City of Ghosts

Chapter Sixteen

At least working with the Grand Elder’s daughter had one advantage. A gang of low-level Church employees from the Maintenance Department showed up within about half an hour to replace the slashed tires. Chess tried not to look at the loose flaps of rubber as the tires collapsed in pitiful heaps by the side of the car, their shape gone. Useless and empty.

And fast as those Maintenance employees were, it was still almost eight by the time they were done. Lauren’s impatience revealed itself more clearly by the minute through jiggling, watch checking, pacing, and casting ever more annoyed looks at Chess as she leaned against a wall and smoked.

Lauren could be annoyed all she fucking wanted. Chess just wished she’d do it somewhere else. Lauren’s irritation assaulted her, rubbing up and down her spine and making her palms tingle like early withdrawals.

Fuck, that might actually be early withdrawals, now that she thought about it. Not quite five hours … a little early. But she’d been stepping on it for a while, hadn’t she? More pills, more often …

Blah. Something to worry about later. At the moment the issue of actually taking the pills was far more important.

As was the tracker in her hand. She’d been fiddling with it while they waited, trying to figure out how to zero in on one of the sensors she’d placed on Vanhelm and not the handful still sitting in Lauren’s bag. Tricky little bastard. Each sensor seemed to have a code, but the buttons were tiny and stiff, the menu impossible to decipher in the dark.

She waited for Lauren to snatch it from her hands again—and fail to make it work again—but she didn’t. Instead she watched while Chess hit button after button.

The machine lit up. Chess almost dropped her smoke.

A map grid appeared on the screen, a map grid with a single flashing green light. Carefully Chess turned the little knob next to the screen. It rewarded her by zooming in.

Was this the track she’d placed on his car, or on his shirt? He knew about the one on his car—at least, Chess assumed he did. Whether he was aware of the one on his shirt she had no idea.

And it didn’t matter anyway, because the screen zoomed in and Chess read the address, and her heart slammed into her throat. “Lauren!”

“You got something?”

Her triumphant grin refused to hide as she showed Lauren the screen. “He’s at the slaughterhouse.”

Feeling triumphant about being right and feeling glad about being right were two different things. On the one hand, Chess was thrilled, in a take-that-bitch sort of way. On the other …

On the other, her palms still buzzed and dizziness crept around the edges of her mind, as she crouched in the bushes beside the darkened slaughterhouse, a hulking beast with only a sliver of moon to illuminate it. If she never crouched in another bush it would be too soon.

“There has to be a back door,” she whispered to Lauren. Maybe she could get Lauren to go one way while she went another. All she needed was a minute. Just one, with Lauren not around, so she could crack her pillbox.

To her surprise, Lauren nodded. “Let’s go around the side. I think I saw a door there earlier.”

Fuck. What else could she do but nod and follow Lauren through the shrubbery to the granite corner of the building? Church protocol for Squad members meant working in teams and staying together. Hell, Church protocol for Debunkers on the very rare occasions they worked together said the same. Once inside, getting away from Lauren would be extremely difficult.

And extremely necessary. The itching wasn’t bad yet, but it distracted her, and she didn’t need any distractions. Not when she faced at least one Lamaru and probably more.

Lauren stood too close to her while she eased her picks in and out of the lock. Chess’s shoulders twitched. The only person whose breath she didn’t mind feeling on her neck was … well, enough about that.

The lock gave with a tiny click. Chess started to grab the knob, thought better of it, and squeezed her lube syringe over the hinges. Too late, probably, but worth a shot anyway. Lauren twisted the knob, and they slipped into the darkened slaughterhouse.

It stank. They stood in some sort of pen; Chess’s boots scuffed through a thin layer of damp ammoniac straw and warm animal bodies blocked her way, surrounded her. She had to force her lungs to keep working; claustrophobia and cow shit didn’t really aid her breathing, wouldn’t have even if her chest hadn’t started tightening for other reasons.

For a second she stood in total darkness before her eyes adjusted. It was a pen. The cows slept all around her, and Lauren’s dainty hand pinched her own dainty nose. When she saw Chess looking at her she gestured forward. Right. They wouldn’t find anything here. Even if there was something here they probably wouldn’t find it. Chess was committed to her job and all, but she was not going to start playing around in manure just in case some Lamaru had dropped something. Not unless it became absolutely necessary.

She dug a pair of latex gloves from her bag—her hand brushed her pillbox, oh, damn, she just needed a minute alone—and slipped them on. Again, just in case. If manure squeezing did end up being on the menu, she’d be prepared.

