Free City of Ghosts by Stacia Kane Page A
Authors: Stacia Kane
retinas; patterns like the ones on her wrist swirled in her brain.
Dimly she felt Terrible leap off her as she writhed on the floor, her body curling and twisting like a salt-covered slug, and felt his big hands lift her. Felt one of them on the side of her face, turning it, patting it. Heard his voice calling her name.
It only lasted a few seconds, maybe ten. They were the longest of her entire life. When she came out of it her cheeks tingled and burned from tears; her entire body shook when she tried to sit up. Terrible’s arm was behind her back, trying to help her, but she couldn’t do it. Her vision spun and popped in front of her, like she was seeing the room through some crazy funhouse lens. She squeezed her eyes back shut and tried to hold on to the water in her stomach.
His free hand moved, lifting her wrist and exposing the underside of it. The skin there still stung, as if she’d been smacked with a wet towel; an itchy, twitchy sort of sting too tender to scratch. Like a healing sunburn, or the first indications she’d gone too long between pills.
“Fuck, Chess,” he said, and she realized she hadn’t heard him say her name in weeks. “The fuck you do?”
His heart pounded against her cheek. Against her cheek … She was in his lap, her legs draped over one of his brawny arms while her ass rested on his thigh and the warm scent of his skin sent a fresh stab of pain—pain that had nothing to do with the fucking Binding—through her chest.
She opened her eyes and caught his, wide with fear, dark with concern. In that one second it was as if nothing had changed—
And it was over. His face hardened; he looked away. Rather than sit there like an idiot staring at him, so did she.
That’s when she saw the blood.
It wasn’t much. Just a few trickles, winding their spidery way down her arm, seeping from the horizontal black scars below her wrists. Oh … shit. Not just pain, then. Blood. A graphic reminder of her oath seeping into the ends of her sleeves.
Was that how the First Elders would kill her if she talked? Open those magically sealed wounds and let her bleed out?
She did not want to find that out for herself. Didn’t even want to think about it, but couldn’t stop. The blood—her blood—transfixed her; now that the pain had faded, all she could do was stare as one lone drop fell from her arm to Bump’s red shag pile.
Terrible lifted her enough to set her on the couch and got up. She heard drawers opening, paper rustling; he came and sat down next to her with some alcohol pads and a couple of Band-Aids.
She started to fold her arms, then thought better of it. “No.”
“Ain’t can leave that shit open,” he mumbled.
“No, it’s not—It won’t help.” She dared to look at him; he was totally absorbed in playing with the little alcohol wipe packet, and pale around the eyes. She could only imagine what he must have been thinking. Having her freak out like that couldn’t have been pleasant. Even Bump looked shaken, at least as shaken as it was possible for Bump to look. The knuckles he wrapped around the tip of his cane were whiter than usual.
“They’re Binding marks.” She waited for the shocking pain to come again, braced herself for it. When it didn’t come she continued. “They’re why I can’t talk about what I was doing. I’m Bound from it.”
Bump’s head tilted back. “You ain’t give Bump the tell then, causen them Church ain’t give you the fuckin yay.”
“Right. I can’t. It’ll—well, you saw. And that’s just a warning.”
Silence. Okay, well, they both knew she couldn’t talk, and knew why, but she had the distinct feeling the matter wasn’t going to drop there. Maybe if she tried something else? A little different wording?
“It’s not about you.” Another shot of pain raced through her bloodstream, but not so bad this time. Certainly not like what it had been a few minutes before. Okay. She was starting to get a feel for this thing now,
Dimly she felt Terrible leap off her as she writhed on the floor, her body curling and twisting like a salt-covered slug, and felt his big hands lift her. Felt one of them on the side of her face, turning it, patting it. Heard his voice calling her name.
It only lasted a few seconds, maybe ten. They were the longest of her entire life. When she came out of it her cheeks tingled and burned from tears; her entire body shook when she tried to sit up. Terrible’s arm was behind her back, trying to help her, but she couldn’t do it. Her vision spun and popped in front of her, like she was seeing the room through some crazy funhouse lens. She squeezed her eyes back shut and tried to hold on to the water in her stomach.
His free hand moved, lifting her wrist and exposing the underside of it. The skin there still stung, as if she’d been smacked with a wet towel; an itchy, twitchy sort of sting too tender to scratch. Like a healing sunburn, or the first indications she’d gone too long between pills.
“Fuck, Chess,” he said, and she realized she hadn’t heard him say her name in weeks. “The fuck you do?”
His heart pounded against her cheek. Against her cheek … She was in his lap, her legs draped over one of his brawny arms while her ass rested on his thigh and the warm scent of his skin sent a fresh stab of pain—pain that had nothing to do with the fucking Binding—through her chest.
She opened her eyes and caught his, wide with fear, dark with concern. In that one second it was as if nothing had changed—
And it was over. His face hardened; he looked away. Rather than sit there like an idiot staring at him, so did she.
That’s when she saw the blood.
It wasn’t much. Just a few trickles, winding their spidery way down her arm, seeping from the horizontal black scars below her wrists. Oh … shit. Not just pain, then. Blood. A graphic reminder of her oath seeping into the ends of her sleeves.
Was that how the First Elders would kill her if she talked? Open those magically sealed wounds and let her bleed out?
She did not want to find that out for herself. Didn’t even want to think about it, but couldn’t stop. The blood—her blood—transfixed her; now that the pain had faded, all she could do was stare as one lone drop fell from her arm to Bump’s red shag pile.
Terrible lifted her enough to set her on the couch and got up. She heard drawers opening, paper rustling; he came and sat down next to her with some alcohol pads and a couple of Band-Aids.
She started to fold her arms, then thought better of it. “No.”
“Ain’t can leave that shit open,” he mumbled.
“No, it’s not—It won’t help.” She dared to look at him; he was totally absorbed in playing with the little alcohol wipe packet, and pale around the eyes. She could only imagine what he must have been thinking. Having her freak out like that couldn’t have been pleasant. Even Bump looked shaken, at least as shaken as it was possible for Bump to look. The knuckles he wrapped around the tip of his cane were whiter than usual.
“They’re Binding marks.” She waited for the shocking pain to come again, braced herself for it. When it didn’t come she continued. “They’re why I can’t talk about what I was doing. I’m Bound from it.”
Bump’s head tilted back. “You ain’t give Bump the tell then, causen them Church ain’t give you the fuckin yay.”
“Right. I can’t. It’ll—well, you saw. And that’s just a warning.”
Silence. Okay, well, they both knew she couldn’t talk, and knew why, but she had the distinct feeling the matter wasn’t going to drop there. Maybe if she tried something else? A little different wording?
“It’s not about you.” Another shot of pain raced through her bloodstream, but not so bad this time. Certainly not like what it had been a few minutes before. Okay. She was starting to get a feel for this thing now,