Authors: Stacia Kane
Tags: #Fantasy, #General, #Witches, #Contemporary, #Occult fiction, #Fiction, #Drug addicts, #Fantasy Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Supernatural, #Magic
Unholy Ghosts (28 page)
Chess lit a cigarette and turned her back on them as Doyle started to run. She didn’t need to watch, any more than she needed to think of the future. Instead she looked at the Church, rising from the earth like a plume of pure white smoke, gazing at her with benevolent detachment. She thought of the City, of the dead, empty souls milling around, waiting for their week of freedom, separated from her by hundreds of feet of solid earth. Where they belonged.
And for the first time she believed there might be a place where she belonged, too, outside of the Church and her position there. And maybe one day she’d have the strength or the courage to accept it. For now…
She ground out her smoke with her toe, and went to find Lex. She had a whole empty afternoon in front of her, and a tattoo that was desperate for some air.
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank. I dedicated it to Cori, for being the first and best reader, but she wasn’t the only early reader; my great friends Stacey Jay, Caitlin Kittredge, and Mark Henry were invaluable. I can trace my friendship with Caitlin right back to the early stages of this book, and if nothing else, it would be special to me for that. Great big thanks and love go to my wonderful husband, Stephen, who continues to put up with me; my two daughters who try very hard to be good while Mommy works; and my father and brother. Special mention to my mom, the registered nurse, who thankfully is used to questions like, “So, if I inject motor oil, would that kill me right away?” and doesn’t bat an eye. I also have to thank my agent, Chris Lotts, who is awesome and loves shortbread. You wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands if not for him and for Liz Scheier, who acquired the series and edited the first two books; working with Liz was an absolute dream. Huge thanks also to my wonderful new editor, Shauna Summers, and to her fantastic assistant, Jessica Sebor, and to everyone at Del Rey; I cannot say enough how great they all are and how welcome and valued they have all made me feel.
All of Team Seattle deserves enormous, drunken, mushy appreciation, especially Jaye Wells, Richelle Mead, and Jackie Kessler (a fellow Satellite member). Kaz Mahoney, Synde Korman, Todd Thomas, Jill Myles, Seeley DeBorn, Kirsten Saell, Bernita Harris, Bernard DeLeo, Jane Smith, Colleen Lindsay, Briana St. James, Justin Coker, Derrick Beasley, Tom Gallier, Fae Sutherland, and Derek Tatum all deserve extra thanks for being my friends and making me laugh; if your name isn’t here it’s because I’m the terrible friend, not you. All of my fellow Reluctant Adults. Jessica Wade and Jim McCarthy. Paul Goat Allen, Rachel Smith, Lisa Trevethan, Kimberly Swan, and Mrs. Giggles. And of course, thanks to Evil Editor and the Minions, Miss Snark and the Snarklings, and all of my blog readers, Facebook pals, and Twitter followers; seriously, it may not seem like a big deal, but when you spend all your time alone with a computer and your own misery and neuroses, knowing there are other people out there really does make a difference. I continue to be amazed that anyone pays any attention to anything I say.
Huge, special thanks go to all of the bands I mention in this book. My life would be very different and a lot worse without your music.
Last of all, thanks to you, the reader holding this book. You’re the reason for all of this. I hope I don’t let you down.
Yearning for your next Unholy fix?
Read on for a sneak peek inside the next novel in
Stacia Kane’s dark and sexy series:
UNHOLY MAGIC
Published by Del Rey Books
“Hey, Chess,” he said. She got the words not just from his voice, barely a rumbling murmur over “Garageland,” but from watching his lips move. “Figured you ain’t coming after all, getting 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 corner and highlighted his furrowed brow. “Fuck.”
“What’s—”
He cut her off with a look, a quick jerk of the head to indicate she should follow. This she did, trying to stay in his wake as he cut through the crowd back to the front of the room, narrowly avoiding razoring her cheek on some guy’s Liberty spikes, and out the front door.
Desultory clumps of people huddled outside, braving the cold to get a free listen once the band started playing. They shuffled out of the way when Terrible headed for the side of the building. Chess followed. For a second the cold soothed her heated skin before it became too much and she shivered. She should have brought a jacket, but they were such pains in the ass to hold on to in a club.
