Unholy Magic

Chapter Twenty-two

Lex seemed edgy, grumpy, and tired and not in the mood to be reassuring. Not that he ever was. Their relationship—such as it was—was short on such things, and long on jokes and admittedly great sex. So why, then, did she want nothing more at that moment than to head back to his place and crawl under the blankets? To seek some sort of reassurance, some sort of … something, that she knew probably wasn’t there? It was like digging for gold in a garbage pile. And if that little analogy didn’t tell her something, she didn’t know what could.

She was going to have to end it. She’d always known it would have to end eventually, but now, after everything that had happened and the decision she’d made … Yeah, she was going to have to end it with him. Soon.

“Too cold out this night,” he said, holding the edges of his leather jacket together against the wind. On his forehead and neck the sigils she’d drawn before they entered seemed to move with the shadows crossing his face.

“You could zip it up, you know.”

“Nay. Make me look like a pussy, aye?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because you look so much cooler clutching it like that. Besides, it’s not like anybody can see us. Nobody’s around.”

This was perfectly true. From the Remington file Chess had copied the address of the old cemetery in which Vanita had been buried, the plot and row numbers stark black on the white page of her notebook. She’d used her master key to enter, opening the gate with its huge protective sigils and warning signs. Citizens were not allowed in the cemetery, in any cemeteries; she’d brought Lex along because Graveyard Twenty-three—formerly known as Oak Hill Cemetery—was in Slobag’s territory, a few blocks in, and because she’d wanted company. Banishing ghosts was her job. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still scared.

And the atmosphere in Graveyard Twenty-three did nothing to calm her. Broken tombstones littered the frozen, churned-up earth; dead vegetation tangled over them, along the messy rows between them, stiff, bare branches like spindly arms straining to grab her as she walked past. Trying to pull her down, to suck her under the earth.

She hunched her shoulders to hide her nerves and kept walking. Vanita had been buried near the center, Plot Fifteen, Row Thirty-eight, and if Chess counted correctly they were at Row Thirty now. If she had to, she’d brush aside the dead bushes engulfing the row signs and check. If she had to; she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to touch anything, certainly did not want to be here at night.

“Much farther on?” Lex blew on his hands.

“No, couple of rows.”

“Mighty creepy here, Tulip. Ain’t see how you do this for work.”

“I usually come during the day to get the dirt. And they’re usually better maintained. The Church keeps them mowed and everything.”

Twenty-three was in Downside, after all, so like everything else it was neglected and broken and filthy.

Like her.

“Why come this one ain’t?”

She shrugged. “Maybe the guy who’s supposed to do it isn’t doing it. I don’t know. It’s not my department, I don’t really know how they handle it.”

Beneath her coat and sweater her skin heated, her tattoos tingling. No surprise there. The place was packed with residual energy, bottled up by the elaborate wards inside the fence and the sigils and runes on it. No one was permitted to live within a hundred feet of a cemetery, but the Church didn’t neglect its responsibility anyway. To keep ghosts contained was the reason for its existence; to keep them contained, and to provide the people under its rule and care with a road map, a moral code by which to live and thus guarantee they made it into the City themselves. Guarantee that they didn’t end up in a spirit prison, guarantee they didn’t end up somewhere worse.

But it wasn’t … She stopped. It wasn’t just ghost energy making her heart speed up. It was sex magic, slithering like dry leaves up her spine, over her ribcage and breasts, down into her jeans. Vanita and her Bindmate. This was definitely the place, and she was definitely going to have a hard time not getting overwhelmed.

“Lex.”

“Aye?”

“I think you should wait here. There’s some—some magic here, I don’t think you want—”

“Aw, now, Tulip, you know I ain’t feel that shit, not ever, aye? Ain’t gonna get me, no worryin.”

“No, I—” She hadn’t meant it for his sake. She’d meant it for hers.

Sex magic to raise Vanita, sex magic to power her, hell, sex magic to get off with her. All here.

And now Chess was trapped in it, feeling it wrap its sticky, musky fingers around her, press them farther into her, and she couldn’t escape. Not if she wanted to get this done.

“I just think maybe you should stay here.”

“Some magic thing I ain’t can help with, you saying?”

“N—Yes. Yeah, you’re blocking the energy. Stay here, okay. Just keep an eye on me.”

“Here” was a half-rotted stump next to a crumbling mausoleum. It had been beautiful once—the mausoleum, that is, although the tree had undoubtedly been lovely too. The angel on top of the building had not been destroyed during Haunted Week; most graveyard statues were intact, simply because people had been afraid to enter cemeteries when it happened, and the Church sealed them up as it took over.

Chess had seen images of angels before, of course. The Archives were full of them. But something about this one, its stone head bowed as if under a terrible weight of sadness, its wings half unfurled, its hands pressed together, made something in her chest ache. So peaceful. What had it felt like, to have faith like that? To believe that death brought something better, brought peace and unity with something greater than oneself?

Of course, most people thought that now. The City didn’t scare everyone; Chess was the only person she knew who found it dreadful. People seemed to like knowing they would live on.

But … the symbols of the old religions were so beautiful, so majestic in their power and grace. Someone, somewhere, had put that angel there because they really believed in it. She reached out and touched the icy stone of the disintegrating wall. It vibed under her hand, so old. Full of power, like the earth below her—

Right. Like the earth. Time to get moving. What was she doing, standing there staring at some statue?

“You right, Tulip? Lookin kinda pale, you is. Want me to dig the dirt?”

