lucky they were, how truly and amazingly lucky. Because they
didn’t feel like they’d been lost their entire lives and they’d finally found home.

If she gave up the memories, she’d lose that. She wouldn’t remember it, it would fade like tissue paper in the sun.

She wouldn’t quit. She wouldn’t give up. She’d never done it before and she wouldn’t now, she’d fought all her life to be someone and something and she’d done it, and maybe she wasn’t the greatest person in the world but she was a person and that was enough. She was a person who’d achieved something, and if other people thought it wasn’t good enough, that she wasn’t good enough, that her weaknesses were all that mattered? That was their right, but she was still a person, and she still deserved to be proud of her achievements.

She wanted those back. She wanted that love back. Wanted her friends. Wanted it all, because it was who she was, and if she gave it up she wouldn’t be herself and she truly would be dead.

Before she could stop herself, before she could doublethink it, she ripped the power out of her chest and mind and soul, ripped it out and threw it at the hole as hard as she could.

For a second nothing happened. Oh no, what if it didn’t work, what if she’d lost anyway, what if it wanted her first sacrifice, her original sacrifice, what if she had to give up the old Chess because she didn’t have a choice?

Then the old Chess would have died saving them all, and that would have to be enough.

The screaming grew louder so slowly, so steadily, that she didn’t realize at first she heard it. The second she became aware of it she couldn’t hear anything else. It was there, and it was everything, so loud it hurt her head, hurt her all the way down.

It was her scream. Not an audible scream; her mouth wasn’t even open. It was the scream of her soul, the
screams inside her, all of those memories and pain and horror and shame and everything else. All of it coming back, hitting her so hard it knocked her over. She barely felt the ground beneath her, it was so loud, she cringed on the floor, curled up and wrapped her arms around herself, her hands over her head, trying to hide. So awful, it was so awful …

Arms around her. Hard, strong arms, the kind that could keep her from flying apart at the seams. Terrible’s arms. Shit, he was holding her, making her safe, and the screaming quieted enough for her to grab hold of him and bury her face in his neck. Tears poured from her eyes, tears because of what she’d lost and what she’d gained, what she’d almost given up and what she
had
given up. Tears because she knew she’d forget it soon, that she’d never remember making that decision and how it felt.

“I chose you,” she managed, choking out the words in a strangled, warbly sounding whisper. “I chose you, I chose you all but I chose
you
, I love you so much and I chose you—”

His lips brushed her forehead. “Hush now, Chessie, I know, ain’t nothin—”

“No, no, it is. I could have given it all up and been different.” Her long, shuddering breath burned in her chest, but she couldn’t stop. Had to get it out before she forgot. “I could have been not me, some other girl who didn’t—but I didn’t do it, I stayed, I stayed because I love you, and I want to be with you and if you weren’t there I wouldn’t want to be. I chose you.”

He always smelled good. Even before, even when they’d first met—well, not when they first met but when they first spoke, really spoke, the night he took her to Chester Airport. The night her entire life changed. She’d noticed it even then, that it felt kind of nice to be close to him.

Now she knew what it was. He smelled like home.

“Love you, too, Chess.” He held her tighter, almost as tightly as she held him. If she’d had fingernails to dig into him she would have, hooks to catch him with and never let go. “You got that, aye? Ain’t you know it? Love you right, till it hurts. Ain’t goin nowhere, don’t need to cry, ’sall right up—”

She kissed him. Kissed him as hard as she could, as deep as she could. She’d never be able to explain what had happened. Hell, he’d be hurt if he knew she’d even considered leaving him behind.

And it was already fading anyway, disappearing from her head, sinking below the surface of the blood-red memory ocean. Almost gone. No one would ever know that other Chess or know she’d existed, not even her.

But she’d remember this, this moment, this suspended moment outside of everything else. This moment alone in his arms, with his mouth passionate and fierce on hers.

His hands touched her cheeks, slid into her hair. He always touched her like she was special, like she was precious to him, and for the first time she thought maybe she could believe that she was. His body under her palms, her fingers—his hair, his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the hard muscles of his back and arms and chest—she didn’t ever want to stop touching them. It felt like if she stopped, her hands themselves would start to cry.

But she had to, and she knew it. Because the rest of the world was still there. They weren’t done yet, damn it, as much as she wanted to be done they weren’t, and even as she thought it, she heard a discreet cough and looked up to see Beulah and Lex, their pale faces and pink-rimmed eyes aimed carefully toward the ceiling.