Unholy Magic by Stacia Kane Page A

herself from memory as well as the world itself.
    Chess looked away from the spot where the girl had lain and nodded at the alley. “In there first, I guess. While there’s still a little light.”
    Beneath her clothes her skin felt raw from the vigorous shower she’d practically thrown herself into when she got home. Raw, and a little tingly. The energy wasn’t anywhere near as strong as it had been the night before, but it lingered.
    “Brought one along,” Terrible replied, pulling a long steel flashlight from the trunk of his car. When he leaned over, the butt of his gun and the thin round handle of some other weapon poked at the fabric of his shirt. The sight reassured her—not that she’d doubted. Terrible didn’t take chances.
    Neither did she. In her bag was everything she thought she might need if the ghost of Charles Remington showed up again, and a few things she thought she might not but grabbed anyway.
    “After, you wanna see Red Berta? Maybe she got more for you. Them dead ones, they ain’t forgotten, if you dig.”
    “What, you mean the hookers still remember them?”
    “Aye. Ain’t somethin they allow me into, but they got—they got secrets, aye? Knowledge they don’t share, least not with me or Bump. Not with men.”
    “Yeah, okay. Is she going to be free tonight?”
    “I give her a ring up, you want. After.”
    “Okay.” A glance around told her the street was empty, but trusting your eyes was folly here, where shadows multiplied with every passing second. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the mouth of the alley. Another rush of sex magic swirled around her, then settled. “Think we’re going to be alone this time?”
    “Slobag always tryin to make a grab,” Terrible said. Not really an answer, but an answer just the same. “Back round Festival time he tried makin some deal up on Fifty-first, get his hands on a buildin. Figured he planned to set up there, Bump and me did.”
    “What’d you do? Burn it down?”
    “Aye.”
    Chess’s fingers brushed Terrible’s as she took the flashlight from him. Normally she would start looking up the walls, at the ceiling had there been one, but that was going to be difficult in this instance, so the ground would be first. She scanned back and forth, slowly, studying every inch revealed by the circle of light.
    She didn’t bother asking him if anyone had been inside the building when the fire was started, figuring the odds on it were probably about fifty-fifty. Not her business, anyway.
    “He knows it was you?”
    She didn’t see him shrug, but knew he did. “Guessin he do. No matter though.”
    “Because you’re safe here?”
    “Because he always after us. Reason ain’t important.”
    A spark of light shot off the flashlight’s beam, but when Chess bent down she saw it was only a bit of broken glass. She shone the light on the base of the wall to her left, listening as the creatures who’d eavesdropped on her phone conversation the night before once again skittered out of her way. Skittered, like roaches … ugh.
    “Some things are—” She stopped. “Hey, come look at this.”
    He crouched beside her, his arm bumping against her shoulder. “Aye?”
    “There. The feather.” Inside her bag was a small box of surgical gloves. She handed the flashlight back and slipped one on, then picked up the feather between her thumb and index finger. Even with the gloves on, a slight tingle ran up her arm. Definitely connected.
    Terrible shone the light directly on it, and she could see the buff tinge on the hairs, the stripes and mottling. “Shit.”
    “What?”
    “It’s an owl feather,” she said.
    “Aye?”
    “Yeah.” She turned it in the light. “I’m not sure what kind. I think it’s a Great Horned Owl, but I didn’t do as well in ornithology as I should have.”
    “Ain’t know the Church teach you birds.”
    “Birds are psychopomps. Especially birds of prey. Especially owls.”
    “Takin souls to the City, meanin?