I snarled back, lips peeling from my teeth. Frustrated fury rose under my breastbone. I was happy to have the outlet—too happy, adrenaline overtaking good sense. I’d make a mistake, this thing was too quick for me to have a chance of winning the fight. Heart pounding, sweat sliding down my back and soaking into the waistband of my jeans—it took a lot of effort to make me sweat, nowadays.
It backed up, one slow fluid uncoordinated step at a time, growling all the while. I considered advancing, my ribs flaring with deep harsh breaths. My left leg burned, high on the thigh—had it gotten me? I honestly couldn’t remember.
Darkness breathed between streetlights. Fiske Avenue was utterly still. My aura pulled close, demon shields pulsing, my rings spitting golden sparks. The mark on my shoulder had settled into a slow steady burn, as if flesh had been partly torn away but not yet started to bleed. The wristcuff squeezed mercilessly, I almost heard small bones in my wrist splintering. A ragged huff of breath left my lungs; I tried frantically to think of something else to do. Throwing a runespell or two at it, or a tracker, would probably not work—I’d tried a tracker on an imp once, and gotten a head-ringing case of backlash for my trouble. Japhrimel had made the other hellhound rot with a word in the demon language, but he had also refused to teach me any of his native tongue.
A plasbolt raked in from the side, splashing on the creature’s hide. It shook its head, stunned, and I threw myself back as Leander and Lucas, both firing, yelled something shapeless.
The hellhound thudded to the ground, its hide smoking.
I looked up. Leander was white-faced, staring at me like I’d grown a new set of kobolding arms. Lucas’s upper lip curled. He looked grimly pleased, yellow eyes blazing.
I tried not to gasp, failed miserably. My heart raced, thudding as if it intended to fling itself out through my ribs and dance a few nightclub kicks on the pavement of Fiske Avenue. Sweat dripped, stinging, in my eyes. “We’d better… get out… of here.”
“You think it’s dead?” Lucas kept his gun trained on the loose lump of hide and shadow. I saw no flicker of movement, was unconvinced.
“No. Probably just stunned. Come on, let’s go!” I regained my breath with an effort, Lucas tossed me my scabbard. My hand flashed, caught it, the cuff was back to dull silver on my wrist. I flipped my hand palm-up, palm-down; there was no space in the Gauntlet anymore. Dammit, how did that happen? It was a solid band of metal welded to my wrist above my datband, and its sudden chill was enough to cause a swift flash of pain through my temples. Not going to think about that right now. It just helped save my life, good enough, let’s go! “Anubis et’her ka, let’s not stand around!”
We left the stunned hellhound lying slumped in the middle of the street, and I had the uncharacteristic urge to glance over my shoulder all the way to Abra’s. I even did glance back once or twice, unsure of what I expected to see—another low fluid hellhound shape, or a pair of green eyes and a long black coat.
It’s anyone’s guess which would have scared me more.
CHAPTER 15
This part of the Tank District had grown even more forlorn. Half the streetlamps on Klondel were dead and dark, either broken or fallen out of service. From the rooftop of the row of buildings Abra’s pawnshop was in, the darkened streetlights looked like spaces left by broken teeth. A flock of unregistered hookers milled in dark doorways, and hovers with privacytint and magcoding crawled streetside, cruising the strip. I smelled sour human sweat, decay, synth-hash and the salt-sweet odor of Clormen-13.
Chill.
Chill always raises my hackles. Chillfreaks in Saint City seem to smell worse than anywhere in the world. Maybe it’s the radioactive cold of the city’s Power well. Maybe it’s just the rain giving everything a musty smell. I hate Chill anyway; the drug is instantly addictive and a blight upon the urban landscape. I’ve lost good friends to Chill and Chill junkies, starting with my foster-father Lewis and continuing down the years in successive waves. Each time a new flood of Chill hits the street someone—or several someones—dies.
Leander came through the shadows, flitting down the street as if trying to stay unremarked. He did a good job, showing just enough of a flicker of movement to make an onlooker believe he wanted to stay unseen.
“Let’s go in,” Lucas wheeze-whispered in my ear. He stood by the hatch, I melted away from the low wall sheltering Abra’s roof. “After you, chica.”
