Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  It reminded me of Japhrimel’s aura closing around mine, and I swallowed as heat rose to my cheeks. The mark on my shoulder was still numb, my left arm cold. Not the cold prickling numbness of Japhrimel gone dormant—I remembered that feeling. This was something new. Was he closing me out? Maybe. I’d seen through his eyes before, when I touched the ropy scars with bare fingertips; was he doing something he didn’t want me to see?

  Or was the mark fading? No, the flushing pulses of Power still coiled along my skin at even intervals, and I’d drawn on the mark, pulling magickal energy through it. I’d given up wondering if flooding me with Power was something Japh was doing consciously. Maybe it was just the overspill from his renewed status as a full demon.

  Fallen, with a demon’s power. I shivered and followed Selene. “No offense, but why are you being so helpful?” The doors swung open. They looked heavy, even for her slim Nichtvren strength.

  “Not many people visit Nikolai armed to the teeth. I was interested. You’ve got quite a reputation, you know.” Her hair swung as she closed the doors behind us. “Then the Eldest visited us. Nice-looking man.”

  My jaw threatened to drop. “Japhrimel came here?”

  “A few nights ago. He and Nikolai were talking in Putchkin Russe, very old Russe. I still can’t get the hang of that language, but at least it’s better than Politzhain. Politzhain is like talking through razor blades. Anyway, Nik was very quiet for a long time after the Eldest left. Still won’t say a word about it. But I’ve still got the books, so….”

  So Japh had come here our first night in town. Right after I’d visited Gabe, he’d left me with McKinley, and I’d been dead asleep. Goddammit, Japh. How could you?

  I found myself in a long, high-ceilinged room full of dimness and a crawling breathless sense of evil. My right hand closed around my swordhilt; Selene held up both white hands, her sweater sleeves falling back and exposing delicate wrists, both scarred with old, white ridged tissue. Nichtvren don’t usually scar. Where are those from? “Easy there, Valentine. It’s just the items.” She pitched the words deliberately low, deliberately soothing. She did have a beautiful voice, beautiful as the rest of her.

  “Items?” There were glass display cases, some of them holding full bookshelves. A cold exhaled breath of something cruelly evil behind all that glass touched my skin, and I felt it struggle to open one yellow eye before retreating, watching balefully.

  “Nikolai collects cursed objects. Says it’s better for them to be out of the way.” She dropped her hands. “There’s something here you should have.”

  “You’re going to give me a cursed object?” I made my hand unclench from the swordhilt. My fingers almost creaked. The Gauntlet’s weight grew colder, a shiver jolting up my arm and stopping at the scar in the hollow of my shoulder. The sense of being watched lessened, but still was enough to keep me on edge.

  “No. This is where he keeps the demonology books too. I’ve been studying since we last met. Besides, this is the one place his thralls don’t come. We won’t be overheard.” She glanced over my shoulder at the door. “This way.”

  I followed her. There, on a high shelf, a spider-shaped idol made of obsidian shifted restlessly as I glanced at it. A venomously glowing yellow orb pulsed on a shelf underneath it. Off to my left, a vaguely hover-shaped thing sat draped in a dustcloth. A rusted bucket perched in a glass case, exhaling desperate sadness.

  “Sekhmet sa’es,” I breathed. “He collects these? Doesn’t he care about the curses?”

  “He says he’s cursed enough, what does one more matter? Regrettable pessimist, that man. I keep trying to get him to loosen up and have a little fun. Here we are.” She stopped, brushed a tendril of dark-blonde hair out of her face. “Dante, there’s something else Tiens said, right before I sent him out to find you.”

  We faced a cube of glass. Inside sat a three-foot-high shelf of leatherbound books. I looked for a hinge or a door, any way into the glass. “What? How are you going to—”

  Her slender fist struck with enviable grace. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a kia. Instead, she brushed the glass—real glass, not plasglass—from her hand. The entire case crumpled, shivering with a lovely tinkling sound.

  “Tiens said the Eldest prizes your happiness and wants you kept unharmed. That’s a big thing when it comes to demons.”

  Prizes my happiness? He’s certainly not making me happy with this run-off-and-leave-me-alone business. But my heart gave a funny, melting little skip. “Oh, wow.” I couldn’t dredge up anything spectacular to say.

