Read Online The Stringer by Jeff Somers - Free Book Online

a string and bleeding out a tribe, a village, a city, an entire population in order to cast their spells. We weren’t gods. We were an infection, an infestation, and we fed on the people who hadn’t discovered the Words, the power of sacrifice. And we worked hard—like the cowards we were—to keep everyone ignorant. If everyone knew the Words, even enustari would have to start working with their hands, like suckers.
    Outside, police and ambulances raced by every little while, filling the air with strident panic. I found myself waiting, trapped inside my own body, for the lights to flicker and fail. That would be the next step, the power going off.
    An intelligence like Lugal wasn’t well versed in acting appropriately in social situations, so it had me sitting very still, staring straight ahead. The Brokers buzzed and whispered, both about me and about the disasters that were spilling out of the TV sets. I was crushed into a tiny corner of my own consciousness, paralyzed and mute, and panic kept nipping at my heels.
    I realized with a start that my body was taking deep breaths. I was hyperventilating.
    In the mirror across from my body, I looked calm and steady. Creepily steady. I thought about the complexity of running a living human body like a puppet—a living body with a resident consciousness, namely m e. The instruction set had to be huge. As opposed to Balahul and the corpse of Mr. Landry, which just required inhabiting an empty vessel, Lugal had to deal with a nervous system if it wanted to appear alive, if it wanted to pass all the smell tests. Lugal wasn’t sending me on a murder spree, like Balahul had Landry doing. It was trying to use me as a Trojan horse. Get some Bleeders, then pick my brain and force me to cast something ugly, contribute to the attack, undermine the world.
    I wondered if the Old Bat was planning to ride in on a broomstick and save the world with a seriously bloody biludha —a major ritual of some sort. Maybe that was her plan—kill the world, then become its hero?
    I concentrated on slowing my breathing. Told myself to relax. Pictured Mags sleeping, his face going through a complex series of expressions as he dreamed amazing things.
    And my breathing slowed down.
    Not much, but it was a little control, a tiny corner of my wiring that Lugal hadn’t been able to take over.
    Reflected in the mirror across the bar, a dilapidated old yellow school bus pulled up outside, belching black smoke and sagging in the middle in a way I was pretty sure buses weren’t supposed to sag. The door opened, and it began disgorging the saddest motherfuckers I’d ever seen in my life: our Bleeders.
    Blood was blood. The skinny, scowling men and women who crawled gingerly off the bus looked to be suffering from any number of diseases and afflictions, several of which I didn’t doubt had been contracted within the last hour while riding on that very bus. These, the saddest people in the world, marched into the bar, shuffling past us with watery stares and twitchy, nervous expressions. This prompted my puppet master to heave me up off the bar stool and follow them to the rear of the joint, where the Brokers were checking off figures in their notebooks.
    â€œAll right, Vonnegan,” Housedress said, licking her pencil. “Twenty-five top-flight cows ripe for milking. You wanna inspect them before you haul ’em off?”
    I wanted to slap her, all of them, these fucks who pretended that if they didn’t know exactlywhat some asshole was going to do with twenty-five miserable, desperate Bleeders—and you could do some fucking damage with that much gas—then they weren’t responsible. But my rage didn’t matter, because Lugal suddenly reached into my brain and split it open, searching for a spell. And not just any spell, a spell of consequence, a spell that would rip a hole in New York and grind up whatever fell in, and then there’d be