Or maybe just at the boiling point. His lips traveled over her collarbone and farther down to tease her nipples in turn, to pull them into the hot cavern of his mouth, and what had been a whimper turned into something even more than that. More like begging, and his eyes flashed satisfaction at her when he glanced up. Pleasure at his victory.
It felt like years instead of a week since he’d touched her, since she’d gotten to feel his weight on hers, his lips on her body; they’d decided it was better not to start anything they couldn’t finish.
She had to tell him. Had to, but the words wouldn’t come out. Not when every cell in her body threatened to explode, not when her body acted on its own accord from wanting his so fucking bad and she knew he felt the same.
She tilted her pelvis up so the ridge of his erection pressed against her through their jeans. Another gasp from him, a mumble of something that sounded like her name but the roaring of her blood made it too hard to hear.
Her thoughts were starting to disappear, to focus less on actual thinking and more on instincts and sensations, especially when he popped open the button of her jeans, tugged the zipper down, and hooked his fingers under the waistband and her panties. She lifted her hips so he could pull them down, his gaze fixed on her bare skin being revealed.
The words burbled up in her chest, flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Before she even realized she’d thought them. “I hung out at Lex’s place for a while today.”
Pause. Long pause. His head dropped, hanging loose from his neck. His hands stopped moving and left her hips to sink into the couch cushion beneath them. Oh, shit. Even for her—and her track record of saying the right thing, or of not saying the wrong thing, was pretty abysmal—that was bad.
“Aye?”
Just one word, but that one word felt like a slap, so distant, so … so impersonal. Fuck. He wouldn’t even look at her; he sat up, ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck with his gaze focused somewhere off in the distance. She’d known he wouldn’t react well—how could he—but she hadn’t expected him to be this cold.
Kind of a stupid expectation on her part. Particularly stupid given the mood he was in when he arrived. Sure, Lex’s name had come up before, but she hadn’t spent “a while” with him since the battle in the City of Eternity. And Terrible had been there then. She certainly hadn’t been to Lex’s place since then; hadn’t been there in a couple of months, actually, since two nights before Terrible caught them in the graveyard. Hadn’t really been alone with Lex.
Not to mention that having this conversation—any conversation—was obviously not what he’d wanted to do. Especially not when that had been their first chance in a week, and he was so cranked up that her skin felt ready to burst into flame just from his energy touching it.
“My case, my new one? It’s on Twenty-second, the Mercy Lewis school.” It felt rather odd to be discussing work while she lay on the couch naked from the waist up; part of her wanted to grab her shirts or at least her bra, but she didn’t want to sit up, either. If she did that she’d be admitting this was going to be a real talk, a long serious one, not a quick interruption. “He showed up as I was about to leave. I guess someone told him a Churchwitch was there and he wanted to see who it was.”
Actually, that wasn’t right, was it? Someone had told him she was there, specifically. Or they’d described her and he knew who it was. Maybe she shouldn’t mention that, since she wasn’t certain.
“An lucky chances, turns up bein you.”
“Terrible …”
His bowling shirt lay in a careless heap on the floor; the heavy muscles under his skin moved as he dug around in it—shit, she could watch that all day, even through her fear—pulled out two cigarettes, and handed her one.
When he flipped the wheel on his black steel lighter the six-inch flame cast shadows on the walls, on his face; sunset had darkened the room to thick dusk.
“I didn’t ask for the case. They just— Elder Griffin gave it to me, because Aros, the guy who had it before me? He took off and Elder Griffin thought I’d be able to handle it.”
Still no response; still he didn’t look at her. Shit.
Her shirts draped over the arm of the couch where he’d tossed them. It took her a second to flip them right-side-out together; then she pulled them over her head, tugged them down, wished she’d kept her damn mouth shut.
“It’s not like I can say no. This is— Damn it, I can’t help where they assign me, and I shouldn’t have to—”
“They tell you head back his place after?”
She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself. “No. But I thought maybe I could find something out, maybe I could find out who the spy was, how they knew the pipe room was empty last night.”
The silence changed a little, thawed a little. “Get anything?”
“No. He wouldn’t talk to me about it. At all. I asked as soon as we got to his bedroom, but—” Fuck. Oh, motherfuck, what was wrong with her? She’d almost been off the hook, or at least on her way to it, why had she just said that? Why had she said it that way? Damn it. “Nothing happened or anything, okay? Nothing.”
“Stayed a while, though, aye?”
“I just— I almost died on that fucking catwalk—I was on a catwalk and it fell, that’s how I hurt my cheek—and I didn’t feel like being alone and I knew you were busy, and he was there.”
“Oh, I dig. Hey, maybe you give me the number that dame Cassie, the one wore your face? Next time aught happens to me, I give her a ring-up for company. No worries, aye?”
“He’s my friend, okay, that’s all, and you know that, you know I still talk to him. You said—”
The ringing of his phone interrupted her, loud and annoying. Terrible shot her a this-isn’t-over glare and checked the phone, then answered it. More bad news, probably. The only people she could see him taking calls from at that moment were Bump or Felice, the mother of the daughter he had in another part of Triumph City. No one except Bump and Chess knew about Katie; Katie didn’t know Terrible was her father. And Terrible wanted to keep it that way. “Aye.”
