Unfolded, in a gust of freezing wind; clapped shut: whoosh-crack! Whoosh-craaack!
He had heard this before: in a Tampico hotel room, heralding Rook’s appearance in the mirror before Morrow went in to face Chess. But no, even further back still—that shuttery pounding, a massive wood-slat heartbeat keeping time all the way up from Mictlan-Xibalba, dragging what he’d thought was Chess’s denuded corpse up through that endless tunnel, the cold, wet, impossible dark.
Aghast, Morrow suddenly realized why the feel of the power boiling off this thing was so familiar. He twisted to stare back at Chess. “Rook wanted to make you into . . . into that?”
Partly only, little meat-thing, to both your benefits. The Enemy gestured at Chess. For this is the aspect of mine which loves to breed, to grow, to make things rise out of life and death alike. It loves, as well as hungers. It kills, but with a smile. Everything yearns for its embrace.
An almost diffident stroke along Morrow’s instep made him jerk, provoking a squawk. Under cover of the Enemy’s presence, the Weed had inched its stealthy way back toward the object of its adoration, now massed ’round him and Chess both to near a foot deep. Noticing almost simultaneously that he was once more surrounded, Chess cried out again, and started dancing, crushing the red blossoms wetly beneath his boot-heels while Morrow whipped his duster left and right.
Insulted, the Weed set up a general hiss. A stray shard of bone raked the back of Morrow’s hand, spraying blood; he cursed it, volubly.
Over Morrow’s shoulder, meanwhile, Chess yelled back, irreverently: “Goddamnit, then—if I’m part’a you, or you me, get off your bony ass and help us! Or was that all bullshit, too?”
The Enemy cocked its head, unmoved. Perhaps . . . I only want to see what you will do.
“Aw, you useless son of a bitch—”
So childishly outraged, so flat-out helpless and just plain fed-up; how young Chess was, after all! More stuck on his own idea of himself than even the Bible-bound Rev had once been, before the drop. And here, as if summoned, came that rumbling voice once more, lapping at Morrow’s inner ear: Spread the Skinless Man’s word, Ed, ’fore perdition takes hold. Tell folks the only way is to . . . let blood. In his name.
Well, Morrow thought, abruptly calm, as he looked down on his spurting cut. No point wasting a perfectly good wound.
Chess was still ranting on, scraping the Weed from arms and shins. “—damn Rook, damn men, Goddamn GODS, you ain’t none of you worth a shit in a sandstorm! Fuck all y’all!”
My power does not yet flow directly into this world, little brother, said the Enemy, grinning horribly. Anything I do will only widen the crack between our worlds further. It widens, even now.
“Well, that ain’t—” Chess spat, bit at a tendril. “—my fault!”
No fault at all, merely fact. How much of this world must die, however, before you allow yourself to care?
“This world’s a shit-pit anyways! So it burns now, or it burns later—what’s the damn difference?”
Morrow laughed, the sound wild and startling enough to silence even Chess’s fury; the pistoleer stared at him, as Morrow turned his way. “No difference at all, right? So why not save it, just for fun? Might as well hang for a sheep as for a lamb, Chess—saviour or destroyer, you’re still Chess fuckin’ Pargeter, so shut this down. While you still can.”
Ah, but nothing comes for nothing, the Enemy pointed out. Were you truly never taught to pray correctly?
I was, at least, thought Morrow grimly. And held out his wounded hand to Chess, canted sidelong, to let the blood flow even more freely.
Chess blinked, bewildered—until he saw the Weed recoil, writhe, twisting toward Morrow as the blood fell upon it, turning brown even as it thirstily drank of the crimson moisture. Some curre
nt of self-destructive desire seemed to ripple through the green strands, up along Chess’s skin and straight into both his eyes; a hot green pulse went thought-quick from iris to iris, the kill-flash’s distant cousin.
Then Chess grabbed Morrow’s hand and fastened his lips to the wound, sucking like a babe at the teat.
The Enemy made a deep, rattling sound, laughter’s furthest cousin. Man’s dew, juiced from bright heart’s fire, it mused, in far too familiar fashion. Aaahhh, precious blood, so flowery. So—
(bbbbeeeaaauuuutiful)
Morrow grimaced. It hurt, but not badly; what was worse was that sense of pulling, like Chess had grabbed a loose thread of his very being, unravelling him compulsively. It couldn’t be hex-power he was gulping at, not from Morrow—something far more vital, perhaps? Less easily renewed?
Or was this stinging, slimy feeling nothing but Morrow’s own fear and disgust writ large, a swarm of insects set crawling on his soul’s tender places?
Weakness invaded him; not fatigue, or blood loss . . . more like dread, or despair. A deep, dizzying urge to crumple up and hide his head, to—
—fall on your knees, lowly dog, grind your own face into the dirt in worship. As is only proper before the Night Wind’s red aspect, He By Whom We Live, We Are His Slaves—
It took everything Morrow had just to stay on his feet. But whatever was being taken, it was working; Chess’s frenzy had faded, the writhing Weed settling to the earth. The two swayed now almost in rhythm, as if equal-drunk on the same thing.
Me, Morrow thought. Drunk on me.