only thing she minded was that the anonymity she’d once prized had disappeared, and now she felt eyes on her everywhere she went. Which sucked. Who knew what they might see if they paid attention? Church employees were not supposed to be addicts.
Her skeleton key unlocked the van’s back door and she yanked it open with a bit more force than necessary. Somewhere in the back was a first-aid kit with a variety of antidotes along with basic remedies like bandages and antibiotic ointment.
She climbed in, leaving the door open so more cold wind could blast her. It wasn’t just the air of the shack that had made her warm, wasn’t just the poison either. She’d taken an extra Cept before entering the building, not knowing how long the ritual and resulting paperwork would take and not wanting to be caught out if it took too long. If she sat still and focused, she’d be able to feel the high, but there wasn’t time. Not unless she wanted it to be the last high she ever felt, which she didn’t.
The kit was hidden beneath the back bench seat. Chess dug it out and opened it. Fuck. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d hoped the antidotes weren’t kept in syringes anymore. So much for hope…
The needle was cold, too. Great.
Voices rode the wind into the van. She had no idea how far away the others were, but she preferred to have this done with before they returned. Nobody would think twice about it, not after Dana told them what had happened. But that didn’t make the thought of being found in the back of the van with a spike in her vein any more pleasant. Too close to the truth, perhaps, the undeniable fact that she was only a short jump away from that fucking needle turning into a vital part of her life, that only fear and willpower had kept her from it so far.
The rubber catheter was stiff, not wanting to be tied. Chess could relate. She didn’t want to tie it. Fear curled in her stomach and sat there like a lump of half-rotten Downside meat. She tied off, clenching her fist to pop a vein, slapping the crook of her arm. Something she’d sworn to herself she’d never do. That she was doing it to save her life—doing it with Church sanction, the way they’d been taught to do—didn’t seem to count, not when she’d seen this moment coming, dreaded this moment almost every time she opened her pillbox.
She shook her head. This was ridiculous. Everything was under control, she was under control, now more than ever. She didn’t owe anyone money, she had plenty of pills, she maintained. A happy medium.
One quick stab, that was all it would take. She could do that, it would be easy. She’d barely feel it, right?
Not right. The freezing needle buried itself into her vein and when she shoved the plunger down, cold shot up her arm like a crack in ice. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she turned her face away while she yanked the catheter off, not wanting to watch the syringe bob in time with her pulse while she fumbled in the kit for a cotton ball.
It only took a few seconds for the antidote to warm up. Another few to find the cotton and press it into place after she withdrew the needle. It was over. She’d done it, and it hadn’t been so bad.
That was the scariest thing of all.
Never fear to call the Church if you have any questions, or stumble upon signs of magic that frighten you. The Church’s job is to protect humanity from such things.
—The Church and You, a pamphlet by Elder Barrett
Madame Lupita’s curses and screams as she was dragged into the Church van still echoed in Chess’s head when she walked into Trickster’s Bar a few hours later. It was early by Downside time, not quite one o’clock. The Rolling Ghosts were playing and she wanted to catch the tail end if she could. At least that would chase the memories and sounds away.
And at least it was warm, in the sweaty, stifling way of bars. Her earlier sensation of being overheated had vanished by the time she finished giving her report at the Church and headed back home to Downside. Even if it hadn’t, the drafts from the stained-glass window that made up one entire wall of her apartment and the lazy water heater that turned showers in winter into a gamble would have finished it.
Thanks to the Dreamthief case, she got most of her drugs for free—not through her regular dealer, Bump, but through Lex, who worked for Bump’s chief rival, Slobag. She didn’t know what exactly Lex did for Slobag. Not only had she never bothered to ask, she doubted he would tell her if she did. Their relationship, such as it was, worked a lot better when they kept their mouths busy elsewhere, but the fact remained that since she didn’t pay for most of her drugs, she could have afforded to move.
Could have, and probably should have. Somehow, despite having more money in theory, it didn’t quite work out that way. Instead of more money she ended up with more drugs. Something told her that was probably not healthy. Something else in her didn’t give a shit. And the rest of her was realistic enough to know it didn’t matter.
Lex was fun. She liked him, and he gave her what she wanted in more ways than one. But dependable he was not—maybe she wouldn’t have liked him as much if he had been—and she couldn’t count on free drugs forever. Sooner or later she’d need to supply herself again, and living cheap was the only way to keep up.
Besides, Downside was her home, and there weren’t many better places available. At least her building—a converted Catholic church, one of the few that hadn’t been destroyed when Haunted Week ended twenty-four years before—was quiet. Even the hookers on the corner kept it down most of the time, which was more than could be said for most of the neighborhood.
The bouncer stepped aside for her, admitting her into the dark red interior of the bar. The Rolling Ghosts hadn’t gone on yet. Instead the Clash blared out of the speakers, loud enough to turn the talking heads in the room into ghosts themselves, silent but trying to overcome it.
She didn’t want to think about ghosts. She held up a finger at the bartender and gripped the beer he handed her with fingers that were finally starting to lose their stiffness.
Terrible stood in his usual spot near the back. She headed for him, watching the red lights play off his shiny black hair and illuminate the breathtaking ugliness of his profile. She didn’t notice it anymore, not really; even now her eyes simply slid over it. He was Terrible, that was all. He was her friend…sort of.
But she knew it was what everyone else saw. The heavy, jutting brow; the crooked nose that looked as though the bones were trying to break out through the skin; the scars; the jaw like the prow of a ship. They saw the thick muttonchop sideburns, the impenetrable darkness of his eyes, and backed away. A face like that was a walking advertisement that the man behind it didn’t give a fuck, and a man who didn’t give a fuck was a very scary man indeed, especially considering he made his living as Bump’s chief enforcer, especially considering his size. Someone catching sight of him expected the shoulders to end before they did, expected the chest to be less broad. They didn’t, and they weren’t.
Chess watched him lurking back there for a few more seconds before he caught sight of her. His chin lifted in a greeting, but he made no other move. Something bothering him, then, and no way to ask. They’d tried to have a deep conversation in a crowded bar once before. It hadn’t ended well. Chess tried not to think about it.
“Hey, Chess,” he said. She got the words not so much from his voice, barely a rumbling murmur over “Garageland,” as from watching his lips move. “Figured you ain’t comin after all, gettin so late. You right?”
“Yeah. Right up. The job went on longer than I expected.”
“Lookin pale.”
She shrugged and drank her beer. No point discussing it, not when they could barely hear each other. “When are they going on?”
“Few minutes, maybe. Not long. They—Hold on.” From his pocket he produced a small black phone and flipped it open. The stark white glow of the screen invaded the darkness of the