City of Ghosts by Stacia Kane Page B

that?”
    Oh, right. The pillbox fell back into her bag. Lauren was there. Probably not a good idea to pill herself into oblivion with a fellow Church employee—one who outranked her and was the Grand Elder’s daughter to boot—standing right there watching. Damn it.
    “I don’t know.”
    Lauren’s eyes narrowed. She still held the gun; for a second Chess thought the woman was actually going to raise it again.
    Then it passed. “It looked like he knew you.”
    Chess shrugged. The less said the better. Deny everything—the first rule of survival.
    “So that’s it. You don’t know who he is or why he was here.”
    “No.”
    Movement in the intersection drew both their eyes; Chess silently thanked whatever luck had finally decided to pat her on the head. One of the witches, still alive after Terrible had bolted through the circle and apparently run them down. Must have been interesting, being forced from wraith form back into one’s body and then plowed into by several tons of BT steel. Well, good. She hoped the bastard suffered.
    Her legs felt rubbery beneath her as she followed Lauren to the fallen body. What a mess. Blood ran everywhere from the sacrificed sows. Black ones, illegal to breed or own. The blood of a black sow—that was some heavy dark magic indeed. As they’d just witnessed.
    Charmarks outlined where the circle had been. The inside was full of blood, tacky under their feet. Menace vibrated up her legs. She stepped over the bodies of two other witches, barely glancing at them. This could be a trick. With her right hand she touched the handle of her knife, tucked into her pocket. Lauren would probably freak if she realized Chess was armed, but better that than dead.
    The witch moaned again, writhing in his blood-soaked robe. His robe with the Lamaru symbol on the front.
    “They must have been watching,” Lauren said. She tugged a bright pink cell phone out of her backpack. “Waiting for us to show up.”
    Gee, you think so? Chess thought, but said nothing. Lauren had handled herself pretty well during the attack; even if she hadn’t, and if she didn’t outrank Chess, there was the little matter of pretending she didn’t know Terrible or why he was there. Best not to bring Lauren’s thoughts back onto her, not when there was a convenient injured Lamaru witch right there to take the weight.
    Lauren nudged him with her toe, pressed a button on the phone. “We need a wagon. Yes. Yes. Corner of Fifty-fifth and Brand. Yes, Downside. Yes, you will. What do you want me to do, put him in my car? Get your ass down here.”
    She snapped the phone shut. “They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile …” She nudged him with her toe again. “Hey. Hey, you. What did you think you were doing down here?”
    The Lamaru witch moaned again. Lauren’s mouth twisted. “I asked you a question.”
    “Lauren, maybe he’s not—”
    Lauren glared at her. “He’ll talk.”
    “Why don’t we see if he has ID or something first? You know, what we can find out on our own?”
    Chess didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to dig her hands into his bloody pockets, to make contact with the evil hovering over him like a cloud of locusts.
    But she did. The sigil on her forehead blazed on her skin, the wards in her tattoos ringing like fire alarms. She jerked away. “He’s Hosting.”
    “What?”
    “Look.” She forced herself to touch him again, ignoring the stinging sensation, and tilted his head so Lauren could see the silvery cast of his one open eye. Blood clung to her hands, made it hard to breathe.
    Lauren loomed over her, leaning to peer down at him. “How the hell did his Bindmate escape my psychopomps? Shit. Let me call them back and let them know.”
    “Sure, I can Bind him down on my own,” Chess muttered. Luckily the supplies she’d grabbed earlier were still within easy reach in her bag; she dusted the broken Lamaru with asafetida and graveyard dirt, added a little salt and power to keep whatever he had