Stacia Kane by Unholy Ghosts

Author:Unholy Ghosts [Ghosts, Unholy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-02-08T15:50:49+00:00

A silent drive, two Cepts, and a line later, she sat in the Mortons’ tidy living room and frowned. Nothing. Either these people were particularly good, or the lack of food in her stomach combined with speed and pills was putting her more off-kilter than she should be. Their faces were so distorted by fear it was like looking into a fun-house mirror. Would she see the same bizarre warping of her own features?

Shit, this wasn’t right. She’d never had problems with what she took before, not like this. A little memory fuzz once in a while, sure—it was one reason why she took copious notes—or sometimes asking people to repeat things because she couldn’t get their words to process in her head, but…sitting with them now was like sitting in a wind tunnel.

Something else was different, as well. All the lights were on, though the sun was just setting.

“I don’t know why you’re asking all these questions,” Mrs. Morton said, for the third or fourth time. “I haven’t slept in days. Please, when will you be able to get rid of it?”

“We’re working on it. Have you thought of staying somewhere else for a while? A friend’s house, perhaps, or a hotel?”

“We can’t afford a hotel,” Mrs. Morton snapped. Her eyes widened. “I mean, a hotel for weeks would be very expensive.”

Chess didn’t react, or make a note. She didn’t need to—this part was set hard into her brain. “According to the records you gave us, you have approximately ten thousand dollars available on your credit cards. Surely you can stay at a hotel for a while? You would of course be reimbursed by the Church after the Banishment.”

She said it with such confidence, she really did. Just as if she hadn’t found out earlier that one of her fellow Church employees was doing illegal magic to call forth something whose name she’d never heard before. Something that reeked of evil like a dead dog in the street reeked of decay.

And speaking of decay…The image of Slipknot’s rotting flesh, sliced open, marked up like a demented child’s tortured dolly, refused to leave her. What his soul must be suffering as he lay trapped in the stinking wreckage that was once a living, breathing body, was unimaginable. And she was responsible for it, because she hadn’t yet figured out how to release him.

It was hard enough not to think of herself as someone who barely deserved to live, without that kind of shit smeared all over her conscience.

How could one of her coworkers do such a thing? For what felt like the millionth time since leaving the beach she tried to think of illegal ink, forbidden tattoos, the possibility that the culprit might simply be someone who looked like a Church employee.

But no. Tyson knew who he’d seen, would know the difference between genuine Church tattoos and illegal ones. Inked like thou, he’d said, and it couldn’t have meant anything but Church ink.

She hoped he’d been lying. She couldn’t deny the possibility that he hadn’t.

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