Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I might have sat there for hours if my front door hadn’t resounded with a series of thumps.

  My heart leapt into my mouth. I tasted bile.

  I made it down the stairs slowly, like an old woman. Twisted the doorknob without bothering to scan the other side of the door. My shields—and Japhrimel’s—still remained, humming and perfect over the house. Nothing short of a thermonuclear psychic attack could damage my solitude now.

  I didn’t want to wonder why Japhrimel’s shields were still perfect if he was dead. Maybe demon magick worked differently.

  I jerked the door open and found myself confronted with a pair of blue eyes and slicked-down golden hair, dark with the creeping rain. He stood on my doorstep, leaning on his staff, and regarded me.

  I said nothing. Silence stretched between us.

  Jace shoved past me and into my front hall. I shut the door and turned around. Now he faced me in my house, through the stale dimness.

  We stared at each other for a long time.

  Finally he licked his lips. “Hate me all you want,” he said. “Go ahead. I don’t blame you. Yell at me, scream at me, try to kill me, whatever. But I’m not leaving.”

  I folded my arms. Stared at him.

  He stared back at me.

  I finally cleared my throat. “I’m not human anymore, Jace,” I said. Husky. My voice was ruined from screaming—and from the Devil’s hand crushing my larynx. I was lucky he hadn’t killed me.

  Or had he deliberately left me alive? To wander the earth. Alone.

  “I don’t care what you are,” he said. “I’m not leaving.”

  “What if I leave?” I asked him. “I could go anywhere in the world.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Danny.” He pounded his staff twice on my floor, sharp guncracks of frustration. “Get off it, will you? I’m staying. That’s it. Yell at me all you like, I’m not leaving you alone. The demon’s dead, you need someone to watch your back.”

  “I don’t love you,” I informed him. “I won’t ever love you.”

  “If I cared about that I’d still be in Rio with a new Mob Family and a sweet little fat-bottomed babalawao,” he shot back. “This is my choice, Danny. Not yours.”

  I shrugged, and brushed past him. Climbed the stairs, slowly, one at a time.

  I hadn’t made my bed before I left, so I just dropped myself into the tangle of sheets and covers and closed my eyes. Hot tears slid out from between my eyelids, soaked into the pillow.

  I heard his footsteps, measured and slow. He set his staff by the bed, leaning it against the wall the way he used to. Then he lowered himself down next to me, fully clothed.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch, if you want,” he said finally, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Do whatever you want,” I husked. “I don’t care.”

  “Just for tonight, then.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll be a gentleman. Buy another bed and clear out that spare bedroom tomorrow…” His voice trailed off.

  “I don’t care,” I repeated. Silence descended on my house again, broken only by the soft sound of rain pattering on my roof. The sharp tearing in my chest eased a little, then a little more. Tears trickled down to my temples, soaked into my hair.

  He must have been exhausted, because it took a very little time before his even breathing brushed the air, his face serene with human unconsciousness and age. Sleep, Death’s younger sister.

  Or oldest child…

  I lay next to Jace, stiff as a board, and cried myself into a demon’s fitful sleep.

  EXIT INTERVIEW

  Amadeus Hegemony Academy

  Student #: 47138SAZ

  Name: Dante Valentine

  Interviewer: Mollison Rigby, Guidance Counselor 4A

  Good afternoon, Miss Valentine. Congratulations on your achievement.

  Thank you.

  May I say what a pleasure it’s been, having you with us? You’re a credit to our Necromance program.

  [Silence]

  Well, then. [Nervous laugh] Let’s begin. We’ve discussed your preference for law enforcement, and you’ve taken several courses to that effect. Your combat-training scores are very good. I’ll ask again, are you planning on entering federal law enforcement, or perhaps a smaller city bureau?

  Haven’t given it much thought. I suppose I’ll see what comes up.

  Okay. [Rustling paper] You’re aware the cost of your Academy schooling is part of a deferred federal Hegemony loan? Have you read the literature pertaining to——

  I know what I owe, Rigby. Five hundred thousand standard, give or take a few credits. Interest is at the usual rate. A percentage of any income I receive goes into a fidelity account to be applied against my debt quarterly. I won’t be taxed on that income and I’ll receive a credit for the interest.

