A Book Of Tongues

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One bottle became two, and Hosteen switched to rotgut early on, “to stay crafty” — but since Morrow’d been kept busy matching Chess at absinthe slug for slug, might be he’d already lost his ability to reckon such matters. Now they were upstairs, in Chess’s quarters, playing a hand of cards while Chess supposedly kept score. Whenever Morrow looked over, however, he found him messing with his armaments instead — stripping one gun after the other, tallying up shot, stropping Hosteen’s former blade to a keen gleam.

“Anyhow,” Hosteen told Morrow suddenly, re-ordering his hand, “here’s the latest from San Fran, ’fore I forget to tell ya ’bout it again — word is, after whatever the Rev got done doin’, half that bitch Songbird’s whole knock-shop fell down, leavin’ her out on the street. Then, next thing she knows, the Pinkertons’re there, too. Mister Head Agent Allan himself at the helm, b’lieve it or not, ’long with some fancy Northern professor he got hooked to his outfit.”

“What for, exactly?”

“Well, as t’ that . . . you recall back in th’ War, when the Bluebellies tried t’ put hexes t’ work, fightin’ on behalf of the Union? Reckoned if they looked ’mongst the Irish brigades, say, an’ took up all those who turned after a sizeable battle — always was one or two, per major engagement — they could cobble a devastatin’ force t’gether, ’specially if they added in every fled nigger with sim’lar inclinations in on top. But Mages don’t meddle, so they got t’ squabblin’ midst themselves, killed each other an’ sucked the corpses dry, long ’fore they ever drew anywhere near us. . . .”

Asbury’s lecture in action, Morrow thought.

“Still, guess Pinkerton’s fixed t’ get back at it again, ’cause Miss Songbird cut her a deal, turned State’s, for the cost o’ repairs. That an’ a license t’ come after the Rev, no doubt, with just as many Pinks as they’ll lend ’er.” Hosteen threw down. “Annnd . . . Ace, king, queen, jack, ten. I take the trick.”

Morrow frowned. “Thought we was playin’ whist.”

“Whist?” Hosteen rose, almost up-ending his own chair in the process. “Well, that’s me done for. Gotta go fall down.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“Yeah. Jus’ bet you will.”

He turned for the door, studying Chess, who barely seemed to notice — then sighed, and moved on. But —

“’Night, Kees,” Chess finally called out, gaily, just as the door clicked shut behind the old man’s back. And snickered, right down into his purple shirt-sleeve.

“You have to — ?” Morrow snapped, then stopped. Not quite fast enough, though.

Chess sat forward, chin propped on one palm, as the other fell to stroke his favourite plaything’s shiny pearl inlay.

“Don’t much enjoy me playin’ with old Mister H, do ya, Ed?” He asked. “And why is that, I wonder.”

“’Cause he’s my friend? Yours too, I always thought.”

Chess shrugged, eyes narrowing. “Sure. But then again — you think quite a whole damn lot, ’bout a full spread of very different subjects. Don’t think I ain’t noticed.”

Morrow held himself still as possible under that scrutiny, while in his pocket, the Manifold gave a shiver. Just sit tight and shut the fuck up, Morrow told it, and braced to wait it out, as though he could somehow will Chess’s unconscious hexation back into him; bad enough Chess might be fixing to shoot him, without adding spells in, on top of the mix.

“’Bout that boy’s woman,” Chess said, suddenly. “Fact is . . . I just didn’t calculate her dyin’. Hell, I had bottles broke on my head, lots of times, and I ain’t dead.”

“But you’re a man, Chess. You’re tough.”

Chess snorted. “Ever seen the inside of a birthin’ room? Stick a pin in the map almost anywhere, you’ll find ten women tougher’n me — and you, for that matter.” A pause. “Not many meaner, though. I believe I’m right in that estimation, anyroads.”

“Yeah, you do got that goin’ for you,” Morrow agreed, taking another swig.

