Black London 05 - Soul Trade

slithered over her hands, across all of her bare skin. It felt likethe slick underbellies of dirt-dwelling things, smelled like leaf rot and mildew. She held on, gripping the frame of the window, small pearls of leftover glass slicing her palm. The hex groaned in pleasure at her blood, and the power covered her, trying to find ingress via her eyes and mouth.
    She’d only done this once before, with a hex designed to kill rather than merely shoo away, but backthen she’d had the advantage of being a complete bloody idiot with no idea that using her talent to siphon something so powerful could kill her.
    Now, she was aware with every atom of her being as the Weir woke up, snarling and hungry, feeding on the slippery marsh magic of the hex. It fed with an alacrity that alarmed even Pete, and she felt the Black flow into her as if she were completely hollow,only a vessel.
    Which she would be, if the Weir had its way.
    Pete was aware of Jack shouting, but she couldn’t understand the words. She pulled the hex to her and refused to let go, even when it began to struggle.
    The rush hit as the hex withered and died, the euphoric high of pulling in power not her own. Just as quickly the sick burning developed in Pete’s guts, the knowledge that her mereflesh could not contain a carefully woven spell.
    She screamed and dropped to her knees, the thorns cutting at her. The pain brought her back, let her expel the magic of the hex and feel it dissipate. Only frayed ends of the spell were left now, nothing that could hurt them.
    When she came back to herself, she was looking up at scaly rainclouds and the glow of the hidden moon. Jack stood overher, hands gripping her coat, face pale as a corpse. “I’m all right,” she said. Her voice came out choked and raspy. That fit—she felt as if someone had wrung her neck, shaken her, and dropped her to the ground.
    “Are you crazy?” Jack demanded. “I mean, are you completely off your nut? You could have really hurt yourself.”
    Pete let herself be still for a moment. She ached like she’d run miles,but that was usual. Her scratches stung in the cold, wet air, but other than her cut palm and the redoubled ache in her arm from Mickey Martin’s attack, she was in one piece, and that was about the best one could hope for.
    “I’m all right,” she said again.
    “Stupid,” Jack said. His expression hurt Pete more than the slight. It was the one he reserved for people he thought beneath him, who weren’tclever enough to circumvent anything that hurt or was unpleasant.
    “What else are we supposed to do?” Pete asked, standing up. All around her, the rosebushes hung black and ashy, flowers reduced to nubs. The ground itself was dead, the grass and dirt ravaged from the magic that had flowed back into the ground.
    Jack glared at her, but he didn’t have an answer. Pete waved him off. “Just stand back.”

    She put her boot against the deadbolt, gauging the distance. She didn’t want to kick in the door itself, but the doorjamb. Bust apart the housing of the lock, and even the strongest door wouldn’t have anything to hold it shut. The trick was hitting right, and not breaking your foot off in the process.
    Pete took a breath, willing herself to stay upright, and drove her boot into the apex of thedoor and the jamb. The wood splintered, and another kick dislodged the door entirely. Musty air breathed out, air that hadn’t touched the outside in months, coated with the faint, sweet odor of decomposition. The hair on the back of Pete’s neck, trained by a hundred crime scenes, prickled as she stepped inside.
    “Fuck me,” Jack said, voice echoing in the empty room. “Smells like something crawledup a bum’s arse and died.”
    Pete shushed him with a gesture. There were times—not many—when she missed her pistol, and this was one of them. Not that bullets were much use against demons. She could punch holes in their host body, but she couldn’t kill a demon. Not unless she burned them from the inside out with pure magic, and that could just as easily kill you as them.
    Inside the Killigans’home, things were bare and dusty. A few spare pieces of furniture were shoved in one corner of the sitting room. The kitchen held only a table and a single chair, and dishes rimed with spoiled food were piled on every surface. The drone of flies hung heavy in the room, even in the chill of the darkened house.
    Trying not to breathe too deeply of the stench, Pete moved on to a