Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He nodded. “A’tai, hetairae A’nankimel’iin. Diriin.” His mouth turned down again as if tasting something bitter, his fingers easing a little.

  “You’re going to have to tell me what that means someday.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted. Three days locked in a library. Scholarship was heavier than bounty hunting.

  “Someday. Only give me time.” He led me from the dining room, my hand caught in his, and I didn’t protest. I left the folio behind on the table. Nobody would mess with it here.

  “I’m giving you time. Plenty of it, too.” Behind us, the sun-flavored night crept in through the windows. What else could I do? I trusted him, and all he asked for was something I had plenty of nowadays. So I followed him through our quiet house, and ended up letting him brush my hair after all. Once again, he’d distracted me from asking what I was—but he’d also promised to tell me eventually, and that was enough.

  CHAPTER 2

  I woke from a trance deeper than sleep, a dreamless well of darkness. I had been unable to sleep for almost a year while Japhrimel was dormant; it seemed now I was making up for it by needing a long, deathlike slumber every few days. He told me it was normal for a hedaira to need that rest, during which the human mind gained the relief it needed from the overload of demon Power and sensation. I’d done some damage by pushing myself so hard. Now, each time Japhrimel soothed me into blackness I felt relieved. Every time I woke, disoriented, with no idea of how much time had passed, he was there waiting for me.

  Except this time.

  I blinked, clutching the sheet to my chest. Moonlight fell through the open floor-length windows, silvering the smooth marble; long blue velvet drapes moved slightly on a warm night wind. Here in Toscano the houses were huge villas for the Hegemony rich. This one was set into a hillside looking over a valley where humans had farmed olives and wheat for thousands of years and now let the olive trees grow as decorations. My hair lay against my back, brushing the mattress, silk slid cool and restful against my skin.

  I was alone.

  I reached out, not quite believing it, and touched the sheet. Japhrimel’s pillow held a dent, and the smell of us both hung in the room, his deeper musk and my lighter scent combining. My cheek burned as my emerald glowed, and I saw the altar I had made out of an antique oak armoire lined with blue light. I turned my head slightly, and the spectral dart of light from my emerald made shadows cavort on the wall.

  I slid out of bed naked, my fingers closing around the hilt of my sword. The blade sang as I pulled it from the lacquered sheath, a low, sibilant sound of oiled metal against cushioned and reinforced wood. More blue light spilled on the air, runes from the Nine Canons—the sorcerous alphabet that made up its own branch of magick—sliding through the metal’s glowing heart. Jado had named the blade Fudoshin, and I rarely drew it.

  I had nothing left to fight.

  It had been a long time since my god spoke to me. I approached the altar cautiously, sinking down to one knee when I reached the invisible demarcation between real and sacred space, rising and stepping into the blue glow. My hair moved, blown on an invisible breeze as blue light slid down my body like Japhrimel’s touch.

  Where is he? Does he leave while I sleep? He’s always here when I wake up. I discarded the thought. If my patron psychopomp wanted me, I was safe enough, and it didn’t matter yet where Japh was. I had never seen him sleep—but I didn’t care. This was private, anyway.

  I stood in front of the altar, my sword tucking itself back behind my arm, the hilt pointing down and clasped loosely in my hand. The metal’s thrumming against my arm intensified as the katana’s tip poked up past my shoulder. My cheek burned, the emerald sizzling, the inked lines of my tattoo shifting madly under the skin.

  The new statue of Sekhmet glowed, set to one side of my patron Anubis—all I had left of the altar I’d set up in my old house in Saint City. Anubis, dark against the blue light, nodded slightly. The bowl set before him as an offering was empty, the wine I’d poured into it gone. I reached up, touched my cheek with my fingertips, felt my skin fever-hot, hotter than even a demon’s blood.

  Then the blue light took me. I did not quite fall, but I went to my knees before the gods, and felt my body slide away.

  Into the blue crystal hall of Death came a new thing.

  I stood upon the bridge, an oval cocoon of light from my emerald anchoring my feet to the stone. I wore the white robe of the god’s chosen, belted with supple silver like scales. My new sword, glittering with fiery white light as if it too lived, was clasped in my hand for the very first time.