For Morrow, it all came back to that one word, sprinkled throughout every Agency report he’d read before first embarking on this misguided venture: unrepentant sodomite and murderer. The primary description anyone who’d ever heard of Chess Pargeter always slapped on him, and strictly on the sodomy part of it, Morrow felt he could safely give a resounding yes. But as to the other . . .

“Still and all,” Chess continued, “you might have a point there, this one time. ’Cause thinking back, I find how I do feel kinda . . . bad about riddin’ the world of Sadie’s little friend.”

“Well . . . you kinda should. That boy didn’t have a chance — and seems to me you liked it that way. Like back in ’Frisco, with that miner; you lead them on, then lay them down, then you giggle about it after. Way you conduct yourself, it’s — ”

“Uncharitable?” Chess suggested.

“ — easy. All a damn sight too easy entirely, considerin’ how afterwards they’re dead, and you’re alive.”

Morrow waited, but Chess didn’t reply — simply sat back, and though his hand still hovered near his gun, it seemed less a threat than a habit.

“That whole thing . . .” he said, at length. “It was nothin’ more than a damn tiff, ’tween Ash Rook ’n’ me. Just this dance we were havin’ with each other, spilled over into fisticuffs — and that boy, his bitch, they just got in the way, is all. And I . . .”

He trailed off, shook his head. And here Morrow saw something cross Chess Pargeter’s face, shame-full and sidelong — a thing so alien, so out of context, he barely recognized it himself.

Regret.

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” Chess said, finally. “So . . . you’re gonna help me out with that, ain’t ya, Ed? Yeah, that’s right. ’Cause you’re gonna get me so I can’t.”

Morrow couldn’t begin to guess how — and even if he had, this wouldn’t’ve been the first idea he came up with: Chess leaning forward all of a sudden, using both Morrow’s biceps to haul him down hard. Chess friggin’ Pargeter, at maybe half Morrow’s height, dragging him eye-level, the better to stick his tongue deep between the bigger man’s teeth.

Morrow reared back almost immediately — pants tight, stomach cold. “What — what the hell was that?” he demanded.

Chess smirked. “What’d it seem like?”

Somethin’ might get me killed, Rook ever found out, was Morrow’s first idea. But instead, he said, carefully, “Look, Chess — just how drunk are you?”

“Depends. How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough.” But that didn’t sound right either. “Look, I, uh . . . I like girls.”

Chess shrugged. “Sure. Half the men I’ve messed with’d say the same. But you know better ’bout me: ladies ain’t my meat, and I ain’t theirs. I do like you, though, Ed — always have.”

“. . . oh?”

“Yup. You do what you say, and mean what you do. Don’t run your mouth. And you’re clean in your habits, too — I admire that in a man.”

So I hear, Morrow remembered.

But now Chess was all up in his face again, nuzzling hotly ’round the pulse-point of Morrow’s jaw and rubbing their bearded cheeks together like he was either grooming Morrow, or grooming himself on Morrow. Probably looked ridiculous, but the effect was soon enough to render simply breathing a difficult task indeed.

Morrow groaned, forcing out: “But, the Rev — ”

“He cared enough to help me out, he’d be here already; he ain’t. ’Sides which . . . this is his fault, too. So screw ’im.”

“Now, that don’t make a — ”

“Just shut the hell up, Ed.” Chess kissed him again, delving deeper. “Now . . . man up and skin off, ’cause I don’t got all night.”

Morrow bristled. “Oh, now I really want to,” he threw back, oddly insulted by the implication that them getting to it had become an utterly foregone conclusion.

’Course, if a hex made you, it wasn’t nothin’ to feel shame over, was it? And Chess’d probably kill him one way or the other, if he refused.

While he waffled, however, Chess was already slipping one of his hands right down the front of Morrow’s trousers, deftly plucking his buttons apart. And here came the thing itself, free at last: poker-stiff, drooling. It filled Chess’s palm, fingers playing just as smooth and nimble on it as Morrow’d always thought they might, ’til he hefted it, and laughed out loud at the strength of Morrow’s reaction.

