City of Ghosts by Stacia Kane

way to find out, and she was about to get her chance. Her fingers scrabbled in her bag, found her Ectoplasmarker and shoved it into her pocket just as the wraiths dove.
    Lauren screamed and ducked, her gun in one hand. It went off. The bullet shattered the dusty wood behind them and shot splinters at Chess’s head.
    She didn’t have time to think about it or to rub the stinging places on her cheek. A wraith was there in front of her, black lips curling back from the even darker blackness, the emptiness, of its mouth. Its wide-open mouth, stretching, jaw falling farther and farther, her skin screaming at her—
    She threw herself to the side, rolled. Shoved her hand into the bag of filings and grabbed some, whipped her hand back around and flung them at the shadowy form. “Arkrandia bellarum dishager!”
    The wraith twisted out of the way of the full load, but wavered. Beside her Lauren screamed.
    That wasn’t enough. Wasn’t good enough. It would take forever at that rate—time they didn’t have.
    Smoke billowed around them from the firedish and stung her eyes, filled her lungs. An explosion was what she needed, something to fill the air around them with iron. To create a barrier.
    “Lauren! Give me your gun. Give me your gun!”
    It flew at her; she caught it one-handed, pulled it sideways. Gunpowder? There would be some in the bullets, right, enough to make a small explosion? Shit, she didn’t know. Had no idea, really, but it was the best chance she had.
    Lauren was covered in wraiths, all but one of them dancing around her, clinging to her while she writhed on the ground. Chess opened the clip with shaking fingers, pushed bullets out with her thumb. No time to try and open them. Throw them on the firedish, that’s what she would do.
    Six bullets, small and cold in her hand. Hopefully that would be enough. She tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans—not the safest place for it, but she couldn’t chance one of the wraiths grabbing hold of it. It would all be over if they did that. Without weapons they couldn’t do more than steal a little energy. With weapons they could steal lives.
    With her left hand she grabbed more filings, then held both hands over the firedish. No time to count, no time to think about how this probably wouldn’t work. The horrible, cold, sucking energy of the wraiths surrounded her, muddled her thoughts, made her stomach heave and lurch and her brain buzz.
    She emptied her hands onto the fire and threw herself to the ground.
    Nothing.
    Lauren screamed again and flipped onto her stomach, raised herself on all fours. One of the wraiths reached for the firedish, probably to use it as a weapon—
    The firedish exploded. The force of it knocked Chess down. She sucked in a burning lungful of smoke and iron. Flipped over onto her back, pushed herself up in time to see the wraiths separate, the ghosts fall to the ground.
    It had worked. She had no fucking idea how and she didn’t give a damn. It had worked.
    Tires squealed. The red light disappeared. Men shouted. The commotion drew her eyes; she looked away from the wraiths, away from Lauren as her lips started moving, and saw the black sow corpses in a pool of blood in the street, visible now the circle had disappeared. Saw a black muscle car thrust itself into the vacant lot in a cloud of dust, and before her mind even registered it her heart lurched into her throat.
    Her legs shook beneath her but there was no time to think of that, no time to stop. The ghosts were stunned. This was the time to get them, now, while Lauren’s voice rose, calling her psychopomp.
    For the second time that night Chess found herself inventing passports for ghosts with no time to think or plan. She scrawled circles on each of them and finished just as Lauren’s psychopomp came into being.
    Psychopomps, plural. Ravens, sleek and black. What the hell …? Birds weren’t used in Church ritual. They were too unpredictable. So why was a Church employee—a