Bone Gods

field of battle she wants you prepared.
    “I…” Pete shook so she could feel her fingertips fluttering against her jeans. No matter how many times it happened, how many of the old creatures of the Black spoke through her talent, it still made her sick and faint. “Why me? Who is it this time?”
    You know, Weir. You’ve seen me, even if you didn’t know me. You’ve been in my charge since the day you found the Black. A child of the crossroads.
    Pete stared into the gold eyes of the owl. She’d never found owls unpleasant, quite the opposite. Their faces and their thin handlike claws were comforting. A small owl had lived in their back garden before Juniper had run off, and MG had painted a whole series of mechanical owls, lit by coal and fire, for her art levels.
    But the eyes—those she’d seen before. The golden eyes of the cu sith , the girl all in white who’d visited Jack just before he’d lost his last fight against Belial. The owl’s eyes weren’t the eyes of a night bird. They burned like novas in outer space, ancient and only now reaching a spectrum of human understanding. “You were with Jack,” Pete said, almost too quiet for her own ears, never mind the owl outside.
    I am the goddess of the gateway , it agreed. The Hecate, the three Fates of your life and every other. And you feel it happening, Weir. How the Black is changing. You feel the poison rising on the tide.
    “Yes…” Pete realized she sounded stoned, high and dreamy. “I feel the tide.” She was cold, couldn’t feel her fingers or face any longer, as if she were losing blood from a mortal wound. An insidious presence, the source of the cold, suggested the voice of the owl was right. The Black had always been a dangerous place for those like her, but now it was different. Necromancers were working spells in the open, murdering people without pause. Demons were snatching souls out of the air like a hawk strikes a dove. The dead were restless and awake. Jack was locked in the vaults of Hell. “Yes,” Pete said again, still echoing in her own ears as if she’d chased a handful of Vicodin with a cup of absinthe. “I feel the tide.” She couldn’t move, couldn’t even try to force a scream as the Hecate’s voice and cold, bloodless presence filled the reservoirs of her talent and held her in thrall like the worst of the old silver screen vampires.
    You must do what is required, Weir. Before the tide drowns all things, you must do what you were born to. Keep the seasons turning. The dead resting. The gateways impassable. If the gateways fall, the sea rushes in. This, you must never allow.
    “What…” Pete swallowed, throat thick and her air slow. “What do you ask of me?” she mumbled at the owl, even though what she really wanted to do was chuck an especially heavy grimoire at the bloody thing and drop it in a heap down into the alley for attacking her with her own talent.
    The owl spread its wings for balance, never blinking its gold eyes as it stared through her. What has always been your born task, Weir. Kill the crow-mage. Stop the Hag.
    “I don’t understand…” Pete started, but in a flash of silver feathers the owl took flight.
    You will.
    Pete came back to her own body as if she’d been thrown, going off balance and sitting down hard, her ankle twisting under her. “Ow!” she shouted. “Fuck me!”
    The window ledge was empty. The light in the chandelier was buzzing happily on. Her Parliament had gone to ash in the tray, and her ankle throbbed like a small, determined rodent was gnawing it for sustenance. Pete put her hands on her face, still numb as her skull throbbed with residual power. She was chilled and damp, as if she’d just stood in a rain. She let herself be still for a moment, just feel the floor under her and the warmth returning to her skin.
    The Hecate visiting her and smothering her in her own power certainly meant it was a serious matter, but as far as Pete was concerned she could jam her head straight up her own arse. Jack was already dead, and she had more important things to do. Like find out who’d killed a man whom everyone he knew had a reason to want dead.
    She stood and hobbled to the sofa, where she opened the record cabinet and had her drink after all. A visit from a creature as old as the stones of the world warranted it. Pete toasted the empty window with Jack’s whiskey. “Sod you,” she told the Hecate, and drank the glass down in one go.

CHAPTER 7
    Pete couldn’t