Sacrificial Magic Read Online Free

getting that information from somewhere. And there she was, the one person Terrible knew for a fact had been in Slobag’s pocket; or to put it more bluntly, Terrible knew she’d been in Slobag’s son’s bed, for months. Knew she still talked to him.
    How long before she became a suspect?

 
    The last vestiges of the cheer she’d managed to find at Trickster’s evaporated. It wouldn’t be long. He’d think of it. He’d wonder.
    And she couldn’t blame him. What was she supposed to do, get all pissed and indignant because he didn’t trust her? Why the hell should he trust her? He’d trusted her before and she’d paid him back by fucking his enemy. He’d be stupid not to wonder about her now.
    That sucked. But it was true.
    Their destination wasn’t difficult to spot. The Chevelle growled up Sixtieth, chasing the orange glow of the flames ahead. A fire indeed. The building had simply disappeared. In its place a set of half walls created a bowl of fire, surrounded by curious onlookers standing too close even though it was spring. A few of them held out sticks with various animal parts on the ends; free fire shouldn’t be wasted.
    Chunks of cement littered the pavement, more and more of them as the Chevelle approached the scene, until finally Terrible had to park because there were too many of them to avoid. Broken glass sparkled under their feet.
    Against the angry flames, Bump’s profile stood like apimp-shaped inkspot, his hat brim ostentatiously wide, his cape moving in the breeze. Even at a distance she could see how pissed he was, just from the way he held his shoulders.
    The closer they got the more obvious his anger got. He glowered at the fire, glowered at Terrible, glowered at her. “You finding they, Terrible, yay? Fuckin make they dead.”
    It wasn’t much of a greeting, but she supposed it could be excused under the circumstances. Hell, even if they weren’t standing in front of what was probably half a million dollars or so on fire, it could be excused; it would have to be excused. No matter who she slept with, no matter who she still couldn’t believe she was lucky enough to sleep with, the fact was that at its base her relationship—such as it was—with Bump entailed the biggest power imbalance possible. She was a junkie. He was her dealer.
    In other words, he got to say whatever he wanted to her, do whatever he wanted to her, treat her like less than nothing, and she got to take it without resistance if she wanted to keep getting her pills. Which she did.
    He glanced at her now. “Ay, Ladybird. Ain’t fuckin supposing you witchy skills fuckin find they done it.”
    She shook her head. “Sorry” sat on the tip of her tongue; she swallowed it. “Not the sort of thing I can do, no.”
    “But you got them fuckin snooping skills, yay? Do you findin out things, on you fuckin cases or what-the-fuck them is you doin.”
    Shit. Usually the problem she had with people knowing her job was that they thought she could wave her hand and make things disappear or whatever; now she had Bump obviously thinking she was some sort of Sherlock Holmes or something and could just pop inand find out who—of the hundreds, even thousands, of possible suspects—had spied, had set this up.
    If she had a choice … well, she’d probably still say yes, because this affected Terrible’s life, and that made it something she needed to do. But she didn’t have a choice anyway.
    “I’ll try.” She shifted her weight, hoped she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt. “But really, I don’t know any of the people involved, so I don’t really see what I can do.”
    “Aw, nay, ain’t you fuckin count youself short. Got them fuckin brains hidin in you head, yay? You use em for Bump. Use em for Terrible, yay? Got the thinkin you catch this one straightup fast, yay, fuckin straightup. What fuckin happening if them get Terrible afore you fuckin get the finding? Thinkin you ain’t fuckin liking that.”
    No,