The Downside Ghosts Series Books 1-3: Unholy Ghosts, Unholy Magic, City of Ghosts. Stacia Kane

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       Chapter Twenty-seven

      “That no god exists is Fact, which is Truth. That the soul exists is also Fact and Truth. That the soul must be protected, that it can be used by the unscrupulous, is a most terrible Fact, and the Church condemns those who would seek to do this.”

      —The Book of Truth, Rules, Article 154

      Not quite an hour later, she followed Terrible across the flat, brown scrub grass at the edge of a long row of dilapidated storage units and down the block. The steady beat of a drum came from the far end of the row; a lot of bands rented places like these to practice, especially in Downside where neighbors with noise complaints used fists and knives rather than phones to make sure things quieted down.

      Terrible’s broad shoulders blocked her view of the inside of the storage space, but the chilly air flowed around him and blasted her before she reached the doorway.

      Cold indeed. Bump had apparently had this place modified. Dull steel lined the walls, broken only by the industrial mesh faces of heavy freezing units. Terrible had said “chiller” but she hadn’t thought he meant this. Her thin cardigan was no match for it. Might have been nice if he’d warned her, but then he looked completely undisturbed by it himself. His bare arms didn’t even roughen with goose bumps as he staked himself a spot off to the left.

      Bump stood in the middle of the room, wrapped in a heavy fur coat, with a black silk top hat covering his fuzzy head and unnecessary sunglasses hiding his pale face. He looked like the Abominable Snowpimp.

      “Well, well. Miss Chess gave up to come here after it all. Why ain’t my fuckin airport runnin, ladybird? Thought we had ourselves a fuckin deal, yay?”

      The words made her head hurt. Or maybe it was the cold. All she knew was by the time Bump finished speaking he sounded like he was talking through a tin can and her temples throbbed.

      “Takes time, Bump,” she managed.

      “Bump ain’t got time. Got shipments. Got them pills waitin, got lashers need goin in my fuckin pockets. I ain’t get my fuckin pills, you ain’t get yon pills. You dig?”

      Without waiting for an answer he stepped to the side, sweeping his arm to the right with the air of a man showing off his new car.

      Slipknot’s body lay on a metal table, covered to the chest with a nubbly brown blanket that looked like it had been wrapped around car parts then wrung out in swamp water before being placed on his ruined skin.

      “Bump thinkin maybe you take another fuckin lookie here, maybe you see all what you needs to see. What you say? Maybe you miss you a clue, it bein dark last time you fuckin see. Leastaways you give Bump some knowledge what thing we after, yay?”

      “He’s a—like a hybrid ghost,” she managed to say. Wanted to say, because her feet felt stuck to the floor and if she talked she could delay the moment when she had to look at the body.

      “What you meaning, hybrid? Bits of other fuckin spooks and all? How the fuck that happen?”

      Chess glanced back, saw Terrible open his mouth. Fine. Let him explain it; she didn’t want to. Felt like trying to would make her even sicker than she already was.

      Slipknot’s heart gave another horrid squelching beat when she stepped closer. The condition of his body had deteriorated further since she last saw him, or perhaps it was simply that without the blazing sunset gilding his body she saw him as he truly was.

      Ghastly white skin like candle wax, covered with a fine sheen of what looked like oil but was probably some sort of secretion she didn’t even want to think about. The cold had slowed the pro cess of decay, but hadn’t stopped it the way it would if he hadn’t been powering a spell; the magic keeping his soul trapped warmed his corpse enough to keep him from freezing.

      Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to say something, do something to soothe him, but nothing came to mind. There was nothing. His soul was still there, but it was beyond communication, beyond any help she could give, at least until she managed to set him free. Guilt made her chest ache, a dim, faraway pain she couldn’t quite feel. She’d only taken a couple of pills, no more than usual, why did she feel so disconnected …?

      Her vision wavered. She lifted a shaky hand to rub her eyes, but before she reached them, Slipknot’s heart beat again. Droplets of blood flew up from it. She saw each one, deep crimson against the wreckage of his body and the silvery walls, hanging in the air for what seemed like hours before they fell again, landing in tiny explosions on his raw flesh.

      “Chess?” Terrible sounded like he was speaking from another room entirely. “You right?”

      “Fuckin strange,” Bump remarked. “That heart of his ain’t beat but once every half hour or so, yay? So why’s it up now?”

      The hand that hadn’t reached her eyes covered her mouth instead, pressing her lips against her teeth so hard it hurt, trying to hold back the scream. This was what she’d been afraid of, this was what she’d been half-certain had happened from the minute she found that fucking amulet and was stupid enough to touch it.

      It had fed from her. She was connected to it. She was connected to the Dreamthief, and she was connected to Slipknot.

      At least now she knew why Ereshdiran hadn’t killed her the other night at the Morton place. Why do that when he could feed off her so easily, keep her as a second power supply should Slipknot’s body fall apart so much it could no longer hold his soul?

      She stumbled back, trying to keep cool but not quite making it.

      “Chess,” Terrible said again. “Chess, you need a seat?”

      “Why you all white, ladybird? You ain’t sicking up on Bump, is you? Aw, fuck, this ain’t—”

      “I’m fine.” She forced her hand down, clenched it in a fist at her side. Bump and Terrible were both watching her, Terrible concerned, Bump unreadable.

      This thing was attached to her. Connected to her blood, to her soul. Was this why her reactions at the Morton house had been so slow?

      “Tonight.” She drew a hard breath through her nose and let it out slow. Fuck the airport. She’d either find out if there were other ghosts there or she wouldn’t, but there was no fucking way she was letting an entity attach itself to her like a fucking metaphysical tapeworm. “We do the ritual tonight.”

      Terrible slid his Chevelle into a spot on Thirty-fifth as neatly as a puzzle piece. Chess got out before he’d made it around to open her door for her. It didn’t feel right to let him do it, not anymore. If it bothered him he didn’t say anything.

      She’d never visited the pipes here, but the man guarding the door looked familiar. He barely looked at her as he nodded at Terrible and stepped out of the way.

      “Hey, Bone,” Terrible said. “Old-timer Earl in there?”

      “Aye. СКАЧАТЬ