Broken Souls Read Free Page A

Getting this far was a pain in the ass and I’m not in the mood to start over.”
    His eyes narrow into slits, his hand tightens on the obsidian blade. “You’re not worthy of the gift,” he says. “You don’t know what to do with it. It belongs with someone who does. I’ll skin you alive and wear you like a suit.”
    There’s an image I didn’t need. “Don’t think it really works that way.”
    The floor shudders, a sound of twisting metal behind me. I’ve been so focused on him I hadn’t realized he was setting something up behind me. A long strip of the copper sheeting covering the telescope’s dome tears off and whips down at me. I roll out of the way as it strikes where I was standing. Sparks fly.
    Kettleman is on me in a flash. I block his swing with my forearm, drive my palm into his face. I give the strike some magical oomph and hear a loud crack as his nose crunches. He wails in pain, stumbles back, blood streaming from his nose. I could probably end this here. Keep hammering him in the face until he goes down and stays down. But that could kill him. Psycho or not, I need him.
    Instead I bolt for the other side of the building. There’s another staircase I can take down. If I can get away from the crazy I can regroup. I’ve spent too much time trying to get a lead on how to get out from under Santa Muerte’s thumb. There’s got to be some way to reason with him. But to do that I need to get him to quit trying to turn me into a pair of pants. I round the curve of the other telescope and skid to a stop.
    I’ve found that ghost. The one that kept flitting in and out like a bad radio station. It’s definitely not the one who warned me of the attack. This one’s in no shape to communicate at all. It flickers in and out worse than any ghost I’ve ever seen. Disjointed, scattered. It stands there, its face a sick imitation of Munch’s scream, its body a parody of cohesion. It looks sliced crosswise like a man trapped in a mix-and-match puzzle book for kids where the top and bottom pieces don’t quite line up. I’ve never seen a ghost this incoherent. Even if it were old and faded it wouldn’t be like this. This thing is broken.
    But it’s worse than that. The ghost is Kettleman’s.
    Unless the old mage has a twin who just happened to die on this rooftop, this is him. Every last detail is there. Same face, same suit, same salt-and-pepper goatee. But if this is Kettleman’s ghost, who’s the maniac with the knife?
    Before I get a chance to really put any thought into it I hear that warning voice in my ear say, “Duck.” I don’t argue, just drop down and let Not-Kettleman’s knife sail over my head. I lash back with my leg, catching him above the knee. He screams as the joint pops and he stumbles. The knife falls from his hand. I kick it out of the way.
    If this isn’t the real Kettleman then there’s no reason to hold back. I bring the Browning to bear but I underestimate his speed. His good leg sweeps up in a vicious kick with a healthy dose of magic behind it and slams into my forearm. My entire arm goes numb as the gun flies out of my hand and skitters away from me.
    So I change tactics and kick him in the nuts. His scream goes up an octave and he starts to make retching noises. I’ve been dealing with this Santa Muerte bullshit for too long and Kettleman was the closest thing to a lead I had. God fucking dammit.
    “Why’d you have to go and kill him, you sonofabitch? And who the hell are you?” I slam the heel of my foot into his crotch a couple more times, letting adrenaline, anger and frustration fuel every blow.
    When I get done with this bastard there’s not going to be anything left beyond a smear. I step up to curb stomp his skull, bring my leg up and—
    He’s not Kettleman anymore. There’s a tearing noise as the guy he’s turned into rips through his clothes. They’re way too small for him. He’s a foot taller at least, and packing more muscle than half a dozen juiced