  I had not ventured into this place since Jason Monroe’s death.

  The fluttering crystal draperies of souls drew very close around me. I was used to it—I was, after all, a Necromance—but the one soul I sought I did not see. No unique pattern that I would recognize, no crystallized streak of psychic and etheric energy holding the invisible imprint of shaggy wheat-gold hair and blue eyes.

  I looked to find him, and I was grateful he was not there. If he was not there I would not have to face him.

  Instead, my eyes were drawn irresistibly to the other side of the bridge, where Death stood, His slim dog’s head dipping slightly, a nod to me.

  Behind my god stood a shadowy figure, flames crackling around the shape of a woman, Her lion’s head surrounded by twisting orange. A rush of flame and rise of smoke dazzled me for a moment, I lifted my sword blindly, a defense against a Power that could burn me down to bone.

  Coolness rolled along my skin, dispelling the heat. The blade glowed fierce white instead of the blue I was used to. Steel shivered as Power stroked its edge and the mark on my shoulder flared with a deep bone-crunching pain I had not felt in years, sending a stain of twisting-diamond demon fire along the cocoon protecting me. Even here in Death I was marked by Japhrimel’s attention, though my god didn’t care.

  Anubis knew I was His. Even a demon could not change that. I am Necromance. I belong to Death first, and to my own life second.

  The god spoke, the not-sound like a bell brushing around me. Yet I am the bell, the god puts His hand on me and makes me sing.

  Anubis bent, His black infinity-starred eyes fixed on me. He spoke again. This time the sound was like worlds colliding, blowing my hair back, the edges of my emerald’s glow shivering so for a moment I felt the awful pull of the abyss beneath me. My fingers loosened on the hilt, then clutched, the sword socking back into my grip.

  —a task is set for you, my child—

  Comprehension bloomed through me. The god had called; I was asked to do something. This was warning and question both, a choice lay before me. Would I do as He asked, when the time arrived?

  Why did He ask? I was His. For the god that had held me, protected me, comforted me all my life, it was unnecessary to ask. All You must do is tell me Your will, I whispered soundlessly.

  The god nodded again, His arms crossed. He did not have the ceremonial flail and hook, nor did He wear the form of a slim black dog as He usually did. Instead, His hand lifted, palm-out, and I felt a terrible wind whistle as my skin chilled and my ears popped.

  Then She behind him spoke, rushing flame like a river, the dance of unmaking the world taking another stamping step. I fell backward, my knuckles white on the sword’s hilt, a long slow descent into nothingness, waiting for the stone to hit my back or the abyss to take me, the words printed inside my head, not really words but layers of meaning, each burning deeper than the last, a whisper of a geas laid on me. A binding I could and would forget until the time was right.

  CHAPTER 3

  I surfaced, lying on my side against chill, slick marble. Warm sunlight striped my cheek. I’d been out a long time.

  Hot iron bands clamped around my shoulders, lifted me. “Dante.” Japhrimel’s voice, ragged and rough as it had only been once or twice before. “Are you hurt? Dante?”

  I made a shapeless sound, limp in his hands. My head lolled. Power flooded me, roaring through my veins like wine, flu
shing my fingers with heat and chasing away the awful, sluggish cold. I cried out, my hand coming up reflexively. Steel fell chiming as Japhrimel twisted my wrist. He was so much stronger than me, I could feel the gentleness in his fingers as well. So restrained, careful not to hurt me. “Easy, hedaira. I am with you.”

  “They called to me.” My teeth began to chatter. The chill of Death had worked its way up past my elbows, past my knees, turning flesh into insensate marble. How long had I been away, on the bridge between here and the well of souls? “Japhrimel?” My voice cracked, a child’s whisper instead of a woman’s.

  “Who did this?” He pulled me into his arms, heat closing around me, his bare chest against mine. My back was brushed with softness—he had opened his wings and pulled me in. I shivered, my teeth chattering, more Power burned down my spine from his touch, warmth pulsing out from the mark on my shoulder. “What were you doing?” He didn’t shout—it was merely a murmur—but the furniture in the room groaned slightly as his voice stroked the air. It didn’t sound like my voice, the tone of throaty invitation. No, Japhrimel’s voice loaded itself with razorblades, the cold numbness of a sharp cut on deadened skin.

