Flesh Circus

Chapter Ten

Thank God,” Eva said as I muscled up through the attic trapdoor, her dark eyes widening with relief.

She says that every time I show up. It’s kind of nice to hear.

She nodded at Saul, her tiny gold ball earrings flashing. She used to wear hoops until they almost got torn off her head five times in a row during exorcisms.

She’s stubborn like that.

Eva’s black bangs were disarranged, and her suit jacket was torn. It hadn’t been any trick finding her here—the victim was still making enough noise to be heard on the street outside. Fortunately (or not), here at the edge of the barrio nobody paid much attention. It wasn’t like her to look so mussed, though. She’s usually neat as a pin. While Avery, Wallace, and Benito often go in guns blazing, Eva depends more on outsmarting and leverage.

When you’re short even compared to me, I guess that’s the better way to go. Of course, Mikhail probably trained me because I tend to go in guns blazin’ too. Call it a character quirk.

Hey, when you’ve got a hellbreed mark, firepower, and a serious rage problem, leverage and tact lose a lot of their charm.

“What the hell do you have here?” I looked past her and saw something familiar—a human shape on a pair of stacked mattresses, writhing around under a sausage-casing of leather restraints. And babbling in something that sounded very familiar, too—not the grumbling of töng, but a lyrical rolling song.

“Guy’s wife called 911, said he was going weird. The black-and-whites called me in, since he was holed up in the attic and chanting.”

“It wasn’t Jughead Vanner, was it?”

She gave me a look that could qualify both as amused and what the hell? “No, it was Connor and the Pole. I sent them both on and the wife’s at her mother’s. She asked if we could help him, I said I wasn’t sure.”

Safe answer. “Huh. Did he go to church?”

“Nope. She does. Sacred Grace. Rourke’s her confessor. There are a couple of indicators, but not enough to red-flag our boy. I’m stumped.”

Saul’s lip lifted at the mention of Rourke. He was on the ladder leading up into the attic, his shoulders barely clearing the small entrance. He hadn’t said a word since we left the Cirque. It was quiet even for him, and I suspected trouble.

First things first, though.

Huh. I still hadn’t really spoken to any of the priests at Sacred Grace since the last incident with the Sorrows. I had decided, after much reflection, not to tear the whole fucking place apart to find anything else Father Gui and his happy band of priests was hiding from me. I hadn’t forgiven Gui yet, but I hadn’t stopped doing exorcisms for them either.

There was being justifiably angry over them hiding necessary information from me, and then there was being stupid.

“Does she bring home novenas?” I stepped past Eva, clearing the way for Saul to come up.

“Yup. There’s a whole clutch of them on the mantel downstairs. The husband’s supposed to be irreligious, which is a surprise. Part of why I called you. And Avery said—”

“Yeah, Avery. How are you two?”

“He’s good.” She didn’t blush, but she did smile slightly, an ironclad grimace. On her pretty, wide-cheeked face, it was amazing. She has delicate fingers and a strong nose, and is built like a gymnast. It probably helps when she’s wrestling Possessors. Of all of my standard exorcists, Avery comes closest to having the qualities necessary for a hunter, but Eva is the one who thinks fastest—and most thoroughly—on her feet. And she’s also the calmest. She paints eggshells a la Fabergé to relax, I’m told. It’s exactly the sort of finicky, delicate thing I’d expect her to do. “This doesn’t feel like a Possessor.”

It probably isn’t. “Good call. Got a mirror?”

“Of course.” She wasn’t male, so she didn’t bother with useless questions. She just dug in her black bag—exorcists favor the old medical bags, since they’re just the right size and can be dropped in a hurry—and fished out a hand mirror. “The victim’s Trevor Watson. Male, African American. Forty-three, works as an orderly out at Henderson Hill. Likes beer, soft pretzels, and his wife. The marriage seems happy, the financial side stable but not luxurious by any stretch. Scratchin’ is what the wife called it. She’s Hispanic, thirty-eight, registered nurse.”

“He works at Henderson?” That was interesting. Mental institutions can sometimes lead to cross-contamination in possession cases. Not as often as you think, though—plenty of people in institutions are indigent, and Possessors don’t go for that.