“I’m fine.” Nothing a couple more Cepts wouldn’t fix, anyway, or actually … She had a Panda, a nice little low, just a tad heavier than Cepts. Sleep wasn’t the goal here, just keeping her head straight until she got the job done. She forced herself to chew it up; the faster it entered her bloodstream the better, given how that stupid sex magic had her heart pumping doubletime. “You can’t, anyway. I have to do it, there’s some ritual stuff I have to do. Wait here.”

Vanita’s grave was about halfway down the row, right where it was supposed to be. Chess inspected the brown needles of grass covering it, found no disturbances. Good.

No angels peered out from the headstone here. It was simply a plaque set into the ground, overgrown with dry ivy. Chess walked around the edge of the plot to push it aside, checking to be sure she had the right one. She did. VANITA TAILOR.

“Aklamadii paratium revatska,” she whispered, and stepped onto the grave itself.

Sex energy roared up her leg, finding every empty space she had and filling it, swelling into her, over her. She had too many empty places; everything was empty; it overwhelmed her.

Sweat beaded on her forehead as she knelt. Her tattoos tingled and burned, the sigils on her forehead and throat felt like they’d been scratched into her skin with spent matches.

The frozen earth resisted the spade, made it torturously slow to dig. Torturous especially because even as the Panda hit and her muscles relaxed a bit, it wasn’t enough. Her skin still crawled, her blood still raced, her body beneath her clothes was damp everywhere. At this rate she’d be here until morning, damn it.

The best depth for gathering graveyard dirt was two feet, no one knew why. She wasn’t sure she’d make it. With every meager scoop of dirt she upturned, the energy strengthened; with every scoop of dirt her muscles tingled more, it grew harder to sit still, she was more and more aware of Lex sitting fifteen feet away, naked under his clothes. It didn’t matter that she was sweating in earnest now, that her hair stuck to her forehead and her mouth was dry. Whoever Vanita’s Bindmate was, he was good. Powerful.

“Shaska leptika antida.”

Now for the fun part. If by “fun” you meant “awful.”

With her fingers she scraped at the dirt in the hole, scooping it into the inert plastic bag she’d brought along. Hard particles of it caught under her fingernails, dug into the ridges of her palm. It was icy, frozen, but it felt good against her heated skin.

The bag bulged by her side. She lifted her hand over its gaping mouth, grabbed her knife.

“Asteru antida, with blood I power. With blood I bind.”

Air filled her lungs, fuller, deeper, until she felt ready to burst. She held it, focused on it, on the life and power in her veins, trying to separate as much as possible from the crawling sex energy threatening to make her go mad.

“With blood I bind,” she said again, and sliced into her left pinkie.

Her blood hit the dirt. The energy backlash knocked her over, sex and darkness so strong she bit back a scream. At least she thought she did, thought she’d managed to keep silent, until Lex’s face appeared and she was too lost to fight it.

She grabbed the back of his neck and yanked his mouth down to hers.

He tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip. Now. Nownownow … Without breaking the kiss she shifted her weight, pulled herself to her knees so she could press herself against him.

His car was outside the gates, but it would take at least five minutes to get out of the cemetery. Too far. Too long to walk. It was freezing outside but her blood pumped hot enough for it not to matter.

“Tulip, what’s all this—”

“Take your pants off.”

“The car ain’t far down, we—”

“No.” She slid her clean hand around to his front despite the awkward angle, and gripped him. Hard.

His hand slid over her bottom, dipped between her legs, caressed her thigh, and she gasped against his mouth and pressed closer to him.

“Awful cold out, Tulip.” But she knew he wasn’t going to say no. He could barely get the words out as it was, and he was growing against her palm with every second. Good thing, too, because the energy kept building. Damn it, this is why she avoided sex magic. She could hardly breathe. She didn’t particularly want to do this here, in the cold, in a graveyard for fuck’s sake, but if he didn’t get those fucking pants off soon, she was going to overload.

“That’s not what you said the other night.” His throat was warm; she bit it, moved her hand.

His palm slid up under her shirt, bunching her coat, exposing a thin slice of her belly to the frigid air. She barely noticed. His fingers slipped under her bra and danced over her nipple, making her moan low in the back of her throat.

“Ain’t know what’s got into you, I ain’t.” His breath hit her neck, the tender hollow of her collarbone, sending a violent shiver through her entire body. “First two nights back you race in an throw me around, now this …”

“You complaining?”

“Fuck no.”

She found the button fly of his jeans and ripped it open, reached for her own and did the same. “Good. Come on, it’s not that cold—”

“Ain’t what you said the other night, Tulip,” he murmured, but his hand left her breast to slip down into her panties, and her head fell back so his lips could press to the base of her neck. Together they tumbled onto the carpet of dead leaves, onto the ground that should have felt harder than it did. Would have felt harder, if she hadn’t been so close to exploding already.

Just as she started pushing his jeans down and his fingers started moving in earnest she heard it, a low choked sound over the roaring of her blood and their gasps in the still air. She cranked her neck up, seeing everything upside down, trying to track the noise … and her eyes met Terrible’s.

She froze like a trapped animal, her already pounding heart threatening to leap right out of her chest. What—oh fuck, how long had he been there? Why was he there, how did he know where—

Right. She knew. Knew without having to hear him say it, knew before the thought had even formed in her mind. He’d gotten a phone call, maybe, from someone who didn’t give their name. A text or a note. They couldn’t get close to her, she felt them, so they’d found another way to take her out.

Gotcha.