  Well, you’ve done your homework on student loans. I shouldn’t be surprised. [Laughs] I have to ask, you see. Federal regulations. There’s just a few more things, and you’ll be free to start living your life as a fully accredited psion. Here. [Paper rustling]

  What the hell’s this?

  Since you’re past your majority and are accredited, I’m allowed to hand it over. It’s the contents of your foster father’s savings accounts and the proceeds from the sale of his effects, as detailed in his will, which you’ll find a copy of and a full accounting detail for in the red envelope. The blue envelope——

  Anubis… I didn’t know.

  His will was very explicit, providing for his funeral and resting costs as well as ameliorating quite a bit of the expenses incurred as a result of your Academy schooling. It was sealed until you reached your accreditation, you see.

  [Indistinct murmur]

  What was that?

  His books. What happened to his books?

  They were auctioned off, for a fair price. He had some fine items.

  [Pause] Yes. Yes, he did. Are all of them gone?

  I believe so. [Pause] It’s quite a sum, and yours to do with as you please. Not every student gets such good news.

  [Sarcastic laugh] Thanks. Can I go now?

  Are you all right?

  Can I go now?

  Not just yet. Here’s a sealed packet, which is an anonymous survey of the Academy, part of our quality control program. I like to encourage all our students to fill it out thoroughly——we like to know if we’re doing a good job.

  Better than Rigger Hall.

  [Pause] Yes, you were there for your primary schooling, weren’t you? I hope your time here has been better.

  I can’t complain. Do we have to do this? You’ve probably got better things to waste your time on.

  It’s not a waste, Valentine. In any case, it’s routine.

  Sure. Fine. Whatever. Can I go now?

  I suppose nothing else is of earthshattering importance. Here’s the rest of your exit packet. I’m available to help you for the next two years, which is, as I’m sure you know, shown to be a difficult adjustment time in a young psion’s——I really don’t think you should——

  What’s in the blue envelope? From Lewis. Do you know?

  I don’t. You look pale. Are you all——

  I’m fine. I have to go now. Thanks, Rigby. See you.

  Valentine! [Sound of door closing] Dammit. Fucking kids.

  Book 2

  Dead Man Rising

  To L.I.

  Peace. The charm’s wound up.

  Quis fallere possit amantem?

  —Virgil

  Leaving Hell is not the same as entering it.

  —Tierce Japhrimel

  Since before the Awakening, the world has been aware of the existence of psionics. And since the Parapsychic Act was signed into Hegemony law, the psionic Talents have been harnessed to provide valuable service to mankind. Who can imagine a world without Skinlin and sedayeen cooperating to find new cures for every gene-morphing virus, creating new techniques for alteration and augmentation of the human body? Who can imagine a time when the Magi did not pr
obe the laws of magick and alternate realities, or when Ceremonials and Shamans didn’t minister to the needs of believers and track criminals, not to mention provide protection for houses and corporations? Who can imagine a world without psions?

  The Necromance’s place within this continuum is assured: The Necromance treads in that realm of mystery called Death. At hospital bedsides and in courtrooms, Necromances ease the passing of their fellow humans or provide testimony for the last wishes of the dead. An accredited Necromance’s work touches the very mundane world of finance, wills, and bequests at the same time that they peer into the dry land of Death and return with absolute proof that there is an afterlife. Necromances also work in the Criminal Justice arm of the Hegemony, tracking criminals and murderers. A Necromance requires not only the talent for entering the realm of Death, but also the training and sorcerous Will to come back out of Death. This is why accreditation of Necromances is so expensive, and so harrowing for even the Academy-trained psionics whose Talent lies in Necromance.

  On the flap opposite you will see several careers where an accredited Necromance can make a difference…

  —Brochure, What Can Death Do For You?, printed by

  the Amadeus Hegemony Academy of Psionic Arts

  CHAPTER 1

  The cavernous maw of the warehouse was like the throat of some huge beast, and even though it was large and airy claustrophobia still tore at my throat. I swallowed, tasted copper and the wet-ratfur reek of panic. How do I talk myself into these things? “Come on, do a bounty, it’s easy as one-two-three, we’ve done a hundred of them.” Sure.