“Ah, Christ shit Jesus — ”

“Yeah, that’s right. Quite uncommon instrument you’re packin’, Ed. Very — manly.” Chess hauled a bit harder, then stopped to admire the result. “Oh, and I do like this, too — a big man, all raw and needy and beggin’, and all because of me. Not to mention a nice, thick piece like you got right here, stuck in just as far as it’ll go, justabout any damn place that’s handy.”

Morrow gasped, glancing down — saw himself magnified a size more than expected, purple-weeping, and looked away again, before he ended up with scarred eyeballs. Shaking his head, and demanding, “But what the hell do you get out of it, exactly?”

“My way, Ed. It’s like killin’, almost — almost as good. ’Cept nobody has to die. Anyhow — you could do something for me, in return, you were willin’.”

“Like what?”

“Like you might could fuck me, fool. What’d you think I meant?”

“But — don’t that hurt?”

“Oh, you poor innocent. ’Course it does.” Chess was all but straddling Morrow now, yet swung in just a tad further, voice dropping, to explain: “That’s what makes it good.”

“Chess, I ain’t that way.”

“You ain’t complainin’, though, are ya?” As Morrow hesitated: “C’mon, for Christ’s sake! It’s the exact same act, no matter what the accoutrements — ”

“Bullshit! How would you even know?”

Chess paused, actually seeming to consider this. And answered, at last — “Well . . . you got me there, Ed. Many the times as I seen it done, I guess . . . I still probably wouldn’t.”

They contemplated each other for a tick, chests heaving. Chess’s eyes fell, unexpectedly, releasing Morrow — and even more unexpectedly, Morrow registered it as a loss, rather than a victory.

“Listen,” Chess said. “I ain’t no outrager. So hell, Ed — if you genuinely don’t want to, I sure ain’t gonna stick a knife to your throat. I mean, I could make you, and you might like it better than you think; blow-job’s the best method of persuasion I know, savin’ a gun. But . . . it wouldn’t be worth the damn effort, that way. Would it?”

Chess’s thumb stroked idly at Morrow’s cock-head, drawing a hot bead, swirling it ’round. And, at once — it didn’t seem so bad. After all.

That’s the magic talkin’, Ed.

Probably. But then again — who cared?

“Wouldn’t, I guess,” Morrow replied, fast enough not to think it over. And crushed Chess back to him.

They retired to the bed, shedding clothes and weapons as they did — a bit cramped for Morrow’s liking, ’specially when two were involved, but it wasn’t as though Chess wasn’t providing a hell of a distraction . . . biting at Morrow’s nipples on the down-slide, licking his navel, rolling his whole face (the beard scratching awfully, yet intriguingly) in the cradle of Morrow’s pelvis like he was savouring the taste. Even pushing his thighs apart peremptorily — so strong, for one who still got mistook for a boy on occasion, if only from a distance — so he could lap at Morrow’s too-full balls before opening wide and taking him to the root, grunting with effort, the thrum of it almost enough to fetch Morrow right there.

Seconds later, Morrow opened his eyes to find Chess arrayed on top of him, huffing in fresh pleasure while he fingered himself open, well-primed with what Morrow took — by its smell — to be some of his own brilliantine. Fair made Morrow blush, to see how Chess’s own cock perked up at the sensation: red and shiny, crying out for further exploration. How would it be to grab hold in turn, do to Chess as he’d been done by? Jack him slow, then faster — keep on ’til Chess was the one rendered inarticulate, ’til he made him squirm, and arch, and pop —

Here Chess shifted downwards into Morrow’s lap, however, breaking that train of thought all to hell — coming down in the saddle with a long groan, letting gravity do much of the work. Morrow let out a holler as he drove up into the very heat of him, lodged narrowly, stuck fast. Chess sat there froze a moment, all mussed up and panting, and said:

“Just, uuuuh, gimme one sec. Gotta find the angle, or it won’t work like it oughta — ”

“You want to, though, right? Say you want to, Chess — ”

“Morrow, God damn! Do I any way seem to you right now like I don’t?”