  “The g-g-gods c-c-called—” My teeth eased their chattering. He was warm, scorching, and he was here. “Down for a long time. Gods. Where were you?”

  He surged to his feet, carrying me. I felt the harsh material of his jeans against my hip, heard the clicking of bootheels as he carried me to the bed and sank down, cradling me. My sword rang softly, lying on the floor.

  Japhrimel held me curled against him like a child, warmth soaking into my skin. “What were you thinking? What did you do?”

  It had been a long time since I’d felt the cold of Death creeping up fingers and toes, sinking into my bones. “You were gone.” I couldn’t keep the petulant tone out of my voice, like a spoiled child with a hoarse, grown-up voice. “Where were you?”

  “You’re cold.” He sounded thoughtful, rubbing his chin against my temple, golden skin sliding against mine, a hot trickle of delight spilling up my back. “It seems I cannot leave for even a moment without you doing yourself some mischief. Stay still.”

  But I was struggling free of him. “You left me. Where were you? What did you do? Where were you?”

  “Stay still.” He grabbed my wrist, but I twisted and he let me go, my skin sliding free of steel-strong fingers. I arched away, but he had my other wrist locked, an instinctive movement. It didn’t hurt me—he avoided pressing on a nerve point or locking the rest of my arm, but it effectively halted me, making me gasp. “Just for a moment, be still. I will explain.”

  “I don’t want explanation,” I lied, and pushed at him with my free hand. “Let go.”

  “Not until you hear me. I did not want to leave you, but a summons from Hell is not ignored. I could not put it off any longer.”

  My heart thudded up under my collarbone, and I tasted copper. “What are you talking about? Let go!”

  “If you do not listen I will make you listen. We have no time for games, hedaira, though I would gladly play any game you could devise. But the Prince has called.”

  The words didn’t mean anything for the first few seconds, like all truly terrible news. Most of the fight went out of me. I slumped, and Japhrimel’s arm tightened. He released the wristlock and I shook my hand out, my head coming to rest on his shoulder. He pulled me closer, his wings brushing softly against my shoulder and calf. It was incredibly intimate. I knew enough, now, to know that a winged demon—those of the Greater Flight that had wings, at least—did not suffer those wings to be touched, or open them for anything other than flight or mating.

  Lucky me. Lucky, lucky me. Dear gods, did he just say what I think he said?

  “Do you hear me?” he whispered into my hair. “The Prince has called, hedaira.”

  I have been unable to contact him in the usual manner. Lucifer’s voice purred through my head. That had been during the hunt for Kellerman Lourdes and Mirovitch, the Prince of Hell sticking his elegant nose into my life again. In the mad scramble of events afterwards, I’d forgotten all about it. Psychic rape and the death of one of your closest friends can do that to you.

  Japhrimel was telling me that life was about to get very interesting again. I raised my head, hair falling in my eyes, and looked at him.

  His mouth was a tight line, shadows of strain around his dark eyes, a terrible sheen of something that could be sadness laid over the human depths I thought I knew.

  My hands shook. It had taken a long time for me to stop seeing Mirovitch’s jowly face printed against the inside of my eyelids, a long time before the aftermath of facing down my childhood demons of Rigger Hall faded to a nightmare echo.

  It still wasn’t finished. My entire body chilled, remembering the ka’s ectoplasm shoving its way down my throat and up my nose, in my ears, trying to shred through the material of my jeans while Mirovitch’s spectral fingers squirmed like maggots inside my brain, raping my memories. The only thing that saved me was my stubborn refusal to give in, my determination to strike back and end the terror for everyone else.

  That, and the Fallen demon who held me, who had stopped the ka from killing me. Who had searched until he found me, and burned my childhood nightmares to the ground simply because I asked.