Besides, with the Lamaru in there, who knew what else she might end up touching?

And they were there all right. She could feel them. Their darkness crawled over her skin, rolled up her spine to buzz in her head. The cows around her looked like black monsters, threatening her, as her mind swam and her body tingled.

She needed to find the Lamaru. She needed her pills.

Together she and Lauren wound their way among the sleeping cows like worms through an intestine. Chess concentrated on breathing and not slipping, on placing one careful foot in front of the other and steadying herself before the next step.

Voices murmured just out of range. Voices and soft whimpers. Dogs.

Chess moved faster, ducking around the cows. She didn’t see a door, but there had to be one. With every step the voices grew louder. She glanced at Lauren, whose face tilted up. Listening. Good.

Finally they hit a door. Locked. Chess grabbed her picks, only to stop when Lauren touched her arm. What now?

Lauren leaned in close again, too close. “Cesaria, you were right.”

“What?”

“You were right. About the psychopomps. I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

How was she supposed to respond to that? What did it say about her that she couldn’t even trust Lauren’s apology? It sounded sincere enough. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Lauren hadn’t let go of her arm; now she gave it a little squeeze and dropped her hand. “Thanks.”

Okay, whatever. Not really the time to worry about Lauren’s motives, and she couldn’t really bring herself to care that much anyway. So she picked the lock by feel and they found themselves in another space, empty save for winding steel walls stretching halfway to the ceiling. The chutes. The trails the animals walked down to their deaths.

Only the faintest moonlight shone on them through the windows high on the walls. They stood gleaming in it, silent and cold and watchful.

Animals entered at one end, were drawn blindly from one sharp turn to the next, not knowing where they were going or that they’d been led into a death trap from which they’d never escape. From which they’d never had a chance of escaping from the moment they set foot in the building, made the commitment to take those first steps forward.

Chess shivered.

The room ended in a grille, the kind stores pulled over their windows at closing time. Beyond that were flames, their glow making Chess and Lauren duck.

The Lamaru were there. She saw their black forms against the flames, heard their voices rising louder than before. Heard the dogs whine and smelled their fear acid-sharp in the still air. Smelled their blood. Their urgency infected her, cranked her heart.

So did the urgency of her body’s demands. If she didn’t find a little privacy soon, she’d have a real problem. Fighting the Lamaru would require all her strength, and she couldn’t give it in this condition, not when her brow was damp and her palms were starting to burn.

They had two choices. The grille didn’t reach the floor; it descended just over halfway down, ending right above Chess’s knees. They could slide under.

But another door stood at the far end, with one of those staircase symbols of a stick person walking down beside it.

“There’s that walkway upstairs,” Chess whispered. “We could see what they’re doing. We’ll split up, you go to the left and I’ll go right.”

Even in the dark she saw Lauren’s nostrils flare with annoyance, but who gave a fuck. The horrible thick energy of Lamaru magic, the slithery whisper of psychopomp magic, choked her, and she just wanted it to stop. Their chant had a rhythm, a heavy beat, that cut into her soul and made her blood pump in time.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. They’re right there.”

“Call for backup. We can’t handle them all with just us.”

Lauren didn’t sigh, exactly, but she made a faint huffy sound in her throat. “You want me to light my phone up with them right there?”

A dog howled. Energy thundered across the floor, blasted into Chess. The Lamaru had done it. They’d made a psychopomp. Probably one of many. Oh, fuck. She didn’t think she’d ever been so pissed off about being right.

On the other hand … here was her chance. “Get into the stairwell and call. I’ll stay here and watch.”

Her hand already clasped her pillbox.

“I don’t think we should separate.”

For fuck’s sake. Chess grabbed Lauren by the arm and practically shoved her into the stairwell, realizing too late that the door’s hinges weren’t oiled. They made an unholy squeal, cutting through even the howling dogs and the Lamaru’s chanting.

The chanting stopped. Fuck.

The heavy steel door of the stairwell slammed shut behind them. To get out the way they’d come in would take too long, would be too difficult. The screech and the silence had awakened the animals, or broken whatever spell they’d been under—a Hand of Glory, probably, and likely more than one. Even through the thick walls Chess heard them barking and howling, mooing and squealing and bleating. Too loud in her oversensitive ears.

“Great job, Cesaria.” Lauren grabbed her arm and started dragging her up the stairs—not that it was necessary. Chess was already moving. She thought she remembered seeing a stairway door across from the offices where they’d been earlier; from there they had a straight shot down the hall and out the front entrance.