I jammed my sword into the loop on my belt and dropped into the dark hole, negotiating the slick iron ladder with little trouble. It took my weight easily, something I was glad of. Denser muscle and bone gave me more strength, but also made me a little too heavy to trust sometimes-rickety human construction. My left leg throbbed, my jeans flopping loosely. Black demon blood had coated the slice from the hellhound’s claws and healed it, but I still moved gingerly.
Lucas followed. I heard the whine of an unholstered plasrifle as my feet touched dusty wood floor.
“Dammit, woman,” Lucas rasped. “Put that thing away!”
“Sorry.” Abra didn’t sound sorry at all. She rarely did.
I turned slowly, keeping my hands away from weapons. The attic was low and dusty, the roofhatch sealed and magshielded now, and I felt the crackle of magickal shields springing back into place. Abra had been expecting us.
My nostrils flared, demon-acute eyes piercing the dimness with little trouble.
She looked just the same.
Abracadabra had long, dark, curly hair and liquid dark eyes, a nondescript triangular face with a pointed chin. A blue and silver caftan fell to her slim ankles, sandaled brown feet met the floor but rested only lightly. Large golden hoops dangled in her ears, peeking out from under her hair.
The shop’s smell—beef stew with chilies, dust, human pain—was the same. But Abra, of course, didn’t smell human. She smelled like sticky dry silk and short bristly hairs, a smell that rubbed me the wrong way. Japhrimel hadn’t liked her, and if his instinctive response was anything like mine I could see why. But I’d never had any trouble dealing with her while I was human. Even afterward, running infrequent messages between her and Jado, I never had cause to complain. She was always the same, mind-numbingly cautious and looking to drive a hard bargain. She never left her pawnshop, and I had amused myself several times by trying to deduce exactly which paranormal species she was.
The Spider of Saint City blinked her long lashes at me. “Valentine. Might have known. You’re trouble all over.”
Oh, if you only knew. “It’s not my fault I’m a popular girl, Abra. How are you?”
Her lip curled. “Be a lot better if Nichtvren and ’cain weren’t showing up at my door. Where’s the demon?”
So she knew Japhrimel was in town, and connected to me. Sometimes I wondered how much she knew that she didn’t tell. “I left him at home tatting lace. And you like being in the thick of things; you get all your information that way.”
Abra tilted her head. “The Necromance is here. Your idea?”
“Lucas’s.” I moved aside as Lucas leapt down, landing cat-silent. “Are you sure you trust him unattended?”
“What, like he’ll steal from me?” A mirthless little-girl giggle, she made a complicated parade-drill movement, ending up with the plasrifle slung over her shoulder like an old-time bandido. “Come on down, I’ll make tea. This is a complex situation.”
“You better believe it. Abra, Gabe Spocarelli’s dead. So’s Eddie Thornton. And I’m hunting their killers.” Dust stirred in the air.
Silence. Finally, Abra sighed. “Come on down.” Was it my imagination, or did she sound weary? “You’re not going to like this.”
Abracadabra Pawnshop We Make Miracles Happen was stenciled on the front window with tired gold paint, and the windows were dark with privacy-tint. That was a new trick, Abra had never been the tinted type before. Racks of merchandise stood neatly on the wood floor, slicboards and guitars hung up behind the glassed-in counter that sparkled dustily with jewelry. Her stock
did seem to rotate fairly frequently, but I’d never seen anyone come into Abra’s to buy anything physical.
No, we come to the Spider of Saint City for information.
There was a rack of the new, hot Amberjion pleather jackets, with shoulderpads up to the ear; a display of antique chronographs stood in a plasilica cube on one counter. Otherwise, it looked just the same as it always had.
Nice to have a friend that doesn’t age.
Leander leaned hipshot against the counter, studying a display of necklaces. His eyes flicked every so often to the door, and his hand rested on his swordhilt. “Any eyes?” I asked.
“Two. A ’cain two alleys up, and someone right across the street.” He shrugged. “I made sure both of them saw me.” His dark eyes were alive; he was enjoying himself.
Not too much, I hope. I sighed, rubbing at my eyes with one shaking hand. I’d just fought off a hellhound.
A hellhound. Japhrimel had told me to run if I ever saw one; they had been used to hunt hedaira in the time of the first A’nankhimel, the Fallen Lucifer had destroyed because one of them might possibly breed and spawn an Androgyne, a demon capable of reproducing.