  Darkness pressed close as the lights flickered. Damn corporate greed not putting proper lighting in their goddamn warehouses. The least they could have done is had the fluorescents replaced.

  Then again, corporations don’t plan for hunters taking down bounties in their warehouses, and my vision was a lot better than it used to be. I eased forward, soft and silent, broken-in boots touching the cracked and uneven floor. My rings glinted, swirling with steady, muted light. The Glockstryke R4 was in my left hand, my crippled right hand curled around to brace the left; it had taken me weeks to shoot left-handed with anything like my former accuracy. And why, you might ask, was I using a projectile gun when I had two perfectly good 40-watt plasguns holstered in my rig?

  Because Manuel Bulgarov had taken refuge in a warehouse full of plastic barrels of reactive paint for spreading on the undersides of hovers, that’s why.

  Reactive paint is mostly nonvolatile—except for when a plas field interacts with it. One plasgun blast and we’d be caught in a reaction fire, and though I was a lot tougher than I used to be I didn’t think I could outrun a molecular-bond-weakening burst fueled by hundreds, if not thousands, of gallons of reactive. A burst like that travels at about half the speed of light until it reaches its containment edge. Even if I could outrun or survive it, Jace certainly couldn’t, and he was covering me from the other side of the T-shaped intersection of corridors faced with blue barrel after blue barrel of reactive.

  Just like a goddamn bounty to hide in a warehouse full of reactive to make my day.

  Jace’s fair blond face was marred with blood that almost hid the thorny accreditation tat and the spreading bruise up his left cheek, he was bleeding from his shoulder too. Ending up in a bar brawl that alerted our quarry was not the way I’d wanted to do this bounty.

  His blue eyes were sharp and steady, but his breathing was a little too fast and I could smell the exhaustion on him. I felt familiar worry rise under my breastbone, shoved it down. My left shoulder prickled with numb chill, a demon’s mark gone dead against my flesh, and my breathing came sharp and deep, ribs flaring with each soundless gasp, a few stray strands of hair falling in my face. Thank the gods I don’t sweat much anymore. I could feel the inked lines of my own accreditation tat twisting and tingling under the skin of my left cheek, the emerald set at the top of the twisted caduceus probably flashing. Tone it down, don’t want to give the bastard a twinkle and let him squeeze off a shot or two.

  Bulgarov didn’t have a plasgun—or at least, I was reasonably certain he hadn’t had one when he’d gone out the back door of the PleiRound nightclub and onto an airbike with us right behind him, only slightly slowed down by the explosion of the brawl. After all, the PleiRound was a watering hole for illicits, and once we’d moved and shown we were bounty hunters all hell had broken loose. If he’d had a plasgun, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to run. No, he would have turned the bar into a firezone.

  Probably.

  I’d almost had Bulgarov, but he was quick. Too quick to be strictly normal, though he wasn’t a psion. I made a mental note to tell my scheduler Trina to tack 15 percent onto the fee, nobody had mentioned the bastard was genespliced and augmented to within an inch of violating the Erdwile-Stokes Act of ’28. That would have been nice information to have. Necessary information, even.

  My shoulder still hurt from clipping the side of a hover as we chased him through nighttime traffic on Copley Avenue. He’d been keeping low to avoid the patrols, though how you could be inconspicuous with two bounty hunters chasing you on airbikes, I couldn’t guess.

  It was illegal to flee, especially once a bounty hunter had identified herself as a Hegemony federal officer. But Bulgarov hadn’t gotten away with rape, murder, extortion, and trafficking illegal weapons by being a law-abiding jackass who cared about two more counts of felony evading. No, he was an entirely different kind of jackass. And staying low meant a little more time without the Hegemony patrols getting involved in the tangle, which made it him against just two bounty hunters instead of against full-scale containment teams. It was a nice move, and sound logic—if the two bounty hunters weren’t an almost-demon and the Shaman who had taught her a good deal about hunting bounties.