  I looked at Japhrimel. The morning sunlight didn’t reach the bed, but reflected golden light was kind to his high balanced cheekbones and thin mouth. A terrible, paranoid thought surfaced, and I opened my big mouth. “You’re leaving me?” I whispered. “I… I thought—”

  His eyes sparked green. “You know I would not leave you.”

  It was too late. I’d already said it, already thought it. “If the Prince of Hell told you to, you might,” I shot back, struggling free of his arms, my feet smacking the floor. He let me go. I scooped up the fallen scabbard and made it to my sword, steel innocent and shining in the rectangle of sunlight from the window. Scooped up my blade and slid it home, seating it with a click. “What is it this time? He wants you back, you just go running like a good little demon, is that it? What does he want?”

  My shoulder flared, a tugging against the mark branded into my flesh. I ignored it.

  “You misunderstand, my curious.” Japhrimel’s voice was terribly, ironically flat. “The one the Prince seeks audience with is you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I turned so quickly my hair fanned out in a loose arc. Sunlight warmed my hip and knee, pouring in through the window. Japhrimel had stood up, and his long dark Chinese-collared coat was back, wings folded tightly as if armoring himself.

  As if he was the one who needed the armor.

  He watched me, his hands clasped behind his back again. “It seems that once again I am to ask you to face the Prince, Dante. There is… terrible news.”

  I swallowed dryly. “Terrible? When you say that, I suppose it means something different than when I say it.” Then the absurdity hit me—I was standing here naked, my entire body gone cold and tense with foreboding, talking to a demon. How did I get myself into these things? “Am I allowed to get dressed, or does Lucifer want to see me in the buff?”

  “If you wish to present yourself as a slave, I can hardly stop you.” The edge to his voice glittered and smoked like carbolic tossed across antigrav. “Try to rein your tongue for once. If I have meant anything to you, you must listen to me.”

  Slaves are naked in Hell? Yet another demon custom I don’t know about. The mad urge to giggle rose up inside of me and died away again. My jaw set itself like plasteel. “You have no idea what you mean to me,” I informed him, just as flatly as he’d ever spoken to me.

  “And vice versa. You are a selfish child sometimes. It could even be your particular brand of charm.”

  I lifted the sword slightly. “Do you want a sparring match, or do you want to explain to me why you left me while I was unconscious? And defenseless, I might add?”

  “I cannot imagine you defenseless.” Japhrimel stepped forward onc
e. Twice. He approached me slowly, as if I might bolt at any moment. I stood trembling at the edge of the sunlight and let him come near, my hand with the sword dropping. “I gave up my place in the Greater Flight of Hell for you. I am of the Fallen, and I have chosen to bind my fate to yours. Remember that.”

  The mark on my shoulder sent a burning tingle all through me. His hand brushed my elbow, slid up my arm to polish the bare skin of my shoulder, then slid under my hair, curling around my nape. He didn’t have to pull me forward, I leaned into him like a plant leans toward a window. “I have fended off the polite requests Lucifer has sent for your presence, and I have parried his less-than-polite requests. He has stopped asking and started summoning, hedaira, and he is an enemy we cannot afford to make. Not if we expect to keep living, and I find I have grown fond of life with you. Even this pale world has its beauty when seen through your eyes.” He dropped his face, spoke the last sentence into my hair. He inhaled, a slight shudder passing through him. My sword dropped the rest of the way, my arm hanging slack, the scabbard resting in my hand. “At the very least, I ask you to come and listen. Will you?”

  The lump in my throat made it difficult to talk. “Fine,” I rasped. “But don’t expect me to be happy about it. I hate him, I hate him, he killed you and I hate him.”

  The tension running through him drained away. “He did not kill me. I am here.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, so I let him pull me back to the bed and run his fingers through my hair. I let him kiss my shoulder, my cheek, and finally my mouth. I sighed as he folded me in his arms and spoke to me the way I understood best—the language of the body, an instinctive semaphore used to tell me once again that he was real. His mouth against mine, his body against mine, and the rough hungry fire of my own desire swallowing me whole—but tears slid down my cheeks as I gave myself up to him.

  I should have known things wouldn’t stay perfect forever.