City of Ghosts by Stacia Kane Page A

Black Squad member, no less, Church law enforcement—using them?
    Soft wings brushed against her face. The air behind Lauren wavered, giving Chess a glimpse of lit torches, of black shapes shifting and turning on their journeys to the City. The birds fluttered around, silent death for the dead, picking at the ghosts who fought them.
    A car door slammed. Her head snapped to the side.
    Terrible strode toward them. Even in the darkness she could see the set of his jaw, the narrow slits of his eyes. Could feel the fury pouring off him in waves.
    Fury aimed at her. For a split second she started to wonder what he was doing there, but she knew. Of course she knew. Bump must own one of the nearby buildings, must have people there. If something went down around Bump’s property, they knew who to call.
    She took an involuntary step back, ghosts, psychopomps, and Lauren forgotten. Dimly she felt the opening between the worlds snap shut, but she didn’t pay attention. Couldn’t look away, because her eyes simply refused no matter how hard she might have wanted to. They traveled up the enormous length of him, all the way to the scarred, harsh-boned face. Once she’d thought he was ugly; he still was ugly, she supposed. She just didn’t give a shit. He was who he was, and her heart fluttered in her chest and wouldn’t stop.
    So much for hoping she’d started to get over him. Or that she’d only imagined what she was feeling, only wanted him because she couldn’t have him. No. She had to squeeze the board behind her, let splinters drive themselves into her skin, to keep from running up and throwing her arms around him. Begging him to forgive her. To kiss her. Shit, what a pussy she was.
    “What the fuck you doin here?”
    Not the greeting she’d been hoping for, especially not shouted like that.
    “I—”
    “Church business,” Lauren interrupted, stepping forward. She shoved her sleeve up, exposing the curling black snake. Oh, fuck. Oh, no.
    Oh, yes. Terrible’s eyes narrowed; he gave Chess the kind of look most people reserved for ax murderers. Ax murderers who killed children. And kittens. She shivered.
    “What is your name?” Lauren continued, leaning down and snatching a pad and pen from her backpack. “And your address? What are you doing here?”
    Terrible stared at her. His big arms moved, folding across his chest and straining the long sleeves of his workshirt. The pose made him look even bigger; the iciness of his expression made him look even deadlier. Chess wondered how he was feeling, whether his wounds had healed. If he was glad to be alive, glad she’d saved him. Wondered if he even knew she’d saved him. Or cared.
    “I asked for your name.”
    He spun around without another word and headed back toward his black ‘69 Chevelle, still growling at an idle in the middle of the lot.
    “Excuse me! You need to—” Lauren reached for Chess, started scrabbling at Chess’s shirt. What the—oh. The gun. Oh, shit, the gun. “Stop right there, buddy, or I will shoot you.”
    “Lauren, you can’t—” She tried to twist away but Lauren found the gun butt and yanked it from her waistband, spun toward the car with the weapon lifted.
    The trigger clicked. Empty. The clip still lay on the ground by Chess’s feet.
    Lauren bent down, grabbed it, but she was too late. Terrible stabbed the gas and spun the wheel, sending the Chevelle roaring in an arc and spraying them with dirt. Its fat tires squealed on the pavement; he swerved around the pig corpses in the middle of the street and disappeared, leaving bloody tracks in his wake.
    Chess hit the ground, hard. Her legs simply refused to support her. Without thinking she reached for her bag, shoved her hand in. She wanted her pills. Wanted to throw whatever she had into her mouth and swallow it, wanted—needed—to float away from this whole bloody scene and dull the pain in her heart. How he’d looked at her—worse than before. So much worse.
    “Who was