Bone Gods

the thin gleam of light making it up to their head through the crack of their arse, discovered what this little beauty is for.” He retreated, picked up his fag again.
    Pete tried putting a little weight on her arms and found she could sit up, though everything swam into trim more slowly than she had. No heroic kung fu moves, then. “You knew McCorkle?”
    “Only as a thief and a brigand,” said Naughton, tossing the little bundle in his hand.
    “Jesus Christ, who says brigand anymore?” Pete said. She drew her legs under her, pulled herself to sit on the low table, and got her own fag. Kept everything slow and easy, not because she didn’t want Naughton getting the wrong idea but because she still felt as if she might pitch face-first into the carpet if she went too quickly.
    “Freddy McCorkle bought something from Gerard Carver, something that belonged to me,” Naughton said. “He was as dirty as a fucking ha’penny whore’s twat, a bent copper, whatever you want to say. You think it’s fate he attached himself to Ollie Heath like a barnacle? With Heath comes you, dear Petunia, and occult artifacts would have bought Mr. McCorkle a lovely terrace in Highgate to live out his days.”
    “You kill him?” Pete dragged. Breathed. Watched Naughton’s every twitch.
    “I planted the seed,” Naughton said. He tapped the bundle once against Pete’s nose. “It’s just a bit of hoodoo magic, whispers in your ear, makes you think perhaps this life is a bit too much to take.” He shoved the thing into his pocket. “Peasant shit, but I thought I was rather clever. And before you ask, I had no direct hand in the untimely death of Gerard fucking Carver.”
    “Wasn’t going to ask that,” Pete said. “Just wondering if you were going to be leaving any time soon, or should I call for some takeaway?”
    “Did the police find something in McCorkle’s flat?” Naughton asked.
    “They found a lot of somethings,” Pete said. “Mainly blood, from where poor Freddy decided to carve himself a new smile with a bread knife.” She stubbed her fag out, put weight on the balls of her feet. She could be up and moving if she had to, and that would have to be good enough. “You wouldn’t be thinking of a Babylonian funerary tablet, would you? The kind Carver was nicking from the museum?”
    Naughton clapped his hands together. “Oh, very good. Always the detective, even when she’s not. No, my dear. That was not precisely what I meant. But I do thank you for not stalling and trying for doelike innocence. I’d hate to have to take a hand to that sweet little face.”
    “I’d hate to see you after you tried,” Pete said. “Anything else?”
    “We’re finished, I think,” Naughton said. “Obligatory advice: Stop poking at my business. Gerard got exactly what was coming to him. Next time, it won’t be one lousy zombie.”
    “I’m not scared of you,” Pete told him. She waved the pack of Parliaments at him. “You owe me fags. And a new protection hex.”
    “Get somebody who halfway knows what they’re doing in next time,” Naughton said. “That one was a bit embarrassing.”
    “Leave,” Pete told him. “You can come in any time you want, I’m not safe in my own home. Point fucking made. Kindly let me be.”
    Naughton picked up his leather coat and slid into it like a snake retaking its skin, broad shoulders flexing under oily black. “Just this, Petunia: You’re quick and brave and all the things a Weir should be, but when it comes right down to it, you’re a receptacle for mages. Not even a magical pussy, or any sort of that feminist claptrap. A rubber lying in the gutter. You catch the leavings of magic. And your mage is dead, and the Black isn’t the place of heroes and cowboys any longer.” He opened her door and fished a pair of sunglasses from his coat. “Don’t push me. I’ll fucking gut you.”
    Pete didn’t move for ten minutes after the door shut, and when she did, all of her blood equalized with a feeling like plunging off the first drop in a roller coaster. Her muscles felt weak, kittenish, and she stumbled to the front door, throwing the deadbolt, the second lock, and the hasp at the top of the jamb, which she didn’t think Jack had bothered to lock, ever.
    She watched her fingers shake for a moment, clasping the old iron. The curse was gone but the cold was still with her. Nick Naughton had come into her home, into her fucking flat, and he’d paralyzed her without so much