Unholy Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-five

Her breath caught in her chest as she stepped forward, her feet cool on the smooth floor. About a foot away she stopped and lifted the edge of the shirt to her waist.

“Aw, I ain’t see it that well. Awful small, aye? Come closer.”

She took another step.

“Closer.”

Now she was close enough that his face was hidden. All she could see were the thick black spikes of his hair.

His fingers slipped under the top edge of her panties and pulled them down far enough to reveal the whole tattoo, the black-and-red tulip she’d gotten when she turned eighteen and entered the Debunker training program.

“Mighty pretty, tulip,” he said. His breath caressed her skin. “Why’s it for?”

She shrugged. “Just for fun.”

She’d had a foster mother once—one of the few who were nice to her—who’d grown tulips, dozens of them, before she died unexpectedly and Chess was sent somewhere else. She’d been only a little girl then, but she’d never forgotten those bright, steady flowers in a place that had almost been her home.

Goose bumps rose on her skin when he pressed his lips to it, his fingers curling and dragging her panties farther out of the way. He followed them with his mouth, scraping his teeth along her hip bone. His other hand slid around her waist, dipping down to caress her bottom, then back up to grab her opposite hip. One quick movement of his hands spun her around. Another pulled her back so she landed on the bed beside him. She lost track after that.

Somehow she was on her back, and he kissed and nibbled a line from her hip up over her ribs to her breasts, pushing the shirt out of his way then impatiently tugging it off her altogether. Somehow his lips were on hers, gentle so she could still breathe but sending shivers through her entire body just the same. Somehow her hands were fumbling with the button fly of his jeans, tugging them apart, hooking into the waist of his boxers and pushing them down so his erection bobbed against her thigh.

The scent of cigarettes and spice made their way through her clogged nose as he kissed her neck and shoulders, as he palmed her small breasts and took them into his mouth, and she lost herself in it. She didn’t have to think about anything, her embarrassment about the night before, her fear about facing Terrible again later, her worries about what lay in store when she tried to free Slipknot’s soul. All she had to do was feel his bare chest against hers when he took off his shirt, so warm and solid and male save the cool metal of the chain he wore around his neck. All she had to do was arch her back eagerly when he slipped his fingers between her legs to toy with the wet, swollen flesh there. All she had to do was gasp and bite back a scream when her body clenched and released so hard she even forgot her own name, which was the best part of all.

Somewhere in the hazy fog she felt him pull away from her and heard the sound of tearing foil, then he was back, kissing her, tugging her panties all the way off. She waited for that awkward moment she was used to, when it seemed most men forgot basic anatomical fact and attempted to insert themselves into her thigh, but it didn’t come. Instead he slid into her, straight and smooth, while she dug her fingers into his back and wrapped her legs around his.

He was bigger than she’d expected, but not painfully so. Just enough, filling her without making her uncomfortable, and he rolled his pelvis against hers, slowly exploring every inch of her until she thought she might explode. She raised her hips to meet his steady thrusts, begging him to go faster, harder.

“Aye, tulip,” he whispered. “Sweet…damn sweet…”

Chess mumbled some sort of assent and forced his lips back to hers. Breathing didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, because he was speeding up, slamming into her with a single-minded force she understood and shared. His left hand shifted; he slipped his thumb down to caress her most sensitive spot, and she rocked toward him, matching his rhythm, driving herself and letting herself be driven to another mind-shattering climax.

This time he followed her, their voices mingling in the still air of the room, until he finally collapsed on top of her.

“Tulip,” he said, kissing her neck, “You is one dangerous girl.”

“Only if you cross me. I am a witch, you know.”

“Thought y’all weren’t allowed to put the hurt on nobody.” He slipped away, reaching down and pulling the cool sheet over their bodies, then taking two cigarettes from the pack by the bed and lighting them. The movement emphasized the sinewy muscles of his chest and back. Not bad at all, she thought, reaching up to take the smoke.

“I’m just making a point.”

“Aye? I gotta point to make with one of your witches too, dig. You tell me how to find him.”

“What? Who?”

“Mr. Friendly Fist, there. Boil or Doyle or whatever the fuck. Got a few things to say to him.”

