The Downside Ghosts Series Books 1-3: Unholy Ghosts, Unholy Magic, City of Ghosts. Stacia Kane
a waste of time, and she knew it. Something very well could have been planted at Chester, but it wasn’t in here.
“That dude last night, he yours?”
“Huh?”
“Mr. Clean you left the show with.”
“Doyle? No. Just a guy I work with. How was the show, anyway?”
Terrible grinned. “Dusters always put on a good one.”
“I wish I’d stayed.”
He lifted his chin in a half-nod. “Missed out, you did.”
She rounded the remains of the desk and crouched down. A few drawers remained intact, near the top. Chess steeled herself to open them. Mice liked to nest in places like this, mice and rats and spiders, none of which she enjoyed encountering.
“Amy seems nice,” she lied, looking for something to say as she slid open the top drawer.
“She aright.”
“Been seeing her long?”
He shrugged.
The drawer was empty. Chess opened the others, finding nothing but dust and dead bugs. Their dry carcasses reminded her horribly of the worms in her hand, and she shut the drawers harder than she’d planned. The last one cracked under the strain and her fist almost went through it.
“Okay, well, I don’t see anything in here, so let’s look outside, okay?”
“Your show.”
The air outside seemed sweet after the dry rot of the terminal. Her nose itched as she handed him another little camera and told him how to attach it to the outside of the building, just under the roof. He didn’t need a ladder to do it.
A few feet from the spot where he’d broken the wall to pull her out the other night was an old well and pump. Shit. “Um … you didn’t happen to bring any rope, did you?”
“How much?”
“Enough to lower me down that well so I can see if there’s anything down there.”
“Like electrics and all?”
She nodded.
“Damn, Chess, you really wanna go down there?”
“Afraid you won’t be strong enough to keep me from falling?”
His teeth showed in a grin. “Shit. You must joke.”
“Of course I’m joking. Do you have rope or not?”
“Could be I do. Wait here.”
He headed off back toward his car, while Chess poked around in the grass some more, always ready for that awful coldness to start creeping up her legs again. At night Chester was like a black hole in the city, devoid of life. Who’s to say more rituals hadn’t taken place out here? Anywhere you found empty spaces you found illegal witchcraft. People did their legitimate rituals at home—money charms, luck spells, easy things that didn’t require power or talent. And the Church encouraged it, because when people saw the results of their insignificant spells, their tiny manipulations of energy, it reinforced the Church’s Truth; gods did not exist. Magic did. And the Church was the gateway to magic.
Terrible returned in a few minutes, holding a thick roll of fibrous tan rope over his shoulder, which he uncoiled and laid on the ground.
“This long enough?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Grateful that she’d worn long sleeves, she wrapped the rope under her armpits just above her breasts and tied it in a secure knot. The rope was flecked with brownish stains in spots. She didn’t want to think about what it had been used for last, or, for that matter, why Terrible carried rope around in his trunk. His work was his business.
Finally she had the knot adjusted. From her bag she pulled her flashlight, and switched it on while Terrible wrapped the free end of the rope around his hands. The leads of her electric meter dangled from her pocket.
“Okay. If I get too heavy, pull me up—”
“You don’t weigh nothing,” he scoffed.
“Okay, I don’t weigh nothing, but nothing can get a lot heavier when it’s dangling at the end of a thin rope. Please, Terrible. I really don’t want to fall, so if you think I’m getting too heavy, let me know and bring me back up, okay?”
He nodded.
“And please watch the rope, in case it starts to fray or something.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just … please?” The mouth of the well gaped in the ground beside her like an entryway to Hell. Hell didn’t technically exist, but the City did, and Chess did not want to be underground again. Not after what happened the day before, not ever. Panic rose in her chest and she focused her gaze on Terrible, taking what comfort she could from his steady gaze and bulging muscles, from the way the rope tangled around his big hard hands.
He nodded. “No worryin.”
She sighed. “Okay, then. Thanks. Let’s see what I find.”
She crouched down at the lip of the well and let her legs slip down inside it. If praying were permitted, she’d certainly be doing it now.
“That of all magics which can be done, the use of the human soul in magic is the most serious, and is thus forbidden save to those of the Church.”
—The Book of Truth, Laws, Article 79
The ground swallowed her, leaving her dangling in the coppery-scented dimness until she grabbed her flashlight and tilted it so it illuminated the stones. The meter in her pocket remained still, no vibrations. No obvious holes jumped out at her, no hiding places seemed immediately apparent. She hadn’t really expected there would be, but she had to look. Even if she would pretend she didn’t see any equipment she found—at least, any equipment that wouldn’t be easily visible. For all she knew, Bump had someone else checking her work. Not a pleasant thought.
“Lower,” she said, and Terrible obliged, letting out more rope.
The well smelled of water, but when she turned the light down nothing reflected back up at her. It was dry … but very, very deep. There was no way she’d be able to investigate all the way down.
Her right hand slid over the stones, looking for loose ones, while her left aimed the light. The rope hurt and made it hard to breathe, adding to her growing sense of discomfort.
She stayed down for about twenty minutes, dropping as far as the rope allowed, before asking Terrible to bring her back up.
“Nothing,” she said, untying the rope and resisting the urge to massage her aching chest. “Is that the only well here?”
“Naw, got another over there.” He pointed to the far corner. Shit. She should have left the rope on.
They trudged across the empty brownish expanse of weeds and pavement, two figures in black like smears on a painting. Chess started to feel sticky and damp from the unseasonable heat, and vulnerable in the middle of the field.
“You do this many?”
“What?” She almost stumbled on a loose chunk of cement.
“This things. Down the wells, up in the attics …?”
“Sometimes. Not usually underground, no.”
“Right. Churchwitches ain’t like the downs.”
“Right.”
“So best place for hiding, aye? Where nobody wanna