A straight shot with at least two locked doors between them and freedom. Fuck.

“Call for backup, damn it!” She yanked her arm from Lauren’s grasp and started digging in her bag. Not easy while running balls-out up a flight of stairs in the pitch-dark, but she’d do her best. She had those chunks of snake, the black mirror, the goat’s blood …

Light exploded in her eyes. Lauren’s phone. “No signal.”

It didn’t matter. They’d reached the top of the stairs. The door resisted but gave, and they spilled out onto the slick tiles outside the offices.

The Lamaru lunged. More followed behind, racing up the central staircase that led to the office hall and the walkway she’d taken with Lauren to get to the psychopomp room earlier. Hard hands grabbed Chess’s arms, her waist and neck. She managed to fit the tips of her fingers into her pocket where her knife waited, but more hands caught her, held her fast. Her feet slipped on the floor.

Lauren screamed. Through the crush of bodies and chaos of shouts and laughter Chess glimpsed her being dragged off down the hall.

Dragged in the opposite direction. Chess and her captors passed out of the dim light of the offices and to the bottom of the three steps leading to the psychopomp room. She fought harder. Her muscles ached, sweat dampened her brow and her heart threatened to explode out of her chest. Still they held her, pressing her forward, their arms tight around her stomach and legs. Their harsh laughter echoed in her head.

That room had solid iron walls. No exits. A small barred window. It wasn’t a room, it was a deathchamber, a deathchamber in a deathhouse, and she was being dragged right into it.

And Erik Vanhelm waited for her there. The arms around her disappeared.

He was on her before she had a chance to react, his heavy fist catching her across the jaw. Pain exploded in her face; her brain caught fire with it, throbbed with it, as though it had suddenly swollen three sizes. She hit the floor, her shoulder taking most of her weight.

No time to feel it, or think about it. Get up, run, back to the hall. They’d catch her again, they were right there, but her hands were free, she could get her knife—

He grabbed her hair, yanked her back. She heard Lauren scream.

“Lauren!” she managed, her jaw creaking and throbbing, before her ass thumped to the cement. Vanhelm over her, grinning at her. He glanced up and nodded; she heard the door close behind them. That could not be good.

“Cesaria Putnam,” he said, and the sound of her name in his voice made her want to scream. Ugly power crawled over the words like roaches. “I’ve wondered what you look like.”

What the fuck did he think this was, some kind of spy movie? Did he want to get into a clever little dialogue with her or something?

Fuck that. She dug her shoulders into the floor and jerked her legs up hard; her knee connected with the side of his face with a satisfying—if painful—thump.

His grip on her hair loosened. She rolled away, tried to get up. Not fast enough. His arms closed around her, trapped her. His weight pinned her to the floor. She inhaled a mouthful of foul-smelling dust that tasted of raw meat and sand and gritted her tongue. The floor had been clean earlier. What was going on in there?

Lauren screamed again, barely audible through the thick door. Heavy footsteps thundered past in the hall. A harsh voice: “Erik?”

“Five minutes.” Vanhelm’s breath heated her ear, her neck. His arm pressed hard on the back of her neck, shoving her face farther into the filthy floor. Not just dirt or dust; blood seeped across the cement toward her, blood from the dead animals in the corner.

A chuckle from the doorway. “Make it fast, we don’t have time.”

She barely heard it. Her stomach lurched. Only her desperate swallows, the realization that if she threw up she’d have to lie there with her face in the puddle, kept her from losing the little bit of water she’d had in the car. The germs on that floor, in that blood, the dirt on her body, the hands holding her down, so dirty, so filthy … She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move, she was trapped, she was too small, too weak, and she deserved it. Shit, why hadn’t she managed to grab her pills when she was in the stairwell? She needed them, she couldn’t think without them.…

Vanhelm’s free hand beneath her stomach, finding the button of her jeans. Undoing it.

She broke. The dizzy haze of very early withdrawal, the paralyzing fear, the memories of lectures in a horrible sonorous voice about germs and the germs filthy little girls carried—they snapped, set her free, disappeared from her mind, and all that was left was mindless, red-haze rage.

He meant to rape her. Had waited up there, lurked up there, punched her, shoved her into filth, and now the scumsucking motherfucker actually thought he was going to get his sick fucking rocks off, use her without her permission?

Nobody was ever, ever going to do that to her again. Never.

