Bone Gods

as a word. He could have done anything—raped her, killed her, made her rise again as one of his spirits like his brother, Danny.
    He hadn’t, but he’d known she’d think of it later, and know he could have. And that would be worse.
    Pete checked the locks on all the windows, especially the kitchen window that looked out onto the fire stairs, and then she got the bottle from the cupboard and poured herself three fingers of whiskey, which she gulped down with two fast, hard swallows.
    Her hands still rattled the glass as she set it down, and pulled her knees up to her chest on the sofa. Her heart continued to thrum until she’d poured another inch of whiskey into herself. She was scared of Naughton—anyone in their right mind would be scared by an unstable necromancer breaking into their flat—but she wasn’t afraid of him. Petty thug-level threats meant she’d scared him, too.
    At the very least, his line about Gerard Carver was a load of crap. If Naughton hadn’t held the knife, he knew who did. He’d set up McCorkle, and he knew what spell Carver had been meant to work. He knew it all.
    Pete went and put her glass in the kitchen sink, working her fingers on the porcelain edge until she was sure all the feeling had returned. Lawrence and probably even Jack would tell her to leave it, let Naughton think he’d won, and back the fuck off before she found herself with a sliced throat or worse.
    But he’d come into her home, threatened her. She doubted Morningstar would be dissuaded by the tale, either. And if Pete was honest with herself, Nick Naughton had royally trampled on her toes, and she’d relish the opportunity to do a bit of stomping in return.
    She wrote down the number Lawrence had given her for Motor, and then went to bed, burrowing under the coverlet until the last of the cold disappeared.

CHAPTER 17
    Her first stop that evening, after she’d dealt with her new crop of bruises and cuts and found clothes that covered the worst ones, was a council block in Peckham, some of the new construction, very neat and tidy, with a geranium sprouting in the front window of number thirteen. Pete knocked with the flat of her fist. “Denny!”
    A curtain twitched, and a moment later the door was thrown open. “Fuck off!” Denny Pendergast told her. “I’m clean, and you ain’t even a cop any longer.”
    Pete folded her arms. “At least half of that is bullshit, and anyway, I’m not here in my former professional capacity.”
    “I should fucking hope not.” He sniffed. “Considering the only job you’d have nowadays that’d allow you to knock on my door would be mail girl or prozzie.”
    “I’m a private citizen and that means I can put a steel-toed boot in your crotch with very little repercussion,” Pete told him. “Let me in, unless you want to conduct business in the breezeway, all smiling for the CCTVs. Somehow I don’t think you’ve been out of Pentonville long enough to show off.”
    Denny grumbled and pulled the door wide. He knew she couldn’t do fuck-all about anything she saw inside, and he was grinning as her eyes roved over the stacks of newspapers, the broken-down sofa facing the high-end gaming system and LCD television, and the pair of plain black gun safes that comprised Denny’s sitting room.
    “I need a pistol,” she told him. Denny’s skinny sharp-boned face split in a wary grin.
    “You’re pulling my leg.”
    Pete pointed at the cut on her face, which had gone from bloody gash to angry red line. She wasn’t sure which was worse. “Do I look like I’m pulling your bony leg, you tosser?”
    Denny considered, and then went to the safe on the left and punched in a combination. “What sort you need?”
    “Sig Sauer?”
    He snorted. “In your fucking dreams. Copper wants a copper’s gun. There’s a shock.” He gestured at the safes. “I’ve revolvers from the stone age, Steyer knockoffs out of Russia, and if you’re considering an upgrade, couple of fucking pristine Winchester Model Sevens. For you, I give the civil-service discount. Cash up front, no refunds, no exchanges.”
    “I just need something small I can shove in my jeans,” Pete sighed. “And that takes ammo enough to do some real damage with the first shot.”
    Denny raised a finger. “My stock’s not classy enough for your kind of person, Former Detective Inspector Caldecott, but I did take something in trade last week. Wait here.”
    He returned with a pistol wrapped in cloth. “It’s