As though to prove the point, Chess forced himself down still further, ’til something inside him apparently gave way with a force that made Morrow shudder. And let loose with a whoop as he did it, triumphant and unashamed, the way an Injun trick-rider jumps a fence.

So tight and nasty, almost dry enough to scratch, for all the hair-oil Chess might’ve used — impossible to forget this was the literal back passage he was trying to breach, a secret place where nothing flesh was ever meant to fit, no matter its constitution. Yet more impossible still to fault the act further for that simple truth, given the sheer intensity of pleasure it obviously held, for both of them.

Because: Morrow could see Chess’s eyes rolling back already, both their hips going twenty to the bar. Felt himself collide intermittently with a smallish, hardish lump inside, and saw how it made Chess gasp, whenever he did — that famous “thing,” he could only conclude. As in God, oh God, HIT that!

I could rid the West of Chess Pargeter right now, Morrow thought, with one quick snap. Tear his ear-bob out right now, when he ain’t thinking — make him ugly — take away that lure of his, so he has to comport himself the same sad way all the rest of us do. Crush his hands, break the trigger-fingers at their roots, like chicken-bones. . . .

But this was just sophistry, empty rhetoric, as the mere fact of what Morrow was doing even while he thought it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. What with him still hammering hard into Chess like it was his first fuck, or his last — or both.

He almost laughed at the craziness of it all, right out loud. But let a cry of his own bust out instead, similarly squeal-pitched, as ruin broke through him all at once — clutched Chess to him, nipping automatically into the younger man’s nearest sweaty shoulder, and felt his body go off in a chain of tiny explosions, a firecracker-string stuffed with spunk.

The cross-shaped earring flashed and jounced, sparking painfully at the very corner of Morrow’s sights, as Chess juddered hard through his own climax, spitting hot trails up Morrow’s stomach — throe-drunk, riding the wave. Energy crackling everywhere, out of his very pores.

If I was Rook, I’d want some of that, Morrow thought. If I was Rook . . .

But he wasn’t.

No time to feel bad, though, just hold on and enjoy the ride, pumping every last drop of his own heart’s-blood out through the head of his cock.

“ — aaaaAAAAAh, fuck me!” Morrow heard himself yell to the empty air, so loud his voice gave out mid-way. Chess answered it in kind, then collapsed, pulling them both over in a graceless heap. They lay there a while, twinned and panting, as though neck-to-neck in yet another race to see who’d be able to catch their breath first.

“Guess you’re . . . mine, now,” Morrow managed, finally. His own voice so hoarse he barely recognized it.

Which was also a mistake, the single dumbest thing he could’ve said, goin’ by prior report alone.

Chess simply snorted again, however, before rolling safely back on top.

“Not too damn likely,” he replied. “I’m the Rev’s, if I’m anybody’s. But considerin’ how I’m the one just busted your cherry, as regards t’ queer frolics . . . way I see it, if anything — now you belong to me.”

And that wasn’t anything to worry about, now, was it? As a prospect.

Crap, Morrow thought, knowing damn well he was doing nothing but repeating himself, as ever. Of all the bone-head moves to go and damn well pull, Goddamnit. . . .

But here the words faded to white, ’cause Chess was kissing him again — grinding into him groin-first, his pretty little piece polishing itself industriously on the sweat-slick fur of Morrow’s belly. And Morrow felt himself spring immediately back to full attention; more hexation-overspill, probably, not that he was complaining. Felt his slick head butt up hard once more against Chess’s ass, like the dumb beast just couldn’t wait to cram itself back up into a space so tight, it was just as well that part of the body didn’t have no bones.

Cry ’bout it in the morning, if I have to, Morrow decided, knowing he wouldn’t. And pulled Chess back down once more, to where he could get at him.