She went limp, germs and bugs and the horrible-tasting dust forgotten; something cold and watchful replaced them in her mind. Let him think she’d given in. She forced a few whimpering sounds out of her throat. Fucker was about to die, she’d feel his blood pour over her hands …

Her zipper went down. No fear. Just waiting. Only one of them was in danger here and it sure as fuck wasn’t her. His arm still pressing the back of her neck. She felt it like a brand, felt him behind her like a movie she was watching. Every cell in her body, every cell in her brain was focused on him, nothing else existed.

“Erik?”

“I’ll be right there,” he shouted.

“No, Erik, shit—”

“Five minutes!”

Her knife was in the pocket of her jeans. She’d have to reach it fast. When was the best time? If she moved too soon he wouldn’t be vulnerable enough. He’d still be focused on her entire body instead of the parts he wanted. She had to time it right, just right …

A gunshot, incredibly loud. Lauren screamed—she must have found her gun. Male voices shouting. Lauren still alive. That’s what mattered.

Her pants down now, cold floor against her soft skin. His arm lifted her, pulled her to her knees, cold metal against her throat. Not her knife. “Don’t move.”

He had no idea what mistake he’d just made. No idea at all.

The sound of his robe shifting behind her, so loud. So slow. Her knees trapped by her jeans. The blade in his right hand, pressed to her right side. Roll away from it. A smell in the air, one she should know but couldn’t identify, she was too focused on the moment, on waiting for the right moment.

His other hand lifted from her body. Positioning himself. Now. Now!

She spun to her left, dropping her elbow, flinging her right arm behind her. Her shoulders knocked his knife out of the way; her arm missed him but her legs, carried along with the force of her spin, did not. She knocked him on his side, her legs over his chest. Not enough, not bad enough.

His blade sliced her thigh. No time to scream, but fuck that hurt, oh, shit, she needed her fucking pills and he was keeping them from her, it was his fault.

Good thing she still had her gloves on. Her left hand shot out, grabbed him where it would hurt the most, squeezed as hard as she could. His scream broke the air around them into vicious shards, brought more footsteps, coming back. She didn’t have time—the smell was stronger, her heart pounded, her body knew what it was even if her mind refused to accept it, and the Lamaru were shouting outside and banging on the door.

Her knife’s handle leapt into her hand; she flicked it open, lifted it, ready to bring it down right into the center of his evil, foul little chest—

Something hit her, sent thick black vibrations through her body. A curse bag, energy so vile that tears sprang to her eyes, like the fetish she’d found earlier. Exactly like it, in fact. Another toad fell to the floor at her knees. She wavered, unsteady, trying to catch her breath. Blood trickled down her leg from the wound on her thigh. She scrambled away, not wanting her blood anywhere near it, kicked it away from the blood already there. Another bell in her head. Her back slammed into the cold cement wall, so hard she thought she felt it shake behind her. Hard enough to echo in her head like a gunshot.

They grabbed Vanhelm, dragged him from the room. She took one faltering footstep, then another, pressing herself against the wall to try to get as much distance as she could from the thing; it radiated evil like a dead fish throwing off stink, and she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze from it. But her knife was still in her hand and she was ready to go, ready to move, she could catch them. Catch them fast, slice their throats, and take her pills.

She turned to do just that and stopped short in the doorway. Sure, early withdrawals were one thing, but this hallucination was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Was this—Fuck, what the fuck happened?

Instead of the slaughterhouse she stood in the doorway of a hell dimension, a fiery cavern of smoke and noise and heat blasting her face and body, making her throat even drier. Flames rose almost to the ceiling, half-engulfing one of the iron walkways crossing the length of the building.

Something clicked in her head. The building snapped back into focus and she saw it all. For one dizzying, horrible moment she just stared, rooted to her spot in the doorway as men’s shouts mixed with the frantic screams of the animals and crackling of flames. Through a hole in the thick, oily smoke she saw the Lamaru’s firedishes, the ones they’d been using in their ritual, turned over.

But more flames crawled along the pens, far from the dishes. What the—

Blue flames exploded at the far wall. The building shook; the ceiling’s groan was audible even over the rest of the noise. Holy shit. The first explosion she’d thought was Lauren’s gun. The second—when her back had hit the wall. Not that hard. An actual explosion. A bomb going off.

The closest exit was probably through the offices. Fuck picking the locks, she’d smash the glass doors, she’d find something heavy to use, run to the right and get the fuck out—

Vanhelm appeared again, his face twisted in something that could have been a smile, could have been a grimace. She had no idea and didn’t give a fuck anyway. All she could do was raise her hands, try to get past him, but his fist slammed into her face again, knocking her down, and the door of the psychopomp room slammed back into place. And locked.

She was trapped.