“Back-shoot the fucker, in other words.”
“I said: ‘Given provocation?’ To which he replied: ‘Provocation’s a thing can always be decided upon, after.’”
“Wouldn’t expect any better, from the same man had agents dress like ghosts to scare a nut-house confession from Alex Drysdale.
”
“No, no.” Geyer shook his head fiercely. “That was justice, however rough. But how could I follow his orders after that, knowing he held a loyal man’s life in such disregard? Worse still, when I broke the bonds of silence to warn George, he was unsurprised—he’d known it was coming, and made his plans accordingly. Fly north and east, back to the government, and tell them first-hand what hay Pinkerton’s been making of his authority . . . convince them how vitally important it is not just that Hex City be overthrown, but that Pinkerton not be its conqueror, lest he use such victory as an excuse to seize power for himself.”
“Shut up,” Chess ordered him, turning back to Yancey, who braced herself. “As for you—that was a dangerous game you just played, missy. Last woman who kissed me . . . well, turnabout is fair play, or so I’ve heard. . . .”
Before she could ask what he meant, it was his lips on hers, tongue tracing the seam in one hot, abrasive lick. The charge of it broke outwards, sweeping Geyer, Pinkerton and the rest clear, and what followed came as a series of blood-tinged blinks, viler than anything Yancey’d ever dreamt on: all limbs and motion, a serpentine coiling, pinned hands and feet, imposed desire and vivid rage co-mixed. Chess lay trapped in its midst, prone and horrified; a looming man-tower she could only assume was Reverend Rook stared down on his humiliation, purring, with horrid affection: Soon be over, darlin’. Just let her have her way.
At the very centre of this storm, meanwhile—his tormentor, the cyclone’s bride. The aforementioned Lady.
Her real name is Ixchel, Chess told Yancey, dispassionate. While his own memory-self, bound fast as Leviathan, struggled against her toils with everything he had, only to prove it wanting. Thinking furiously, with the only part of him left free: Oh, I’d kill you right now if I could, scatter your bones and dance on ’em, in a fuckin’ instant. Bite your lips off, bitch. Rip out your lyin’ tongue, and hang it for a party favour. Just kill and kill and kill—
And her, nodding, black hair ’round his face like a curtain, funereal flag of some overthrown nation. Thinking back, in vaguely amused return—If you could, yes. Yet you cannot; you are made for this, little ixiptla, my husband’s husband. It will happen.
Chess bucked and writhed, but in his mind’s eye alone. He chewed at his own tongue ’til his teeth almost met, and still she rode him down through the storm, the rainbow’s black core, a cauldron of hissing dragonflies. Rode him ’til an ending of sorts lit up the hollows of their skulls, and all their eyes turned black.
Motion through darkness, vertiginous downward plunge, and Yancey hit bottom at last. That dreadful female form had absented itself, along with the Reverend’s ghost; the two of them were left alone, nose to nose, and the weight of what she’d inadvertently done to Chess pressed at her chest like some massive iron bell’s clapper.
“I’m so sorry,” Yancey said, eventually, knowing it made not a whit of difference. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t’ve . . .”
Thankfully, all Chess’s anger seemed to have fled in transition, leaving only gruffness behind. “’Course you couldn’t. Just don’t do it again—not without warning.”
She hesitated, then ventured: “You must truly hate me.”
That irritable spark flared up once more, though no longer directed her way; a flare of insight blooming, uncomfortable, undeniable. Snapping back: “Jesus, what for? You ain’t her, just ’cause you got a few of her particulars—ain’t my Ma, either. You’re—”
—something different, the like I’ve never seen, with your clumsy-true aim and your high moral quackings. More akin to me than not, even folding in your choice of where to lay a roving fancy. Though he was with me last night, in the flesh, and don’t you ever forget it.
More an ally than an enemy, in other words. One of the current gang, so tiny there was no point in either mistrust or rank, beyond the barest rudiment: Chess in front, the others behind, for protection—theirs, and his. Shedding blood in his half-deified name. Watching his back.
Hell, even I can see that.
Close as they were at this moment, the thought could’ve come from either, and still be just as true.
Chapter Fourteen
Night’s house rose everywhere. From horizon to horizon, the desert filled with its whisperings.
To the west, a train powered by anguish rode ghostly rails, heading swift and sure for a certain hidden valley. Inside, its master dozed, sedated to a less immediate level of pain. His partners sat in the dining car, one watching the other throw a series of three coins over and over, noting down the results, which were—unsurprisingly—always the same.
“Your divinatory scholars call this the I Ching, I believe,” Asbury said.
Songbird did not bother to nod, let alone look up. “When Fu Xi first compiled them, the hexagrams were cast using a handful of yarrow stalks, but that method has been lost for centuries. The Han gave us coins instead, which serve.”
“And the outcome?”
The bleached girl-witch bent lower, studying the latest compilation of broken and unbroken lines. “Tui above, the joyous lake. Sun below, a gentle wind through the wood. Weakness outside, strength inside—a situation out of balance, extraordinary, dangerous. Such a condition cannot last; it must be changed quickly, or misfortune will result.”
“I thought that was the path we were already embarked upon.”
Her weak eyes flicked to rake him, visibly unfocused, yet too sharp too evade. “Did you? This is Pinkerton’s crusade, Professor, as you well know, though you raised no objection—but then again, neither did I. I keep my own counsel, with the Book of Changes as my advisor.” Colourless lashes drooping, as she quoted from memory:
Nine in the third place: