“Don’t equivocate, fornicator. Swear.”
Oona was tugging at his arm once more, while Chilicothe grinned both their ways over Love’s dusty shoulder. Around them, the retreating rows of devotees sat frozen as ever in their cabinets, seemingly unaware of what further hell might be about to rain down. Then again, Chess guessed, they were probably used to blocking such distractions out; so engrossed were they in chasing after their penance, they were determined to let nothing intrude. Love had been one of their number, but he’d broken his vows — put out a hand to help Chess, help Oona. Now he was back to square one, on their account.
“I swear,” Chess told him, voice gone dry, as understanding of what Love had given up on his and Oona’s behalf made something at his vision’s limits pulse and throb. Feeling it deep-set, whatever it might be and no matter how little he wanted to; unable to ignore it, as he once would have, without thinking twice.
Because I’ve changed too, I s’pose. Little as I ever wanted to.
“Then go; take your dam. I will block their way, so long as God allows me.”
Love spread his arms, and when he spoke again, his growl held a thunder beyond anything Ash Rook had ever produced. “How is the faithful city become an harlot! it was full of judgement; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers!” More stone fell from the edges of the breach. Chilicothe leaned into the words as into a harsh wind; behind him, the rest of the Dead Posse screamed, imprecations dissolving into one frustrated wail, over which the blast of Love’s voice lifted like a cyclone. “Therefore saieth the LORD, the LORD of hosts, the mighty One of Israel, ‘Ah, I will ease me of mine adversaries, and avenge me of mine enemies’!”
Oona grabbed Chess’s shoulder and shrieked something at him which he couldn’t hear; didn’t take much thought to guess the meaning, though. He nodded, scrambling back as Love threw the weight of his voice against the Posse, holding them out.
“Are you not ashamed of these oaks ye have desired?” Love bellowed at them, over the tumult. “Are you not confounded by this, your chosen garden? Vengeance is God’s alone, lost souls!”
But despite initial balking, those set against him had rallied already, their din only growing louder, as they listened. So, turning tail — and God Almighty, was he ever getti
ng sick of that particular manoeuvre — Chess broke into a lope, chasing after Oona while she scarpered up the passageway, away from the breach.
The ’Hold’s corridor turned, crossed over another (equally endless, from what Chess could glimpse), then another, and so on. Every wall stood studded with alcoves, figures hung blind and motionless, faces abstract as masks, like those paintings on arroyo cave walls he’d rode under; the smooth-polished stone itself gave back their pursuers’ racket, shaking each coffin-cabinet visibly, without ever once rousing those pinned inside.
As they chose turn after turn at random, none leading anywhere useful, Oona cursed. “Place is a maze, worse’n bloody Whitechapel! Christ, to get all this way and stopped here — ”
“Some damn navigator you are! What happened, you lose track of that thread you been clingin’ to all this time?”
“We’re in it!” Oona screamed back, waving at the walls. “Woven into this ’ole place, it is — warp and woof! Can’t even see a direction to it, now — like this ’ere ain’t even part of the rest of things, like — ”
She stopped; but the same thought had occurred to Chess, wildfire sparking from mind to mind: Like maybe we’re already outside. Chess turned to the wall and, without even taking a second to think or doubt, punched it as hard as he could. It shattered under his fist, no more substantial than hollow plaster, powdering away — yet nothing emerged; no crack, nothing beyond. His hand sunk deeper on the next few punches, to wrist, to elbow, ’til he reared back, and started kicking.
Ankle. Calf. Fucking . . . knee, Goddamnit. Like sinking into custard, or quicksand.
Not enough.
“Gettin’ closer — we want t’leg it, so’s we don’t end up trapped!” Oona yelled, from behind. “Come on, you bloody tosser! ’Ow many times you need t’go at it, ’fore you figure out you’re done?”
“Speak for yourself, woman! I done enough running for today — don’t aim to do more, if I can help it.”
“Fine words. ’Cept you can’t, can ya?”
Chess pivoted, locking eyes with her — green to green, equally sharp,. “Well, if you want it to go faster, maybe you should put your own shoulder to the wheel, ’stead’a just standin’ there yapping!”
Scoffing: “Oh, cert. As though that’d do anyfing — ”
“Just help me, Ma, for the love of Christ Almighty! Thought you said you was a hex!”
He’d shouted it without forethought, almost in her face. And while the shame of showing such weakness swept him in a stove-blast, it still gave him a pleasurable little twist to see her wince, almost taken aback . . . hell, was that shame of a sort he saw echoing through her as well, disguised though it might be?
Whoever would’ve thought such a thing likely to happen, in Hell, or out of it?
I’ve asked you for so little, he thought, knowing it for simple truth. Less and less, as time went on; nothin’, after a point, if I could help it. And you — fact is, you owe me this. At the very least.
“English” Oona shook her head, as if trying to block the knowledge out; raked her hair back with both hands, eyes shut, letting Chess’s coat gap immodestly. Then hissed yet again, and shouldered her way in under his arm, knitting one hand in his: so small, yet so damn strong, too. Five fingers knit with five, to make a fist of ten.
“Let’s do it, then,” she said.
Two turns back, or maybe only one, the Dead Posse swept on, bellowing its hatred. But Chess Pargeter and his mother’s ghost struck hard together, up to the shoulder, backs wrenching — threw their free hands up at the same time, clawed spade-like, to tear great chunks of apparently solid granite away like old sugar, collapsing a support column they hadn’t known was there. The aftershock rippled from floor to ceiling; dusty plumes kicked up, making Chess’s eyes water. And through that haze, that widening crevice, he became almost positive that — the more he blinked — he could almost glimpse a dim array of stars shining down.
“Keep goin’,” he told her; Oona panted, and did. Once more. Twice. Dust like a storm. Feeling his own marrow shiver, arm all one ache, and knowing it must be twice as bad for her. The thought made him feel bad and good at once, like so much else.