Downside Ghosts: Unholy Ghosts Part 32

His gaze flicked over her face, searching for something. Whether or not he found it she didn't know, but he nodded. "Aye. Sure, Chess. I give you a ring up."

There had to be more to say, but whatever it was she couldn't think of it. And Lex was waiting. So she held out her hand. He shook it, careful not to touch her burned palm.

She got out of the car, and watched him drive away until the throaty rumble of the Chevelle blended into the sounds of the city.

"So you lived after all, tulip. Getting worried, me. Heard all h.e.l.l broke loose up there."

"You didn't stay to watch?"

The smile spread across his face, slow and smooth as he took her hand, lifted her bag off her shoulder, and slung it over his own. d.a.m.n. She did like him, didn't she. How did that happen? "I watched some."

"Good show?"

"Not bad, not bad at all. You looking like a straight warrior with all them markings and s.h.i.+t on you."

"You watched for a while, if you saw that."

"Some watch TV, aye. Some go for live entertainment."

"So you like to watch, Lex. I never would have guessed."

He laughed. "Just keeping an eye on my investments, me. No more airport, aye?"

"No. But ... that wasn't why I did it."

He shrugged. "Ain't the intent, it's the outcome that matters. And I'm thinking this outcome ain't a bad one, aye? Even if you looking banged up?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Aw, nay. All done, tulip. Let's not us bother with it anymore. Let's us get back to my place, you show me where it hurts. Sound good?"

Her grin was genuine in spite of herself. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds pretty good."

She let him take her hand and lead her through the tunnel.

Elder Griffin placed his hand on her arm, watching the other Debunkers file out of the room. To call that morning's meeting "subdued" would be like calling Downside "dirty."

"Cesaria," he said, his blue eyes dark. "I needs must speak to you for a moment."

s.h.i.+t. Her heart sank. They'd caught her out, she didn't know how, maybe Doyle had said something or-had she slipped up somewhere? She'd studied her notes so hard, she thought she'd kept her story straight, but maybe ...

"Sit down." He pulled a chair out for her. She sank into it, half expecting steel clasps to come out from beneath the arms and lock her in.

He sat beside her. "Are you certain you feel all right? Watching your friend die like that, even though 'twas his doing ..." He shook his head. "I am here if you would like to talk about it, my dear."

"Thanks, but I'm okay. Really." Relief flooded through her, almost as sweet as the cozy warmth of her pills. She was safe. They hadn't caught her, she was safe.

"I'm very proud of you. You know, the Grand Elder never considered the Lamaru to be much of a threat. The idea that they actually managed to turn one of our own, to infiltrate us, is quite disturbing."

She didn't really know what to say. Should she agree? Disagree? What? So she simply nodded.

"We have of course sent the Enforcers out to look for them. Searching through some of Randy's effects ..." He shook his head, touched her arm again lightly.

"I apologize. I know 'tisn't a pleasant subject. But we believe we may have found some things that will help lead us to the Lamaru, perhaps even eradicate them-we've already found their agent at the Bankhead Spa, and she is being questioned. And we'd like you to do a report specifically giving us everything you learned about their organization. I'm sure I don't have to tell you to be on your guard until we've eliminated them. Far more dangerous than we imagined, Cesaria. I would hate to see you endangered."

She shook her head. As if she ever let her guard down.

"Perhaps you would be interested in moving back? There are several available cottages on grounds. You would be safer."

The very thought made her skin crawl. "No, thanks. I'm fine, really. I'm sure the Black Squad will be able to catch them." Actually, she wasn't at all sure, but this was her home they were talking about. "I'd like to stay where I am."

His bright head dipped. "As you wish."

"Thanks."

Silence fell between them. Chess wondered if she should get up, if they were done. But Elder Griffin didn't seem done. He watched her, smiling.

"In truth, I'm not the only one who's proud. The Elders had a discussion this morn, about what you did. We are very pleased."

"Thanks." She was starting to feel like a broken record. The story she'd told them had been a simple one: The Lamaru recruited Randy and in return for his help they'd put Ereshdiran into the Morton home. No mention of the airport, or Slipknot, or the blood connection between herself and the thief. She would have left the Lamaru out of it entirely had she not asked Doyle about them the day before. The Mortons surely wouldn't have mentioned them, if they even knew the full scope of the plot; Chess hadn't heard any of their testimonies yet. She only knew they were alive and awake and somewhere in a detention cell.

Elder Griffin reached into the file on the long, s.h.i.+ny gla.s.s table and pulled out an envelope and two sheets of paper, which he handed to her.

The paper was official Church stationery. The first sheet was a letter of commendation. The second ... She had to read it twice before the words meant something.

"Technically it's not a promotion," Elder Griffin said. "You will still be a Debunker. You'll just occasionally be helping other departments with their investigations. For a bonus each time, of course."

The irony made her want to laugh, in a sick, cynical way. She'd lied to everyone, and she was being rewarded for it. Seemed to be the way her life was working these days, though, what with the free pills in her bag from Lex and the erased debt from b.u.mp. For however long that lasted.