“Forget it. He’s in enough trouble. I’m going to have to tell the Elders what he did. The ritual, I mean, not the…other thing.”

“Ain’t no such thing as enough trouble for a guy like that.”

“I did hit him first.”

“Fuck that, tulip. No excuse. Tonight you gonna take me over there, show me him, aye?”

“Lex, really, I appreciate it but it’s not necessary.”

“Is for me. C’mon, tulip. I got me a sister, aye?” He looked up as the doorknob rattled, then leaned in to kiss her throat. “Look like your clothes here now. You want em, or you want me tell her come back in an hour?”

Almost two hours later she trudged up the stairs of her building, her clothes and body clean again but the pleasant sense of relaxation fading with every step.

There would probably be a note. Worse, he might actually be waiting for her. And she had a huge black eye and a swollen—but apparently not broken, thankfully—nose. How in the world was she going to pretend she didn’t remember anything that happened at Trickster’s, but that she did remember who hit her? Because saying she didn’t remember being beaten…that was too much.

Would he believe that she’d fallen down? Probably. That’s what she’d say, then, when she saw him. Meanwhile…she had to call Elder Griffin, tell him she needed to see him and the Grand Elder and find out if anyone had been trapped in the elevator. She needed to figure out how this related to the Mortons. Her initial thought was that Ereshdiran had followed her there, but that didn’t make sense. The first time she’d seen him had been there, and he’d appeared there most strongly. So he had to be somehow connected to the place. Maybe she should stop by there first, or ask Elder Griffin to meet her there. Especially now, with the Lamaru involved. Someone should know about it, someone higher up than herself.

As for Chester…she had no idea what to do. Hopefully Old-timer Earl would give her something she could use, assuming the place truly was haunted, which it seemed to be. Later she would retrieve the cameras she’d set up and confirm it.

Then…she didn’t know. She couldn’t just pretend to be incapable of handling the ghosts. Bump would wonder how she managed to keep her job. Neither could she handle the ghosts, considering the deal she’d made with Lex. Sometimes her addictions were more trouble than they were worth.

Her key ring jingled in the silent hall as she slotted the key into the lock and twisted it. The bolt slipped without a sound. Was that right? Possibly it was still lubed from the break-in. All the same she pulled her knife out of her pocket. The amulet was hidden in her bag, but whoever had come looking for it—be it Doyle or one of the people he was working with—didn’t know that.

She threw the door open, holding the knife in front of her with her free hand, but the kitchen was empty. For a minute she waited, standing in the doorway, until finally she had to take a breath. No one was here. She was being paranoid—not too hard, all things considered.

But the thought failed to calm her. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t remember the lock giving so easily the night before, and she was just as strongly on her guard then as she was now. And that smell, wasn’t there an odd kind of smell in the air? A high, musty, sweaty kind of odor?

She’d tidied up a little before she went out. Now she was grateful she’d taken the time, because she could see the searchers had been back. The stack of books she’d placed on the arm of the couch had been turned so their spines faced the wall instead of the seat. Her papers had been shuffled. The little piece of malachite she kept on the bookshelf had fallen back to the floor. She knelt and pulled out the Blackwood box, then popped the lid.

Everything seemed to be there, though it had definitely been rooted through. Ha. It wasn’t great news, because they would know the amulet had to be on her person, but she still couldn’t help but feel some pleasure at having thwarted them again. Although she’d certainly paid for it. Even smiling made her eye and nose ache.

Everywhere she looked turned up tiny evidences of strangers’ hands, pawing through her belongings. Her skin crawled. They might as well have touched her, stroking their hard, dirty hands over her body. Her amusement at having won a small victory faded as reality set back in. Her home was all she had. The only place that was hers, even if it was rented. It was private. It was where she could be alone. And now someone had invaded that privacy, stolen it from her, as everything else had always been taken from her her whole life.

She didn’t want to look anymore. She didn’t want to do any of this anymore. She just wanted to go to bed.

Someone waited for her there.

He lay on top of the covers, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. Chess stared, her breath stuck in her chest, her mouth desert dry, almost unable to take in the gaping wound at his throat, the tiny runes carved into the exposed skin of his scrawny chest. The symbol of the Lamaru on his forehead, lurid and bold like a rash.

Brain was dead.