“Yeah. The new one.” It went without saying, but she said it anyway.

Our eyes met. I suppressed a shiver at the thought of the old asylum. It wasn’t a nice place for anyone with a degree of psychic talent, and I’d chased an arkeus or two up into its cold, haunted halls. Nobody worked up at the old Henderson Hill but an old, half-blind, mute caretaker who didn’t care what happened as long as he could sit in the boiler room with his quart of rye. He seemed more a fixture of the place than the old furnace itself, and I’d given up wondering exactly what he was, since he didn’t interfere with any case that took me up there.

The man on the mattresses writhed and gurgled. “He chewed through a gag,” Eva said helpfully. “I was worried until nothing happened.”

Since Possessors—and loa—can snap curses at an exorcist with a victim’s mouth, I didn’t blame her. “Reasonable of you. How did the mattresses get up here?”

“I don’t know. The wife said they never used the attic.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

Saul lifted himself up from the steps. “Smells like the other one, Jill.”

I stopped, gave him a quizzical look. “Really?”

“Cigars. And candy.” He sniffed, inhaling deeply, tasting the air. “An orange-y perfume.”

“Florida water?” I hazarded. It was a reasonable guess.

“Could be. But there’s a lot of sugar. Like cookies.”

Huh. Even with my senses amped up and the scar naked to the open air, I smelled nothing but dust, fiberglass insulation, and the remains of a recent fried chicken. “Well.”

“Bruuuuuja,” the victim crooned. “Ay, bruuuuja! Come heee-eeere.”

Eva actually jumped. “What the—”

I shushed her. Jesus. This can’t be what I think it is.

“Bruuuuuuja!” A long, drawn-out sigh. The voice was eerie, neither male nor female, a sweet high piping. “We want to talk to you!”

“Madre de Dios.” Eva crossed herself.

Amen to that, I thought. “Leave your bag. Go downstairs and start saying Hail Marys. Saul—”

“Not going anywhere.” Saul folded his arms as Eva brushed past him. She didn’t even argue—another thing I could be thankful for. Sometimes a civilian will try to protest or object or something.

My mouth was dry. “If he gets loose, keep him from getting downstairs. Got it?”

He nodded, his eyes lighting up. I liked seeing that, and wished I had time to ask him what was going on with him. A good hour or so to worm out what was bothering him and maybe get somewhere would have been nice.

But duty always calls. I dug in Eva’s bag until I came up with a taper candle and a mini-bottle of blessed wine. Father Gui blesses these tiny bottles in job lots, having a dispensation from high-up in the Vatican to perform some of the, ahem, older blessings.

It wasn’t rum or tequila, but it would do. The victim started moaning again, and I uncapped the bottle. It was a moment’s work to stare at the candle wick, the scar prickling with etheric energy bleeding down a vein-map into my fingertips, until the waxed linen sparked and bloomed with orange flame.

The attic shifted around me, turning darker. The shadows took on a sharper edge, hanging insulation moving slightly, though the air was dead still.

One of the oldest truths in sympathetic magic: to light a candle is to cast a shadow. If I didn’t believe Hell predated humanity—having it on good authority—I’d think that human beings had created it. As it is, we do our bargain-basement best up here on Earth, don’t we?

I wonder about that sometimes. Not enough to give myself the blue funks Mikhail used to withdraw into, but enough to make me question this entire line of work.

It’s a good thing. Without the questioning I’m just another vigilante with a gun.

The taper’s flame held steady. The liquid in the bottle trembled slightly, but that could have been the tension blooming in my midsection. This wasn’t your ordinary exorcism, and things were beginning to take on a pattern. Find the pattern, find your prey; that’s an old hunter maxim too.

“You want to talk to me?” I pitched my voice loud enough to carry. “Here I am.”

The victim flopped against the restraints like a fish. I wondered how Eva had gotten him tied down. He looked to be twice her size.

But when a girl’s motivated, miracles are possible.

I chose my footing carefully, my dumb eye on the candleflame and my smart eye soft-focused, scanning the etheric congestion over the mattresses. It still bugged me—the floor was dusty, no drag marks—so what were mattresses doing up here?