“Got problems.” He didn’t look at her as he dialed the phone and lifted it to his ear. “You know Red Berta, aye?”
“I know who she is.” Red Berta handled most of Bump’s girls—which meant she handled all of the Downside prostitutes west of Forty-third.
“Aye, well—Hey. Aye.” Whoever he’d called must have answered. “Aye, she—When they find it? Shit. Aye, hang on. I’ll be there.”
She knew before he snapped the phone shut that he wanted her to go with him. What she didn’t know was why.
“What’s going on?”
He stood for a moment with his eyes narrowed, sliding the phone back into his pocket without paying attention while he worked out whatever it was he needed to work out. “Feel like riding with me?”
“What’s going on?”
“Dead body.” His other hand went into his pocket. The movement made his shoulders look even broader, but the threat of his size had never been less evident. “One of Bump’s girls. Third one they find.”
“Somebody’s killing hookers?”
He shrugged. “Looking like a ghost doing the killing. Wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“What, just in the streets?”
“Ain’t you cold? Whyn’t you come on, Chess. Warmer in the car, aye? Just take a look.” His head turned back toward the huddled crowd. Right. Probably not a good idea to discuss this in public. So she nodded, and followed him across the street while the music kept playing inside the bar.
Terrible’s ‘69 BT Chevelle straddled the curb two doors down, making the streetlight look like it was set up just to display it. New black paint gleamed in the orangeish glare. Chess was almost afraid to touch it, the way she would be afraid to approach any predator. The car seemed ready to leap forward on its fat black tires at any moment and start swallowing the road.
Sitting on the leather seat was like sitting on a block of ice, but Chess didn’t mention it. Terrible didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. Instead she waited for him to talk, knowing he’d get to it in his own time.
They’d gone about ten blocks through the abandoned streets west of Downside’s red-light district before he did.
“First hooker,” he said. “But the third body, dig? Bump ain’t paid much attention before, outside getting pissed. Dealer first. Slick Michigan, know him?”
She shook her head. The heater was starting to work; she could have relaxed if it weren’t for her nerves. The last thing she wanted to do was get involved with a murderous ghost. Another murderous ghost, that was—she still hadn’t fully recovered from the Dreamthief.
Terrible kept talking while she grabbed her pillbox and popped a couple of Cepts, washing them down with the beer she still held. “Found him maybe five weeks ago, down by the docks. Nobody think much of it. You know how them docks get. And Slick weren’t exactly the calm type. Figure he gets into a fight, aye? Plays with some boy got a quick knife hand.”
“He was knifed?”
“Aye.”
“But then—”
He glanced at her. “Second one came a couple weeks ago, guessing. Little Tag. He a runner, aye? Ain’t sell, ain’t handle much. Just carryin from one place to another. Found him in an alley off Brewster.”
“I didn’t even know there were alleys off Brewster.” She looked out the window. They’d gone south first, down to Mather. Now Terrible swung the big car left against the light. What was a hooker doing this far off the drag, and this close to the end of Bump’s territory?
“Aye. Ain’t much good in them places, neither. Nobody even sure how long he was there. He body…ain’t pretty, if you dig. Hardly any left.” He took a long pull off his own beer and set it back down between his thighs, then pulled two cigarettes from his pocket and lit them.
Chess took the one he offered her and leaned back in her seat, letting the smoke curl out of her mouth and up toward the roof. “And now a girl.”
“Aye.”
“You still haven’t told me why you think it’s a ghost.”
“Ain’t sure it’s a ghost. Not me, not Bump. Got others thinking so, though.”
“So you want me to come in and say it isn’t?”
“Be a help, aye.”
“But what if it is?”
He glanced at her as he pulled the car up by a burned-out building. “You think be a ghost, Bump gonna call the Church ask them take care of it? Or you think he come to you?”
Shit.
Unholy Ghosts
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2009 by Stacey Fackler
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51670-1
[http://www.delreybooks.com] www.delreybooks.com
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