  My eyes met Jace’s again. He nodded curtly, reading my face. Like it or not, I was the one who could take more damage. And I usually took point anyway; years of working bounties alone made it a tough habit to break.

  He was still good to work with. It was just like old times. Only everything had changed.

  I eased around the corner, hugging the wall. Extended my awareness a little, just a very little, feeling the pulse thunder in my wrists and forehead; the warehouse was magshielded and had a basic corporate security net, but Bulgarov had just walked right in like he owned the place. Not a good sign. He might have bought a short-term quickshield meant to keep him from detection by psions or security nets. Just what I’d expect from the tricky bastard.

  Concentrate, Danny. Don’t get cocky because he’s not a psion. He’s dangerous and augmented.

  My right hand cramped again, pointlessly; it was getting stronger the more I used it. Three days without sleep, tracking Bulgarov through the worst sinks in North New York Jersey, taxed even my endurance. Jace could fall asleep almost instantly, wedged in a hover or transport seat while I crunched data or piloted. It had been a fast run, no time to catch our breath.

  Two other bounty hunters—both normals, but with combat augments—had gone down trying to bring this guy in. The next logical choice had been to bring a psion in, and I was fresh from hunting a Magi gone bad in Freetown Tijuana. From one job to the next, with no time to think, perfect. I didn’t want to think about anything but getting the next bounty collared.

  I would be lying if I said the idea of the two extra murder charges and two of felony evading tacked onto Bulgarov’s long list of indictments didn’t bring a smile to my face. A hard, delighted grin, as a matter of fact, since it meant Bulgarov would face capital punishment instead of just filling a prison cell. I edged forward, reaching the end of the aisle; glanced up. Nothing in the rafters, but it was good to check. This was one tricky sonofabitch. If he’d been a psion it would have made things a little easier, I could have tracked the smears of adrenaline and Power he’d leave on the air when he got tired enough. As it was, the messy sewer-smelling drift of his psychic footprint faded and flared maddeningly. If
I dropped below the conscious level of thought and tried to scan him, I’d be vulnerable to a detonation circuit in a quickshield, and it wasn’t like this guy not to have a det circuit built in if he spent the credit for a shield. I could live without the screaming migraine feedback of cracking a shield meant to keep a normal from a psion’s notice, thank you very much.

  So it was old-fashioned instinct doing the work on this one. Is he heading for an exit or sitting tight? My guess is sitting tight in a nice little cubbyhole, waiting for us to come into sight, pretty as you please. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Sekhmet sa’es, he better not have a plasgun. He didn’t. I’m almost sure he didn’t.

  Almost sure wasn’t good enough. Almost sure, in my experience, is the shortest road to oh fuck.

  Jace’s aura touched mine, the spiked honey-pepper scent of a Shaman rising around me along with the cloying reek of dying human cells. I wished I could turn my nose off or tone it down a little. Smelling everyone’s death on them was not a pleasant thing, even if I, of all people, know Death is truly nothing to fear.

  Whenever I thought about it, the mark on my shoulder seemed to get a little colder.

  Don’t fucking think about that, Danny. Nice and cautious, move it along here.

  A popping zwing! made me duck reflexively, calculating angles even as I berated myself for flinching. Goddammit, if you heard the shot it didn’t get you, move move move! He’s blown cover, you know where he is now! I took off, not bothering to look behind me—Jace’s aura was clear, steady, strong. He hadn’t been hit.

  More popping, clattering sounds. Reactive paint sprayed as I moved, blurringly, much faster than a normal human. My gun holstered itself as I leapt, claws extending sweetly, naturally, my right hand giving a flare of pain I ignored as I dug into the side of a plastic barrel, hurling myself up, get up, and from there I leapt, feet smacking the smooth round tops of the barrels. My rings spat golden sparks, all need for silence gone. The racks holding the barrels swayed slightly as I landed and pushed off again, little glowing spits and spats of thick reactive paint spraying behind me as lead chewed the air. He’s got a fucking semiautomatic assault rifle up there, sounds like a Transom from the chatter, goddamn cheap Putchkin piece of shit, if he had a good gun he’d have hit me by now.