Bone Gods

latter, she hoped he’d let up soon. The pain was causing her to make odd, gasping noises that sounded as if she were drowning. Sooner or later, the curse would kill her nerve endings, and then her ability to breathe, and finally her brain cells, magic dissecting her into so much blood and bone.
    The curse-thrower twitched up his soft gray wool trousers and crouched, cocking his head to look in her face. “Hello, Pete,” he said, and smiled. He had the sort of smile that could stop traffic. If you didn’t know that in his private moments he was a murderer, a sorcerer, and a sadist.
    Pete tried to say Nicholas fucking Naughton , but managed a feeble sort of squeak. Naughton chucked her under the chin. “Don’t get up. I know you’re not being rude.”
    Nicholas Naughton was a necromancer. That made a bit of sense. She’d been looking for a necromancer, hadn’t she? The kind of nasty cunt who’d carve a man up and leave him for the world to see. Nicholas Naughton was precisely that kind of cunt. He’d nearly gotten Jack killed when he’d sent Pete and Jack to put down a poltergeist he’d lost control over. His own brother’s ghost, which he’d tortured to the point of madness.
    “I do love this flat,” Naughton said, straightening up. “It’s a piece of shit, but it’s got excellent bones. I’d shovel out the esoteric crap. Paint it white. Something tasteful yet respectful of the lines.” He passed his hands over the things on the coffee tables—Pete’s laptop, the ashtray, an empty teacup, a snowglobe she’d bought Jack when they drove to Brighton. “Wondering how I got in?” he cocked his eyebrow at Pete. “Wondering how I got here in the first place?”
    He sat on her sofa, arms out, ankle over knee like he sat there every day. “Imagine my surprise when my zombie shambles home and informs me he met a feisty little mage in Coldharbour Lane. A feisty little female mage using Fiach Dubh magic that I was under the impression had died with the last soppy little wanker who tried to throw his weight around and found himself wanting.”
    Fuck you, Pete tried for, but she couldn’t even croak this time. She was at the edge of unconsciousness, and she heard her blood rushing past her ears like a flight of birds, light and feathery as her heartbeat faded.
    “But then I remembered.” Naughton leaned forward and helped himself to a fag from the pack on the table. “That soppy wanker had himself a sweet little lady friend, who’s exactly the sort of persistently nosy bitch who’d be hanging around a dead policeman’s flat. And I found you in no time at all.” He sat back, lit, and drew a cherry on the end of his fag, and all at once Pete felt the curse lift. “You’re looking very well,” Naughton said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Pete stayed still. It wouldn’t do to move too soon. Taking a body-bind curse was like taking a cricket bat to the kidneys—blunt and stunning, until the magic had ebbed. She focused on breathing first, in and out, the sweet, stale air of the flat and Naughton’s cigarette. Moving would come in good time. Naughton wasn’t going to off her straightaway. He’d had his chance when she’d walked in like she was strolling down fucking Oxford Street. He might still torture and kill her, but right now he was going for maximum theatricality. He wanted to frighten her into something, so she had a little time.
    “World’s dangerous these days,” Naughton told her. “Can’t trust a bloody soul. Looks like your friend McCorkle discovered that rather more abruptly than most.” He held out his hand, beckoned with his palm. “I’ll have what you took from his flat.”
    “Fuck you,” Pete said. It came out quite loud that time.
    Naughton set his fag down with precision on the edge of the ashtray, and then walked up to Pete and kicked her hard, once, in the stomach. “Don’t think you fool me,” he said, patting her down efficiently and finding the bag. “You’re so scared your poor little breast is heaving.” He sat back on his heels, unrolled the crumpled plastic, and dropped the object wrapped in red thread into his palm.
    Feathers and a bundle of black herb protruded, and Pete felt a thin spike find purchase behind her eyes, just a flit of power, a solar flare that died quickly as it rose.
    “Not much juice left in it,” Naughton said. “Still, would be awkward if the police put it in one of those neat little baggies and eventually, by dint of