Unholy Ghosts Page 8

  Her fingers curled into sludge as she tried to grab hold of something, anything, to help her. Filth oozed through the bandage on her palm and soaked her wound. In the chaos of the tunnel her heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud, only drowned out when the roar of a gunshot made the floor beneath her vibrate.

  She thought her ear drums were going to explode. The sound didn’t stop, reverberating through the confined steel-and-concrete space for what felt like hours, while she struggled beneath the weight on her back.

  Gathering all of her remaining strength, she managed to shift her body sideways, lifting her face out of the foul wet slime. Air rasped into her throat to fill her lungs. A very dim light still shone, enough for her to see Lex backed against the wall, aiming for another shot.

  “No! Put it away!” It was meant to be a scream. It came out more as a gurgle.

  Metal glinted above her head as the ghost raised his hands. In them he clutched the end of a piece of pipe from the ceiling. If he touched her with it, she was dead. Even from her position on the floor she could see the wires sparking inside it.

  Time froze. Chess watched the pipe start its descent, watched a single glint of light erupt from the end of it and die. Her fingers found a seam in the wall and gripped it, so hard she felt each individual piece of grit in the cement as she struggled to pull herself out from beneath the ghost’s legs.

  Lex stepped forward, his heavy industrial boot catching the pipe and trapping it between the wall and the rubber sole. The ghost turned to him, its face contorted in fury.

  Chess scrambled out of the way as Lex fell backward. The ghost lifted the pipe again, aiming for him. He ducked. Metal rang against cement.

  “Break the pipe!” she shouted, hoping Lex would understand as the ghost turned on her.

  Lex did. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him leap up and hook the length still attached to the ceiling with his bent arm, using his leather jacket as insulation. For a moment he hung in the air, his legs spread like a professional basketball player making a slam dunk, before the brackets holding the pipe creaked and snapped and they were plunged into blackness.

  “Get out the water,” he gasped. Something scraped behind her as she braced her feet against the very edges of the floor.

  It only took a second, but it felt like forever that she stayed there, shivering and covered in filth, listening to Lex’s heavy breathing in the dark.

  Then light exploded through the tunnel as the live wires hit the sludgy mess covering the walkway.

  Like a photo negative Chess saw Lex’s tall, slim form outlined in blinding blue-white, saw the ghost contort and disappear. She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could but still she saw it, still she heard the shrieking hiss as thousands of volts poured through the tunnel.

  A final explosion, somewhere in the distance, and it was over. She didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips.

  “You right, tulip?”

  He could have been anywhere. Right beside her, or fifteen feet away. She started to nod before she realized he couldn’t see her, either.

  “I’m fine.”

  His hand brushed her arm. “Didn’t know electricals killed the kickers.”

  “They don’t. I mean, it doesn’t work that way. It was probably an energy overload. Shorts them out, same as the lights.” It would also get her shoved into a cell for a few months if anyone from the Church ever found out about it. Spectral abuse was a pretty serious issue, ever since some descendants found out a Debunker purposely summoned a spirit wolf instead of a dog and it savaged the ghost. The descendants sued and won.

  Metal clicked against metal, and the tunnel filled with a soft yellowish glow. Lex held the lighter up near his head. “More light a few turns away. Let’s us move, aye?”

  “Is the ground safe?”

  “Safe enough. Transformer blew, I’m guessing.” He stomped his feet in the sludge. “No volts here.”

  Not quite as brave as he, Chess stepped gingerly into the center of the path. “Okay, then. Can we get out of here now?”

  He laughed softly. “Whatever you say, tulip, whatever you say.”

  Half an hour under the hot water in her own bathroom was just about enough to get the stink of sewer out of her nose. Funny how the tunnel itself hadn’t smelled so bad, but that mess at the bottom … urgh. Her hand stung from the water and the gallon of disinfectant she’d soaked it in.

  The only thing the shower didn’t help was knowing what she had to do next. Terrible’s note had not been eloquent, but it had been clear. He didn’t appreciate being stood up when they were supposed to go back to Chester that afternoon, and she couldn’t blame him.

  She popped another Cept on her way out the door, preparing to be yelled at. He hadn’t said on the note where he would be, but the Dusters were playing at Chuck’s on Fiftieth, and she bet she’d find him there. The Mortons would have to wait. They wouldn’t break down her door or cause her severe physical pain if she failed to break into their home tonight without their knowledge. Terrible might do one or both of those things if she didn’t make an appearance immediately.

  Donning clean jeans, a semisheer black top, and a pair of high-heeled boots, she tucked her knife—returned to her by Lex when he let her out of the tunnel six blocks from her house—a twenty, and her keys into her pocket and headed out.

  Two steps down the hall she turned back and grabbed a small bag of asafetida, too. It had been stupid to go out without it the night before. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Of course, it had been stupid to trust a word Lex said and go into the tunnel to begin with. It had been stupid to sort of agree to this. Hell, pretty much everything she’d done in the last few days had been stupid.

  Nothing she could do to change it now. Surely some way to keep two drug dealers and their various minions in the dark about her activities, while pretending to one that she couldn’t Banish Chester’s ghosts, would come to her. Probably in the car. Most of her best ideas came to her in the car.