She set the letter on the table and opened the envelope, then looked up. "You gave me my bonus already, remember? Before the meeting?"

"This is in addition to that. We felt something was called for, for defeating the Lamaru plot."

It wasn't much. But it would cover the new bed she'd bought, and a week or two's worth of food. Or a nice long weekend in the pipe room ...

Her head still spinning, she thanked Elder Griffin again and headed out of the building, into the soft autumn suns.h.i.+ne.

Doyle waited for her by her car. His face was full of colorful bruises, like he'd been painting and made a mess. "Hey, Chessie, you got a minute?"

"Not really."

"Please." He reached for her, caught himself and shoved his hand into his pocket. His left one dangled by his side, the pinky splinted and wrapped. She almost wished she could feel guilty about it. "I just wanted to say sorry. For ... what I did. I honestly didn't mean to. I just ... you know, you treated me pretty s.h.i.+tty."

"Uh-huh. Well, thanks for the apology. I have to go now."

"Can't we just talk about it?"

"Nope." She needed new tires. h.e.l.l, she needed a new car. Maybe now she'd get one, if she found one she liked. The bonus for Banis.h.i.+ng Ereshdiran hadn't been as much as she'd hoped, but it was enough, especially since she could cut down on her purchases from b.u.mp-at least for a little while, until Slobag and Lex decided she'd been paid enough and cut her off.

And really, she should spend the money now, while she had it, before she got too itchy and blew it on beer or the pipes or whatever else she could get her hands on.

"I'm not a bad person, you know," Doyle said.

"Hey there, tulip. Who's your friend?"

Chess turned around and swallowed her surprise. Lex. She hadn't seen him or heard from him in three days, since the morning after the airport showdown, and she wasn't sure if she was relieved or sad about that. A bit of both, really, but it was nice to see him just the same.

Lex stared at Doyle, his eyes narrowing.

s.h.i.+t. Even she couldn't be that mean, could she? Terrible had already more than taken care of whatever residual anger she felt toward Doyle.

"Just a guy I work with," she said.

"I have a name, you know." He glared at her. "I'm Doyle."

Lex grinned. "You Doyle, aye? Guessing you just the guy I been lookin for, then."

Chess lit a cigarette and turned her back on them as Doyle started to run. She didn't need to watch, any more than she needed to think of the future. Instead she looked at the Church, rising from the earth like a plume of pure white smoke, gazing at her with benevolent detachment. She thought of the City, of the dead, empty souls milling around, waiting for their week of freedom, separated from her by hundreds of feet of solid earth. Where they belonged.

And for the first time she believed there might be a place where she belonged, too, outside of the Church and her position there. And maybe one day she'd have the strength or the courage to accept it. For now ...

She ground out her smoke with her toe, and went to find Lex. She had a whole empty afternoon in front of her, and a tattoo that was desperate for some air.

Acknowledgments.

So many people to thank. I dedicated it to Cori, for being the first and best reader, but she wasn't the only early reader; my great friends Stacey Jay, Caitlin Kittredge, and Mark Henry were invaluable. I can trace my friends.h.i.+p with Caitlin right back to the early stages of this book, and if nothing else, it would be special to me for that. Great big thanks and love go to my wonderful husband, Stephen, who continues to put up with me; my two daughters who try very hard to be good while Mommy works; and my father and brother. Special mention to my mom, the registered nurse, who thankfully is used to questions like, "So, if I inject motor oil, would that kill me right away?" and doesn't bat an eye. I also have to thank my agent, Chris Lotts, who is awesome and loves shortbread. You wouldn't be holding this book in your hands if not for him and for Liz Scheier, who acquired the series and edited the first two books; working with Liz was an absolute dream. Huge thanks also to my wonderful new editor, Shauna Summers, and to her fantastic a.s.sistant, Jessica Sebor, and to everyone at Del Rey; I cannot say enough how great they all are and how welcome and valued they have all made me feel.

All of Team Seattle deserves enormous, drunken, mushy appreciation, especially Jaye Wells, Rich.e.l.le Mead, and Jackie Kessler (a fellow Satellite member). Kaz Mahoney, Synde Korman, Todd Thomas, Jill Myles, Seeley DeBorn, Kirsten Saell, Bernita Harris, Bernard DeLeo, Jane Smith, Colleen Lindsay, Briana St. James, Justin c.o.ker, Derrick Beasley, Tom Gallier, Fae Sutherland, and Derek Tatum all deserve extra thanks for being my friends and making me laugh; if your name isn't here it's because I'm the terrible friend, not you. All of my fellow Reluctant Adults. Jessica Wade and Jim McCarthy. Paul Goat Allen, Rachel Smith, Lisa Trevethan, Kimberly Swan, and Mrs. Giggles. And of course, thanks to Evil Editor and the Minions, Miss Snark and the Snarklings, and all of my blog readers, Facebook pals, and Twitter followers; seriously, it may not seem like a big deal, but when you spend all your time alone with a computer and your own misery and neuroses, knowing there are other people out there really does make a difference. I continue to be amazed that anyone pays any attention to anything I say.