His face paled, so pale her heart skipped a beat before the dull red flush of anger started creeping up his neck. “Aye, what— Aw, fuck. Aye.”
What should she do? Should she touch him? Or would that just piss him off more? What the hell did people in relationships do when shit happened, when the other person was probably regretting being there to begin with and wondering how they could have ever thought they actually wanted to be?
“Coming.” He snapped the phone shut, scooping up his long-sleeved shirt in the same movement and slipping it on. Even in the midst of everything Chess felt a pang of regret seeing his chest disappear; not just because it was his or the fact that she liked to look at it so much—which she did—but because of what its disappearance meant. He had to leave, probably right away, while something awful and painful and all her fault crouched between them like a troll under a bridge.
And he might not be able to come back that night. Hell, he probably didn’t want to come back. Ever. Fuck!
“Get yon shoes on.” His voice was flat; he didn’t look up from buttoning his bowling shirt.
“Why, what—”
“Found a body. Corner man, name of Bag-end Eddie. Just find him in the pipe room, half-burned, dig. Gotta get us up there.”
The fact that he wanted her to go with him should have made her feel better. And she had to admit it did. But not much.
Why did he want her to go? Sure, maybe he wanted to finish their “discussion,” but he was going to look at a dead body. Surely he didn’t think she should be forced to look, too? Looking at dead bodies wasn’t really very high on her Things-Chess-Enjoys list. And yeah, her total knowledge on what people in relationships did might fill a shot glass—especially if she used extra-large letters to write SEX—but something told her “looking at dead bodies” wasn’t a generally accepted togetherness-type activity, either.<
br />
Of course, not going might look— Oh, fuck this. “Um, I’m fine to go with you, but … do you actually want me along? I mean—”
The look on his face cut her off, grim and dark. “Bump say me bring you. Ain’t just killed. Say got magic shit all around. Somethin you oughta see.”
They’d almost hit Brewster before Terrible finally spoke again, his voice a low rumble over Black Sabbath on the Chevelle’s stereo. “Ain’t like you seein him.”
“I know.” Relief flooded her chest; at least she hoped it was time for relief. “I’m sorry. I just, I thought maybe I could find something out. And yeah … I was kind of shaken up, and having some company sounded good.”
“Aye, guessin it did.” Something in his tone made her narrow her eyes, inspect him more closely. He almost sounded … upset? Pissed off? Hurt? She couldn’t tell for sure, but he definitely didn’t sound the way he usually did.
But then there was no reason for him to, was there.
They rode on in silence for another minute; he hooked a right onto Brewster. She’d been this far north before—of course she had, the day before during the fire—but only once or twice before that. If they kept going, eventually they’d be as far up as the Crematorium, and the Nightsedge Market she’d been to once with Lex.
Terrible made a sound next to her, a sort of half-laugh. “What a time you choose to gimme the tell.”
More relief. “I didn’t want you to think I was hiding it from you or being sneaky or something.”
He didn’t say more; she knew he probably had more to say, but she hoped when he did he’d say it like that, and they could talk about it, and she wouldn’t have to sit there with terror icy in her stomach because she’d fucked everything up—again—and the minute hand on their relationship’s internal clock had just moved a tick closer to midnight.
The very thought made her already chilled skin colder. She grabbed her pillbox and water bottle from her bag and took two more Cepts, hoping they might warm her; the three she’d taken when he’d arrived at her place had hit, but not enough. She needed to get rid of that cold inside her, that frozen-solid knot of fear and guilt she couldn’t stand, didn’t want to feel anymore. Five was pushing it, she knew, but what-the-fuck-ever.
If she was lucky they’d kick in before they got to the body, and that would be a help, too.
Why did she even bother thinking what might happen if she was lucky? The only luck she’d ever had in her life pulled the Chevelle up to the curb and threw it into neutral, and she seemed hell-bent on fucking that one up for herself no matter how hard she tried not to.
Spring had come and the cherry trees were in bloom, but the nights still held the remainder of the dead winter, and the breeze, heavy with the acrid resinous scent of charred wood, cut through her clothes when Terrible opened her door. Good thing she’d put her bra back on, but she should have remembered her cardigan.
Candlelight danced in a few windows, making the buildings look like carved Festival pumpkins with horrible greedy eyes. The burned-out shell of the pipe room, destroyed walls supporting nothing, sat there in silence. Dull moonlight revealed the ruin beautiful in its destruction, dignified in death. Chess shivered.
Bump’s unmistakable drawl rode the wind to where she and Terrible stood. The anger in his voice didn’t ease the feeling of foreboding.
Nor did the open doorways on the street, tall lean shadows like upended coffins. Anything could be hiding in those openings, in the alleys and empty spaces. She was glad of Terrible’s arm touching hers as they walked, grateful for the knife she knew he could grab instantly if necessary.
Details on the dead building grew sharper as they neared it; well, of course they did. Black streaks above the glassless windows, the fire’s signature. Ashes collected in the cracks on the street, covering the sidewalk, obscuring the garbage piled everywhere. A stray cat ran by, its fur smudged with soot. And over it all that silence, that odd intrusive silence. Even Bump’s voice, droning on, didn’t break that 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 Vin
ci’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.