Free Unholy Ghosts by Stacia Kane Page B

tulip. You have that.”
He tossed the pill to her like a bread crust to a duck. Not picking it up was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
“Aw, you think we give you poison?” She might have appreciated the smile he gave her if she hadn’t been about to burst into tears. He wrapped his fingers around the top of the bag, shook it up, and plucked a pill out of it. She watched it disappear into his mouth, watched him wash it down. “No poison. True thing, tulip. Take it.”
She wanted to be cool, but coolness was impossible in the face of her screaming, throbbing body. The words were barely out of his mouth before she snatched the pill up from the folds of the quilt and gobbled it, grinding it between her teeth, turning it into a slick, bitter paste on her tongue.
Without a word he passed her the water, and she gulped it down. Some of the tightness in her chest eased.
“Ready to talk now?” He held out his hand, flat and open. Another Cept rested in the middle of his palm.
She took it, crunched it, washed it down. “Depends on what you want to talk about.”
“What you suppose I want to talk about?”
“You think you have a ghost?”
His thin lips stretched into a smile. “Not bad, tulip, not bad. Tougher than you look.”
“Why do you keep calling me tulip?”
“Ain’t that the tattoo?”
“No, these are—you asshole.”
She did have a tulip tattoo. Low on her stomach, just above the juncture of thigh and groin. Which her pants covered.
He shrugged. “Some dames hide weapons, aye?”
“So you had to strip-search me to make sure I wasn’t?”
“I don’t strip you, nay. Not me. Not the men. My sister Blue, she done the job.”
Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to thank him.
The knock at the door startled her. Lex turned. “Aye?”
“Seven.”
“Right.” He looked back at her. “Hungry?”
“What?” The shakes were only just starting to fade, how could she be hungry?
“I gotta be somewhere, have a talk to someone. Jarkman show you the bathroom, got a good strong waterfall. Then we talk.”
“What the hell is going on? Those goons kidnapped me and threw me in here, then you show up and taunt me, now you want me to have a nice hot shower and some food? Are you insane? Seriously.”
He shrugged. “Don’t suppose so, nay. You stay here if you like it. But you don’t leave this house until we talk. Your choice.”
    Chapter Eight

    “Crimes of morality are a betrayal of yourself, your family, and the Church. And because of this, betrayal itself is the most serious of moral crimes.”
    — The Book of Truth , Laws, Article 75

    The shower was good, she had to admit. By the time she got out she felt almost normal again.
Obviously they hadn’t brought her here to kill her, unless this was part of some ritual she didn’t understand. But why they would want to talk to her—what possible reason Slobag or any of his men would have for bringing her here—she had no idea.
The Asians hated the Church and anything or anyone who worked for it, as a rule. Since so much of their old religions were based on venerating the spirits of their ancestors—despite the fact that those same ancestors rose from the grave and killed them, just as they had everywhere else in the world—she couldn’t really blame them, but it did mean that when she emerged from the bathroom and put her clothes back on, her hands shook a little. The clothes weren’t clean, but it was better than not having showered at all.
The room adjoining the bathroom was undecorated, almost ware house like in its barrenness. A small, hard bed hugged one wall, covered with a plain blue blanket. A cold TV sat on the floor opposite. Its blank screen watched her like an unblinking eye as she crossed to the window and looked out at the city. She’d never spent much time down here, so close to where Downside gave way to the Metro District. Farther beyond that the suburbs glinted like fool’s gold as the hills rose to the misty darkening sky.
She assumed