Huge, special thanks go to all of the bands I mention in this book. My life would be very different and a lot worse without your music.

Last of all, thanks to you, the reader holding this book. You're the reason for all of this. I hope I don't let you down.

Read on for an excerpt from Stacia Kane's Unholy Magic

Chapter One.

The penalty for summoning the dead back to earth is death; if the summoned spirit does not kill its summoner, be a.s.sured the Church will.

-The Book of Truth, Laws, Article 3 Ghosts were stronger underground; no witch willingly went below the surface of the earth, not without a Church edict or a death wish. Chess had both to varying degrees, but that didn't make the doorway looming behind the skinny man holding the cup any more appealing. The doorway, and the stairs. Down into a bas.e.m.e.nt, down into the ground.

Chess's skin crawled from more than just the squat-faced, wizened appearance of the man, more than the bizarre energy in the dirty shack. Something told her this was not going to end well.

But then, things so rarely did.

She could have busted the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds simply for having a bas.e.m.e.nt. The Church decreed they were illegal, and the Church was not to be disobeyed. But she needed more than that-a month of investigation demanded a more satisfactory resolution than that-so instead she pasted what she hoped was a smile with the right touch of nervousness on her face and handed the skinny man the picture she'd brought, careful not to touch his grimy fingers.

The picture was of Gary Anderson, a fellow Debunker, but the skinny man didn't know that. At least Chess hoped he didn't.

"My brother," she told him. It would have been better if she'd been able to squeeze out a tear, but the Cepts she'd taken didn't allow it. It was hard enough to feel emotions when she was high, let alone emotions intense enough to make her weep. h.e.l.l, that was one reason why she kept taking the f.u.c.king things, wasn't it?

The skinny man focused his rheumy eyes with effort on the photo, then nodded.

"Aye, seein a lookalike," he mumbled, scratching his bony chest through a hole in his ragged green sweater. He shoved the cup forward, narrowly avoiding hitting her with it. "You drink, aye?"

"Thanks, but-"

"Nay, nay, lil miss. You drink, or you ain't get down, aye? All must drink." His chapped lips stretched and flaked in a gruesome semblance of a smile, like a fat worm crawling across his face, revealing broken, graying teeth. "All must drink, or the energy, she ain't work."

s.h.i.+t. Who the f.u.c.k knew what was in that nasty cup? Even if the "tea" was harmless-which she doubted-the thing looked like it hadn't been washed since before Haunted Week. She could practically see germs crawling along the rim.

The bonus on this job would be a couple of grand, she reminded herself, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the cup from his dry, bony hand.

His gaze locked on hers. She held it while she tilted the cup and poured the contents down her throat.

For a second the room spun around her, whirling on its side like an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride. The concoction tasted of bitter herbs and glue, of seawater and sewage. It was the most revolting thing she'd ever put in her mouth, and that was saying a lot.

She held it down through sheer force of will, and was rewarded with another flaky smile. Something lurked behind that smile, but she didn't have time to a.n.a.lyze it. His hand was on her sleeve, urging her into the dark mouth of the stairway, and her feet clumped on the wooden slats as she made her way into the damp cave below.

The others were already there, sitting in a circle beneath flaming torches, around a scarred wooden table. Across one end of it was draped a blue silk scarf, stained with blood or wine-or perhaps someone else's stomach had lost its battle with the tea.

No time to think about it, even if she'd cared to. Instead she made her way to the table, to the straight-backed wooden chair someone had pushed out for her.

"Someone," she saw, was a five-foot-tall human parody of indeterminate s.e.x wearing a belted garbage bag and white face paint. Heavy black rims surrounded its beady, pupilless eyes, and its voice was barely more than a dry whisper, like a knife cutting through cardboard.

"Sit ye down, lil miss," it rasped. "Sit ye down, and the Ladywitch, she'll be out."

"The Ladywitch" was Madame Lupita, formerly known as Irene Lowe, and as soon as Chess had the evidence she needed-in the form of her own eyewitness testimony and whatever the minirecorder concealed in her bra picked up-Madame would have a date with a guillotine. The Church did not take a forgiving stance on illegal ghost-raising or seances, even fake ones such as Lupita was rumored to run.

Rumor, h.e.l.l. What was about to happen here was obvious, was even more so when a black-painted door opened opposite Chess and an enormous woman thrust her bulk into the room.

Her face was white, her eyes black-ringed, a garish parody of Church Elder makeup. Any resemblance stopped there. Madame Lupita wore a s.h.i.+ny silver caftan, on which were painted various runes and magical symbols. Small pieces of iron hung from it, too small to offer any real protection. Chess supposed they were there for effect, as was the heavy iron-and-amber necklace around the woman's short, fat throat or the matching silver turban covering her head.