Bone Gods

quiet of the night street replaced the vacuum.
    “Well, that was fifty kilos of fun in a forty kilo sack,” Jack said, acid etching the words. “I’d murder somebody for a fag.”
    Pete sat down hard before she fell down, making even more of an arse of herself.
    Jack sat next to her, and wordlessly she gave him a cigarette. “You’ve had a bit of a makeover,” he said, lighting it. “Gun-toting, playing nice with necromancers—you’re a regular dangerous type these days, Petunia.”
    Pete lit a fag for herself. “You’ve been gone awhile, Jack.”
    “True enough,” he said.
    “So, are we going to talk about this?” Pete said. “Or am I supposed to accept coming back from the dead as a part of your inscrutable mystique?”
    “You just found yourself agreeing to steal a corpse from the police at the behest of a circle jerk of bastard necromancers, and you’re worried about a little resurrection?” Jack tsked. “Priorities, Petunia.”
    Pete fetched him a punch on the arm, hard. He yelped and lost his cigarette. “Are you bloody five? That hurt.”
    “You’re going to tell me the truth,” Pete warned. “As soon as we have this sorted. You get me?”
    Jack rubbed his arm. “Never said I wouldn’t. Fuck me, you’ve got bony hands.”
    Pete pointed herself in the general direction of the tube station. “Mortuary’s closed this time of night. Station’s running a light crew.”
    Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “Really think that fool’s errand Nancy Naughton gave you will be that easy?”
    “Of course not,” Pete agreed. “But it’s not as if I have a choice, so let’s get on with it.”

CHAPTER 20
    Southwark to Wapping was a long ride, longer when you were trying not to shout everything that came into your head at the person who was taking the trip with you. Pete tried not to stare at Jack under the harsh fluorescent light of the train car, either, but she admitted by the time they rattled past Bermondsey station it was a lost cause. They were alone, this late in the evening, except for a few sleepy wage workers and a bored transit officer looking off into space.
    Under light, Jack didn’t look as good as he had in the club. His skin was pallid. She could see veins, how his blood moved through his body, the stark, shining whiteness of the scar on his cheek. Twin half moons had taken up residence under his eyes, as if they’d always lived there, deep and purple, fading away into the lines she remembered.
    She voiced the least offensive thing she could think of. “You look tired.”
    “Yeah.” Jack rolled his neck back and forth. Small bones popped. “Being alive will do that to you.”
    The train ground to a stop at Wapping, and the doors hissed open. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the mortuary. Pete couldn’t think of another topic that didn’t involve So, Hell. Hear it’s lovely this time of year.
    “Right,” Jack said, when they reached the stern brick edifice of the mortuary, boats hooting on the Thames as if warning of their approach. “So I assume you’ve got a plan all worked out.”
    “Of course not,” Pete said. “It’s a city works building, and there’s CCTV all over the bloody place, not to mention, you know, police officers.”
    Jack grimaced. “Fuck. Stealing corpses in Thailand was much easier.”
    “Unfortunately, Naughton seems set on this particular corpse,” Pete said. “Any actual helpful idea would be shockingly appreciated.”
    “Whole thing stinks,” Jack said. His entire body was wire-tight, and if Pete didn’t know better she’d swear he was back on smack and jonesing hard, from the way his fingers played the air and his eyes darted from side to side. Pools of dark beyond the lamps in front of the station revealed nothing.
    “Cheers, Captain Obvious,” Pete said. “Necromancers demanding you steal a corpse is rarely a harbinger of unicorns, rainbows, and candy-filled shopping trolleys.”
    Jack laughed. “So sharp, luv. Don’t tell me our brief separation has turned you into a bitter spinster.”
    “Not in the least,” Pete said, “though our brief reunion has caused me to entertain the notion of shoving my boot up your arse.” She discarded the idea of the main door at once. It was locked at this hour, requiring a desk officer to buzz you in, and a camera across the street pointed directly at it. She walked down the close between the mortuary and the next building, back toward the museum on the