Her men cowered away, leaving Chess and Morrow to take the full brunt, as it eventually resolved itself into a string of imprecations: “Mei, tamade hundan, liu koushui de biaozi he houzi de ben erzi! To come inside my house and speak to me thus, as though you knew no better — ”
Chess snarled. “Yeah? Well, koo nee day, po-foo! You bring your ass down here and say that, ’fore I come on up and — ”
Aw, crap, Morrow thought, bracing himself. But at that very same instant, Songbird cried out in a very different way and slid sideways to avoid the Rev as he crashed through the banister, wood-splinters bursting to rain every which way, dropping to land heavy almost at Chess’s feet.
Rook shook himself, groggy; hadn’t quite recovered from whatever Songbird’d been doing to him, up top. Then reached ’round Chess’s waist with one outsized hand, fisting it hard enough to keep them locked together, contact sparking between them in a way that made Chess stagger, guns drooping, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was here for anymore. Rook rummaged in his coat with the other, tucking the “smoking mirror” he still clutched away, while Morrow used the distraction to empty his remaining shells: one in the nearest lamp, spraying lit oil, and the other into some gigantic Tong-boy who immediately came jumping back up with an axe even so, seemingly oblivious to the impact and looking to split a still-dazed Chess in two.
The shot’s report seemed to snap Chess awake again, prompting him to gut-shoot his potential murderer, then catch Morrow’s eye on the go-’round as they both went to reload. Morrow found Chess’s glance uncharacteristically full of surprise and respect, admixed.
“Nice shot,” Chess said, before going back to his usual business, as Rook finally got his Bible flipped open. Above, meanwhile, Songbird screamed out some new phrase, prompting Morrow to look up just in time to see — her whole bottom jaw unhinge, snake-wide, and a stream of live bats pour out of it like fluttery black vomit, filling the air around all three of them with shrieks and teeth. Chess pivoted with one of ’em already clinging fast to the side of his head, and emptied both guns in a matter of seconds. The results, though spectacular — delicate wings shred-torn, furry bodies popped apart like clay pigeons full of blood — were so sadly inefficient overall, he was soon reduced to trying to pistol-whip the damn things to death.
“Jesus fuck-damn fuck!” Chess yelled, in disgusted rage. “Fuck all y’all, you filthy fuckin’ things! Rook, if you’re gonna do somethin’, best time’d be ’bout right the fuck NOW — ”
Rook nodded. “Then the LORD said to Joshua, See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands. . . . When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have all the people give a loud shout. . . .”
“Chapter Six, two to twenty-seven,” Morrow told himself, as the house began to shake and the Rev preached on. The text spiralled out of Rook’s mouth flat and quick, a smoky snake-tongue of close-packed silver typeface, to dart inside the walls through any available route: old cracks, cracks newly opening in skeleton fans, every mislaid plank and empty nail-bed.
“. . . and when . . . the wall collapsed . . . they took the city. They devoted the city to the LORD and destroyed with the sword every living thing in it — men and women, young and old. . . .”
The cracks in Selina Ah Toy’s foundations were wide enough now to both let in daylight and let out the bats, who almost immediately tried to get back in, blinded by the dull glare of ’Frisco’s watery exterior. “And at that time Joshua pronounced this solemn oath,” the Rev continued declaiming, implacably. “Cursed before the LORD is the man who undertakes to rebuild this city, Jericho: At the cost of his firstborn son will he lay its foundations; at the cost of his youngest will he set up its gates.”
Quite some judgement, Morrow thought. But Songbird merely spat, unimpressed, maybe hoping it’d hit Chess on the way down. Hissing at Rook, in turn: “This cannot be forgotten, gweilo ch’in ta. Do you hear me?”
The Rev nodded, equally sanguine. “Goodbye, Songbird,” was all he said, in return.
One final spasm, a crunching twist that ripped skin and muscle from the rack of the world, saw all three somehow thrown bodily straight from Songbird’s bagnio to the muddy river-bank on ’Frisco’s outskirts where they’d left the rest of their gang: a dry gold-panning operation with at least one shack left intact, just right for purposes of shelter and disguise combined.
The sudden rending — and mending — of their arcane passage was enough to make old Kees Hosteen spill the coffee he was boiling up, yelling out, as he did, “Christ on a coffin-nailed cross, boys! The Rev’s come back!”
Above, the open sky growled. Chess hugged the Rev to him, wet to both knees and virtually holding him up — most of him, anyhow. Frilly little catamite’s a sight stronger than he looks, Morrow found himself thinking — then kicked himself in the mental ass, hard, for being so surprised.
“You are a damn fool,” Chess told Rook. “I told you them Chinee witches ain’t worth the trouble of truckin’ with, no matter the odds. But did you listen?”
Rook heaved a long sigh, bracing both hands on the small of his back and cracking his own spine ’til he groaned like he’d been beat all over. Finally managing to allow: “I did not.”
“Nope. And considerin’ we barely got out of there alive, I hope it was Goddamn well worth it.”
“Well, since you ask . . . it was. Which means, I suppose, that
I probably need to thank you for all your help on this particular campaign, in whatever way you might find most congenial. Always assuming that sounds like adequate payment in kind, to you.”
A long, cool glance exchanged between ’em followed, with heat banked none too secretly underneath.
“We’ll see,” Chess said, at last. And turned away.
Half a night and a day of hard riding later, they holed up in a shanty barroom-whorehouse combo called the Two Sisters Saloon, where Chess insisted on laying out for a bottle all of Morrow’s own, and stuck around ’til he’d drunk at least half of it. It was probably the longest he’d been in close quarters with Chess since joining up without the Rev there to mediate between them, and Morrow was vaguely shocked to realize he wasn’t actually struggling to stay on his guard anymore. Mister (ex-)Private Pargeter could be fairly good company, when he wasn’t determined to pick fights that ended in murder.
“Two Sisters,” he said, thickly. “That who started this place up?”
Chess laughed, a genially smashed cat-sneeze cackle. “Hardly. It’s the song, you know, with the . . . river, and the mill, and whatnot . . . you know that song?” Morrow shook his head. “Well, then maybe it was just my Ma, after all — some Limey jig she used to sing, whenever she got low. Goes like . . .
“There lived an old lord by the Northern Sea,
Bow we down —
There lived an old lord by the Northern Sea,
Bow and balance to me;