  Her heels clicked pleasantly on the pavement as she rounded the corner of Fiftieth and Ace. The usual suspects dotted the street, shoulders hunched against the mild November chill—rockabilly punks like Terrible with their greased DA’s and bowling shirts, a few old-school kids like Lex with spiked hair and padlocks around their necks, even some lounge boys in sharkskin jackets and creepers. Most of the girls dressed like Chess. Punks were like birds. The men got to decorate more than the women, as a rule.

  The Dusters hadn’t started playing yet, so everyone was outside drinking from paper bags. Chess bummed a smoke off a retro skater kid—complete with a ragged Lance Mountain T-shirt she imagined would fall apart if he tried to wash it—and crossed her arms, scanning the crowd for Terrible. Might as well get it over with.

  He didn’t seem to be there. Most of the faces were familiar, but his wasn’t one of them. She circled the crowd, frowning. If he wasn’t there she’d have to go to Bump’s, and she’d rather see the show.

  A couple made out against the gritty stucco wall on the side of the club. Chess watched them for a second, embarrassed to do so but unable to turn away, something quiet and small twisting in her chest.

  The girl was a little thing, platinum blond, in a miniskirt and a pair of platform heels that looked like they weighed more than her entire body. Her thin legs crossed at the ankle behind the guy’s waist, while her tiny, pale hands dug into his back. Chess couldn’t see her face; it was almost entirely hidden by the guy’s hands, cupping her cheeks like he thought the bones might break. Chess didn’t think she’d ever been touched like that. A pang of pure envy ran through her.

  The girl caressed the back of his neck and lifted her hands to twine her fingers in his hair. His hips pressed forward, pinning her against the wall, and he dipped his head to kiss her throat. The light caught the prominent ridge of his brow and the crooked bump of his nose.

  It was Terrible.

  Heat rushed to her face. Yes,
definitely Terrible. No wonder he’d blushed when she teased him about his sideburns. She’d never even thought of him as actually being interested in women. He seemed totally asexual to her, like instead of fucking he preferred beating people up. A silly assumption. He was a man, after all.

  But then, she herself generally preferred drugs to fucking. In an ideal world she’d take both. So why expect he might not?

  Taking a furious drag off her cigarette she turned away, intending to lose herself in the crowd until he was available for talking, but her heel caught a crack in the pavement and her slightly sore left ankle twisted. She didn’t fall, but the scrape of her shoe on cement and the tiny yelp she couldn’t keep inside was bad enough.

  Heads turned. Including Terrible’s. “Chess. Where you been, girl? I waited outside your place hours, you never show.”

  The little blonde gave Chess a look of smug venom. Bitch. If she pressed any closer to Terrible’s side she’d start to sink into him like some sort of lusty Siamese twin.

  “I got stuck at work,” she managed. “Sorry. I didn’t have your cell number or anything, so …”

  “Aye, okay. Remind me, I give you the digits.” He nodded toward the line forming at the door. The band must be getting ready to play. “You coming in?”

  “Um, yeah. Thought I might, you know. Get a drink.”

  If she’d ever pictured herself feeling awkward around Terrible, it was because she imagined him getting ready to break one of her bones. Not because she’d just caught him practically having sex against a building. She didn’t care that he’d been practically having sex up against a building, it wasn’t as though she wanted to be the one against the building with him or anything. It was just … strange. Like imagining one of the Elders getting it on with a Goody in the chapel.

  He introduced her to the girl—Amy—and they shuffled their feet for another minute or so before heading up to the doors. Terrible never paid to get into anywhere, by virtue of who he was. Chess never paid either, by virtue of her tattoos.

  Inside the club sweaty bodies crushed together under the reddish glow of the neon Exit signs and the filters on the stagelights like a torch mob out for blood. Chess tried to make her way to the bar but gave up after having her toes stepped on three times. Great. Her hand still ached, her ankle was weak, her toes crushed.

  Getting through a crowd wasn’t a problem for Terrible. He shoved his way through like a plow through snow, and after the first few seconds people realized who he was and moved out of his way before he reached them. He parked both Chess and Amy in one of the booths at the far end and left to get drinks. He didn’t ask what they wanted. Beer was the only option.

  “Chess. Hey. I thought you might be here.”

  The words, practically shouted into her right ear, made her jump. Her discomfort did not ease when she realized who’d spoken them.

  “What are you doing here, Doyle?”

  “I like this band.”

  “I’ve never seen you at one of their shows before.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve never been to one.”

  “They only play in Downside, as far as I know. Since when do you come here?”

  She had to admit, he looked almost as if he belonged there. He was dressed in de rigueur black, from boots to jeans to thin car jacket. With his hair shining around his pale face his eyes seemed to leap out of their sockets at her.

  “I come here sometimes. I thought maybe we could hang out.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Terrible appeared, beer bottles dangling from his enormous hands. He didn’t speak, just stood like a tree next to Chess, staring at Doyle with one eyebrow raised.

  Doyle offered his hand. “Hi.”

  Terrible didn’t move. Doyle stood for a minute with his hand out before sticking it back in his pocket. Even the red lights couldn’t hide the color creeping up his face.

  Terrible handed her a beer. “Cool, Chess?”

  Was her body language that easy to read? “Yeah, fine.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Doyle said. He smoothed his hair out of his face. “It’s important.”

  He clearly didn’t intend to leave until they’d spoken, so Chess sighed and stood up. “Five minutes.”

  Chapter Ten

  “There is much humanity cannot comprehend. The Church comprehends for you.”

  —The Book of Truth, Veraxis, Article 2

  Doyle pulled her uncomfortably close to the spot where she’d seen Terrible and Amy, hidden in the shadows of the building. “So, how’s your new case going?”

  “You dragged me out here for that?”

  “You wouldn’t talk to me in church. You wouldn’t talk to me at the meeting. What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Get the message that I don’t want to talk?”

  “Chess … you can’t seriously be avoiding me because some people found out about us. So what? What difference does it make?”

  She took a step back as he leaned closer. “There is no us, Doyle. One night doesn’t make an us.”

  “It makes something.”

  “Yeah, it makes me a whore in the eyes of everyone I work with. What happens if the Elders find out? What do I do then?”

  “You’re not underage anymore, you haven’t been for three years. They’re not going to kick you out.” His hands rested on her shoulders, warm and heavy. “I know you had it rougher than the rest of us did in training. I know how you were scrutinized because you were on charity. I was there, remember? But you’re an employee now, not a ward. You even live off-complex. You can spend the night with whomever you choose.”

  “I wasn’t on charity. I was on a scholarship.”

  “Sorry. Point is … I really like you. I think we could have something special, if you’d let us.”

  His fingers curled under her chin, lifting her face. Doyle was only five-ten or so; with her heels on they were almost of a height. She didn’t have to move at all for his lips to find hers.

  He was a good kisser. She’d liked kissing him before, and she still liked it, despite her doubts about him. But when his hands slid farther down to circle her waist, then down again to cup her bottom and pull her closer, she broke away.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” Her voice shook a little. Damn it.

  Doyle bit his lip and looked down, then back up. “Okay.”

  “What do you mean, okay?”

  “Just what I said. Okay. I can’t pretend to understand it. It’s not like we haven’t already done a lot more than we just did. But I want to do this right, and if that means waiting, or giving you space or whatever, I’ll do that.”

  He certainly looked sincere, with those big blue eyes focused right on her. Maybe this really was her problem. It didn’t make logical sense to distrust Doyle. She’d known him for years. If she were honest with herself, she could admit she’d had a bit of a crush on him, off and on throughout those years. And the sex … it may not have been life-changing, but it definitely hadn’t sucked.

  He must have sensed her indecision. “Why don’t we go back to your place and talk, okay? Have a drink, watch some TV or something and just … talk?”

  No was on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself. What else was she going to do? Sit in a booth and watch Terrible and Amy practically having sex? Take another Cept and watch everyone else chatting with their friends, having a good time, from behind the glassy wall of narcotic peace?

  Or go home, and wander around her apartment by herself until she finally fell asleep in front of the TV?

  Doyle was decent company, if nothing else. They had plenty to talk about. They knew the same people.

  “Come on, Chess. I promise I won’t try anything. It’ll be like having a eunuch over for the evening.”

  Chess laughed in spite of herself. “Okay. But no late night. I’m tired.”

  It was the wrong thing to do. She didn’t want him here.

  Chatting about Church politics and telling stories had
been fine on the street, when the soft darkness wrapped around them and their feet moved along the pavement in unison. But in her apartment … he seemed too big for the space somehow. Like an invader. His restless gaze traveled over every item in the room, not picking out any one thing, but like he was trying to read her belongings and figure out the best angle to get her back into bed.

  Chess pulled a couple of beers from the barren fridge and handed him one, glad for something to do with her hands. She perched on the edge of the couch with her feet on the cushion, her legs a barrier between them.

  “What did you do to your hand?”

  For Truth’s sake, was everybody going to ask her that? “Cut it on a can.”

  “Did you go to the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Let me see.” He held out his own hand, waiting for her to place hers in it. This she did, although she could certainly think of better topics of conversation than her injury.

  He unwrapped the gauze. “Damn, Chess. That looks like it’s getting infected.”

  Did it? She supposed so. The red line curving across her palm looked wider than it had the night before, the skin around it shiny and puffy. She tried to close her fingers over it. “It’s fine.”

  “It probably needed stitches. Did you clean it?” He didn’t let go, clasping her wrist tight in his warm fingers.

  “Of course I cleaned it. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Why don’t you let me try?”

  She yanked her hand back. “I’m perfectly capable of cleaning myself, Doyle.”

  “You had it wrapped too tightly, and it looks like there’s a few speckles of dirt or something on the edge. I’m serious, Chess. Let me do this for you. Go get all your supplies and stuff. Cotton balls and bandages and ointments. And get me a knife or something, too.”

  “Oh, no. No knives.”

  “It’s healing over the infection.”

  “Why don’t I just go to the hospital tomorrow?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “My dad is a doctor, and I watched him help my friends dozens of times. Go get the stuff.”