The flooring creaked. Veils of insulation shifted. It was still warm up here after the day’s heat, and a prickle of sweat touched my forehead. It wasn’t because of the temperature, though.

The candleflame wavered, but I was quick, shifting my weight just a half-step to the side. The strike slid past me, boards groaning, and I heard Saul skip nimbly aside. Son of a bitch. You hit him with a curse and I will tear your face off, goddammit.

The flame guttered; I let out a soft breath and it straightened. My smart eye watered. The mass over the bed was seething, trying to find a purchase. The safe path I was following twisted to the right just as the victim gave another chilling, childlike chuckle.

“Come a little closer, said the spider to the fly,” it crooned, out through the man’s mouth. “Come closer, bruja, and look into our eyes. We want you to see us, yes we do—”

You’re about to get your wish, asshole. I reached the side of the mattress, kept my eyes on the flame, and tipped the wine-bottle up to my mouth. Blue light sparked in the fluid, whether it was the blessing reacting against the mark on my wrist or my intent flooding the alcohol I couldn’t tell.

The thing inside the man’s body chuckled wetly, smacking its lips, and I heard the groaning of leather as his body erupted into wild motion. But I was just a half-second quicker, and the wine I sprayed across the candleflame blossomed into blue flame just a fraction of a second before he would have smacked into me. I flung the taper too, shaking the flame out, and the sudden curtain of darkness gave me another critical half-second before I grabbed him by the throat and shoved, still dribbling blue-flaming wine from my lips.

It wasn’t pure theatrics. There’s not really enough alcohol content in cheap blessed wine to ignite, but sorcery helps—and the contact, mouth meeting flame or spit booze, is a symbol understood by the creatures in this man’s body. It’s what their followers do as an offering or a protection.

And it’s hard for the body’s natural protective reflexes not to trigger when there’s a ball of blue flame coming straight at the vulnerable eyes. That reaction gave me a thin wedge and a chance to drive it home.

I was on the mattresses over him, my knees on his shoulders, one hand on his forehead, pushing. My aura sparkled and flamed, and the thing inside him exploded out with a shotgun’s cough.

His screaming took on a harsher tone. I fell, hitting the floor with a thud, various implements in my coat digging into my flesh, and it tried to strangle me before my aura sparked again, sea-urchin spikes driving it away. It tried again, howling obscenities in a sweet, asexual child’s voice, and I shoved at it with a completely nonphysical effort, screaming my own imprecations. The scar was a live coal, pumping sorcerous force up my arm.

There was a crack, the physical world bowing out in concentric ripples of reaction, and a weird ringing noise. The man on the mattress was still screaming, and Saul’s growl spiraled up. Mixed into the noise, there was splintering wood and a sudden weightlessness.

I hit hard, narrowly missing clipping my head on a countertop, and little peppering noises resounded all around me. I blinked, chalk dust and splinters hanging weightlessly before descending in lazy swirls. The peppering noises were little bits of wrapped candy, falling out of thin air and smacking down around me with sounds like a hard rain.

Eva’s face came into view. She was chalk-white, dark bruised rings under her eyes, and she frankly stared for a few moments.

Saul peered through the huge hole torn in the ceiling, his eyes shining green-gold. The sound of the victim’s rubbery sobbing gradually overwhelmed the rain of candy. There’s nothing like hearing a grown man cry like a three-year-old.

Especially when that cry is blessedly, completely human. But we weren’t done yet, and I struggled against sudden inertia, my body disobeying the imperatives I was giving it.

“Well,” Eva said. “That was impressive.”

I blinked. Twice. It had knocked me right through the ceiling. “Shit,” I muttered, and the world grayed for a moment before I came back to myself with Eva gasping and Saul suddenly there, his face looming over mine. No, I wanted to say, but I couldn’t make my mouth work for a half-second, gapping soundlessly like a fish. NO, go back up and watch him—

It was too late. The flexing of the world completed, a hard snap with a thick rubber band. Or maybe it was leather peeling and popping free. The high-pitched, childish laughter came back, ringing, and more candy pelted down like stinging rain. Another rending, splintering noise, and the laughter was receding, along with a wet thudding sound, then light pattering footsteps.

Our victim, Trevor Watson, was on the lam.