Read Online A Tree of Bones by Gemma Files - Free Book Online

some more strong hexes come to join us.”
    Fennig cleared his throat. “Yeah . . . might not be much cause for cheer on that front, neither.” As Rook motioned him to continue: “Since you delegated Oath-takin’ duties to me and the g’hals, Rev, you probably ain’t had opportunity to notice, but we ain’t been gettin’ much new blood for some weeks now. Stragglers, mostly — and they’re weak, too. Some of them’s still gettin’ pressed by the Pinks, sure, but . . .” Fennig doffed his smoked-glass spectacles a moment, rubbing at the marks they’d left on his nose. “I’m beginnin’ to think how maybe the well’s just run dry.”
    Never so many of us in one spot before
, his mind-voice echoed, unheard by any but Rook — or was that true? Probably the Missuses could listen in to that particular telegraph line too, they cared to bend their will to it. Yet still it struck an intimate chord, a note of desperation Rook couldn’t ever remember having heard in Fennig’s roguish waking speech.
What if the Call’s finally brung all there was to bring? What if we’re all there’s left to feed —
    The Machine
, Rook completed.
To feed the Machine.
    They were all still predators, however much the Oath kept them from each other’s throats. Perhaps Fennig thought Rook had forgotten that . . . or perhaps, in his Utopian blur, he’d all but forgotten it himself.
    Still, the one thing left he couldn’t afford was for any of the rest to
think
him afraid.
    “I’ve been advising the Lady to stop the Call for some weeks now,” Rook lied. “Obviously, it’s done all it can; just swelling Pinkerton’s ranks more than our own at this point, anyhow. Once it’s no longer drawing power, meanwhile, the Machine’s . . . appetite should diminish, enough to give us time enough to find another source.”
    “Source of what, exactly?” Clo asked. “Feedstock?”
    “
Sustenance
,” Rook corrected. “All cities are gluttons on their own flesh. New York any different in that respect, Hank?”
    “New York’s got close on a million lives to spare, Reverend,” Fennig replied, “whereas if we’ve topped five thousand, it’s news to me. How many hexes die a day on the Moon Court’s altar? Six? Eight?”
    “Used to be, sure. Less by far, since the Mexes turned up.”
    Leaning forward, Fennig’s three-fingered hand jabbed the tabletop. “’Kay, then: let’s say, without the Call, the Lady don’t
need
more’n one or two. Anyone care to wager on her choosin’ to settle for what she ‘needs,’ ’stead’a whatever she damn well feels like takin’?”
    Rook’s voice hardened. “We’ve
all
gone that bet, Henry,” he rumbled. “All staked our lives on her bein’ wise enough not to waste what she can’t replace yet, not before we’ve won for good. You’re lettin’ your fear run away with your temper, and this ain’t the time.”
    Fennig held still a moment, but subsided, his breathing harsh. “Not like we don’t have options, either,” Rook added, “unkind as they might strike certain tenderer ears amongst us. Auntie Sal — in your informed status as Midwife General, how many of our hexaciously inclined female citizens are currently about to bear progeny, ’sides from the obvious?”
    Followell sniffed. “Marse Followell an’ all his kin dead now these good four year, Reverend, which means I don’t have to be nobody’s ‘auntie’ no more. But as to your question — three score, just about, with ten to fifteen ready to drop within the fortnight.”
    “So many?”
    “All witches work a charm to keep their childbed empty, but some gave it up after comprehendin’ they could survive havin’ a hexacious babe, here. Still, since most’ve ’em never expected to keep a babe anyways, they got about as much fine motherly feeling as alley cats — give you whatever you want, probably, long as there’s money or privilege in it for them.”
    “Just you wait one damned moment, Reverend Rook.” Clo