Like Lucifer himself. Like Eve.
Now I had more of the story verified. Temples and priestesses, and the demons who traded a piece of their power and got something in return.
Japh bargained to get a demon’s Power back—he’s different now. And so am I, if I share some measure of that Power.
I shivered, and Abra handed me a screaming-orange pottery mug. She looked a lot more comfortable perched behind the counter in her habitual space. “Here. Tea.” By far the most civil she’d ever been. “You and Spocarelli were tight, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Lucas took up a position on the far side of the room, settling between a rack of slicboards and a wooden box holding different-sized pairs of combat boots. His yellow eyes slitted but I wasn’t fooled, he didn’t look tired at all. Despite the floppy blood-crusty rip in his shirt, he looked very alert indeed. We matched, both of us bloody and air-dried.
I was beginning to believe I was still alive. The mark on my shoulder remained curiously numb. Was Japhrimel tracking me?
I hope so. This is getting ridiculous. I nodded, blew across the top of the mug to cool the liquid. “Way tight. Someone pumped Eddie full of enough projectile lead to trade him in at the metalyard, they did the same to Gabe in her own backyard.” I didn’t mention Gabe’s daughter. One thing at a time. My tone was flat, terribly ironic through the lump in my throat. “I promised Gabe I’d take out Eddie’s killers. He was working on something, I guess.”
“I know. I got a visit from a Shaman—Annette Cameron. Works at that clinic on Fortieth, a sedayeen commune attached to a Chill rehab.” Abra’s lip curled.
“There’s no rehab for Clorman-13,” I muttered habitually. “Okay.”
Abra didn’t respond. Everyone knows how I feel about Chill. “Seems Eddie was working with the sedayeen out there. You might want to try it. Anyway, Annette was anxious to find you.”
“Just like everyone else.” I’m just the most popular girl around nowadays. Even demons want a piece of me.
“Yeah.” Abra reached slowly beneath the counter and drew out a white envelope with a heavy, old-fashioned blob of wax sealing it. “And a Nichtvren came, with this. Said to give it to you.”
I broke the seal without looking and tore out a piece of heavy hand-made linen paper that felt rich and perfumed against my fingertips. The dusty, deliciously wicked smell of Nichtvren clung to the paper.
It was a very brief note.
Miss Valentine, I have information for you. Come to the nest at your convenience; I’m not hard to find.
It was signed Selene. The consort of the Nichtvren Master of Saint City, the prime paranormal Power. Nikolai.
One scary son of a bitch.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “The suckheads love me.”
“If they love you, the ’cain must hate you. There’s a contract going around, two hundred thou for your delivery, alive even if messed up, to a buyer on the East Side. Bounty hunters, werecain, and mercs are all jumping at the bait.” Abra’s jaw set, her caramel skin tight over her bones. “I don’t have to tell you what it’s costing me to keep quiet.”
I tucked the note in a pocket, picked up my mug, and took a cautious sip. Vanilla-spiked tea, very sweet, oddly calming. “And here I thought we were friends.” Bounty hunters? “If bounty hunters are after me, there must be a claim registered with the Hegemony ’net.”
Abra shrugged. “Not necessarily, if they want to keep it quiet. There was also some spliced son of a bitch from Pico-PhizePharm, name of Massadie.” Her gold earrings quivered as she shook her head. “Threw money at me and acted like he was going to pay me more if I dug up anything on you. Stupid. But what you should be worried about is the Mob. They’ve got some serious hard-on for you. If I didn’t have such a good working relationship with the Tanner Family they might have tried to torch my shop.”
Tanner Family? They must be new. “What about the Chery Family?” There was no love lost between me and the Mob, but if I could play one Family off against another I might be able to continue on my way unmolested.
Abra made a short snorting noise of disapproval. “Chery’s been eradicated, along with every other major player. Tanner’s the only game in town.”
When did that happen? Gods, I’m out of touch. “Great.”
“For their profit margins, yeah. Not so good for the rest of us.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Abra. Now give me the real dirt.”
The ensuing silence was so long I set the mug down and let my eyes meet hers. Her long dusky finger lay alongside her long, slim nose. Her hair was glossy and her cheeks slightly pink. Abra looked plump, well-fed. Business must have been good lately.
“I hate to say it, Danny, but what are you going to pay me?” Her eyes were dark and velvety, fixed on mine, and I saw a sparkle deep inside them. The sparkle off bloody bits of metal as a survivor picked through the battlefield, dispatching the wounded and picking pockets.
Picking pockets? Like Gabe’s pockets, soaked with blood and holding a holostill of a toddler with merry eyes?
I don’t even remember moving. The next thing I knew, I had Abra against the wall behind her counter, my left hand around her throat and her feet dangling as she tore at my fingers with her slim brown hands. She gagged, my aura turned hard and hot, and I heard Leander swear. Lucas blurted something shapeless that ended with, “—get it, she’s fuckin’ crazy, back off!”
I squeezed. Abra’s dark eyes bugged, she made a thick strangled noise. The cuff on my left wrist rang softly, and so did my sword.
I was past caring.
“You listen to me,” I said, very softly. I sound like Japhrimel. A horrible nasty laugh rose inside of me, was squashed, and died away. “I like you, Abra. Any other hunt I’d pay you anything your little heart desired. But not now.” My tone didn’t reach above an even whisper, a Necromance’s usual voice. The wall shivered behind her, plasglass display cases and windows creaking and groaning as the mark on my shoulder lit with a fierce, pleasant pain. I felt as if I stood in the center of a humming vortex of magick, as if a Major Work had been triggered and was gathering itself to leap through time and space to work my Will, undeniable and absolute. “I don’t care who’s after me. I don’t care who would pay you how much for jackshit. This is personal. Whoever killed Gabe and Eddie is going down. You get in my way and I will go right over you. Clear?”
I eased up a little, and she hissed, her eyes lighting with inhuman fire.
“Clear?” I didn’t shake her, but it was close. So close. I trembled with the urge, fire spilling through me from the mark on my shoulder. I’d actually drawn on it, pulled magickal force from the scar.
How the hell—I didn’t know I could do that! But it made sense. I was Japhrimel’s link to the human world, and the scar was the link between us. There was Power
there for the taking—and I wasn’t as wary as I should be about using it.
Any tool to get the job done, Danny.
“Clear,” she rasped. Her eyelids flickered, and she’d gone chalky under her dusky skin. I dropped her. I’d never been behind the counter before, and was vaguely surprised to see that the floor here was just like the rest of the store—mellow dusty hardwood. Nothing special except a few weapons and shelves of paper-wrapped oddments waiting for different people. It was a little disappointing.
Abra rubbed her throat and darted me a venomous glance. “That wasn’t necessary,” she rasped.
I felt suddenly sick under the bald edge of rage. I’d been held against a wall and throttled, I knew what it felt like. Why had I done it to Abra, of all people?
The vision of Gabe, lying broken and dead, rose in front of me again. That’s why. Because you were too late to save her, you slept in. Maybe because of Japhrimel, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Now the only thing left is revenge.
If I was going to go for revenge, I might as well go all the way. Which brought up an interesting question: would I be able to stop when I killed whoever had slaughtered Eddie and Gabe? I might as well declare open war on Japhrimel for going after Eve—and pursue revenge on Lucifer himself for the mess he’d made of my life.
I realized with a kind of horror that I had no real problem with that. It was only a question of how. Access to whatever Power I could draw through the scar was in the asset column, but my own chill rational consideration of ways and means frightened me. When did I get so cold? Something’s very wrong with me.
“Let’s take it from the top.” My voice sounded just the same—flat, whispering, and sharp as a razor drawn over numb skin. The Gauntlet chilled, sending a wave of cold up my arm, pushed back by the heat of the scar. “In great detail, Abra.”
Oh, gods above. I don’t sound like Japhrimel.
I sound like Lucas.
CHAPTER 16
The tea had turned to cold swill, but I finished it anyway and dropped the last of my bankroll on Abra’s counter. She could tell me precious little—just that a biotech company was somehow tied up in Eddie’s work, perhaps bankrolling it; someone wanted me dead; the Mob wanted me brought in; the Nichtvren wanted to see me, and the werecain—who knew what they wanted? Revenge, maybe, I’d killed a couple ’cain awhile ago during the hunt for Mirovitch. They have long memories.
Dante Valentine Page 107