Free The Stringer by Jeff Somers Page A

until it was bloated, lengthy, convoluted. Until it looked like the major spell Lugal demanded, until it looked like a ritual that would rip shit up.
    I sliced the Bleeder’s arm, deep, a suicide cut. Lugal knew human anatomy, at least. And when it turned inward again and crushed me with agony, compressing me until I barely existed, I barfed up my masterpiece, the greatest grift I’d ever managed, and spoke the spell.
    â€œBLEED,” FALLON SNAPPED.
    Hiram drew himself up, summoning his dignity. It was undercut by the way his suspenders strained over his belly. “You are mistaken, sir. I am ustari and—”
    Fallon turned and snarled at him. “Your urtuku is in grave danger, you fat little toad. You will bleed .”
    I witnessed Hiram Bosch, whom I’d seen go crimson in anger many times, turn white as a sheet, and it was strangely satisfying—and confirmation that Evelyn Fallon was someone to be feared. If I hadn’t been hanging on to control of my own body by a fingernail, I would have savored the moment more.
    â€œVery well,” Hiram said stiffly, producing his ornate straight razor. “What is the volume?”
    Fallon turned back to me. “What is its name, Vonnegan?”
    I struggled to assert control over my voice, my mouth. It was disconcerting. I lived by my voice, by the Words. Being unsure of that voice left me weak, helpless. For some reason, speaking the demon’s name was easier. I was reminded of cheery old Balahul, who seemed fond of its own name, too. “Lugal.”
    â€œLugal,” Fallon repeated, closing his eyes. “Ah yes, a nasty piece. Master , it means literally, ideal for a Stringer. Tell me: How have you asserted control?”
    I licked my lips. The demon was like a bowling ball sewn inside my head; there wasn’t room for anything like thoughts. I had to string together a regular sentence as if I were casting, choosing each word as if it were a Word, as if every syllable had consequence. It was like being brain-damaged.
    â€œIt wanted . . . spell,” I said, breathing hard, my body tense with effort. “I . . . tricked. Froze it in . . . moment.”
    Fallon’s smile was papery. “Clever,” he said, then sobered. “It will not last. Lugal was fooled by its own disdain—the stronger intelligences believe us to be little more than chattel to be run under their wheels. But it is powerful, and you can already feel it slipping your bonds, yes?”
    I nodded. Words were too difficult.
    Fallon pursed his lips. “A pint, Bosch. Perhaps a bit more. On my mark.”
    Enustari were used to people bleeding for them. Someone like Fallon had a casual expectancy that when they needed gas in the air, there would be gas in the air.
    â€œMageshkumar,” Hiram said, sounding relieved. “He’s—”
    â€œYou,” Fallon said quietly. “ You will bleed.”
    Hiram shut up. My gasam was learning his true place in the world. That sort of thing was never pretty. Ustari varied just like other people: You had smart ones, dumb ones, funny ones, thin ones, fat ones, tall and short ones, but none of us were nice. You can’t rely on killing people for the things you want and be nice, and we as a class killed everyone . We are not good people.
    â€œMr. Vonnegan,” Fallon said as the sweet sour sense of gas hit the air, the most wonderful feeling of nausea. Hiram was surprisingly robust. “It will resist me. This will not be pleasant .” He began speaking the Words of a spell I’d never heard. Five Words in, and Lugal kicked, sensing that someone was trying to evict it, and my veins lit on fire.
    I screamed.
    With a crash, the bathroom door was knocked inward, shoving a woozy Hiram aside as Mags leaped into the room, face red, fists clenched. “ Lem! ”
    My pet Mags, ready to rip the claw-foot tub from the floor and start swinging it around