  She knelt, her knees crunching on glass. Ran her finger along the bottom edge of books. “I was curious after our last meeting. Did some quiet asking around. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for this, Esmerelda drives a hard bargain…. Here it is.” A slim volume almost fell into her hands. “Hedaraie Occasus Demonae. The only copy in the world. It’s rumored to be written by one of the last of the Fallen demons, back before they all died in some catastrophe or another. I can’t translate it, but maybe you can.”

  She reached her feet in one smooth movement. My shields thickened reflexively against the danger in the air. Some of the things in here probably weren’t asleep.

  Some of the curses in here probably never slept.

  “Do you know anything else?” My heart beat thinly in my throat. I don’t like the picture I’m beginning to get.

  “Just that it’s hard to get anyone to talk about the Fallen. Demons don’t like to, the Magi can’t force them into talking, and Magi won’t let a Nichtvren in on their secrets. And nobody knows what’s going on with Magi dying and imps running around causing damage. Nikolai’s fit to be tied.” Her dark-blue eyes were amused. “I do know a few things, though. You’re stronger than human, faster than human, and capable of using your Fallen’s Power. You’re his link to this world, if something happens to you….” She shook her head, the weight of her gold-streaked hair swinging.

  “So I’m basically a hostage if any other demon gets hold of me.” And here I was thinking everyone was in love with my sweet disposition and charming smile. “Great.”

  “I suppose so.” Her eyes were shadowed, now. “I was a hostage once, Dante. It’s not comfortable. If I could give you one piece of advice?”

  Oh, go ahead. I can’t stop you. “What?” I tried to sound gracious.

  “Don’t be too hard on your Fallen. He’s… well, he was very worried about your safety, from what I heard before he and Nik switched to Russian.” She held the book, swinging it gently, the edge of its cover bumping her hip. “Be kind to the Eldest. Do you know why demons Fall?”

  If he was so damn worried, why did he leave me alone with McKinley? Be kind to him? He lies to me, manipulates me—and you’re saying to be kind? “They don’t talk about it.” He says it’s love. If this is love, I’ll take a sparring session.

  Her smile was wonderful, just a curve of her beautiful lips, her eyes turning inward. “They give up Hell for the love of a mortal. It makes them helpless, and if there’s one thing a demon hates, it’s helplessness.”

  “How did you—” How long did it take you to find that out? Not as long as me, I’d bet. And demons aren’t the only ones who hate being helpless.

  “I’ve twisted a few arms.” Selene pressed the book into my hands. “Be careful with this. Now listen, you’d better get out of here. Go to the clinic on Fortieth and Napier. Ask for Mercy or Annette—they were working with your friend’s husband. And for God’s sake be careful, there’s a price on your head. Nikolai and I will do all we can to keep the werecain and other paranormals off your back, but it’s tricky. There’s a lot of mercenaries in town, and we can’t interfere too directly in a human affair or in anything involving demons. So don’t trust anyone. If you need a safe place to sleep, go to the House of Love on—”

  “Polyamour’s?” I tried to keep the disbelief out of my voice. “She’s mixed up in this?”

  “No, she’s not. Which is why she’s safe. She als
o has something for you—but after you take care of your business.” She paused. “I wish I could go with you. It’s been ages since anything really exciting happened.”

  “Yeah, well.” I’ve been abandoned by my demon lover, hit with hovers and reaction fire, and strangled by the Devil—again. Not to mention chased by hellhounds and nearly duped by a dumbass werecain. You can have the excitement, I’ll take being bored. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Her elegant nose wrinkled. “I remember enough excitement to value boredom too. It’s just wishful—” Selene cocked her head. “Oh, lovely. Here comes Nikolai. Hurry. Up the stairs there, go through the third door on the left. It’s only a two-story drop, and that window has a malfunctioning security latch. I was saving it for the next time I go out dancing. One last thing, Dante: don’t trust anyone. Including me. Demons are in town, and nobody’s safe when they get involved.”

  Don’t I know it. “Thank you,” I managed. “You’re honorable.” Polyamour has something for me? Of course. Comprehension bloomed under my skin. I’d been stupid; not guessing it. One less thing to worry about.

  She waved it away. “Go. I’ll delay Nik and Tiens.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The night was old and turning gray by the time I got to Fortieth and Napier. The streets were curiously hushed, even the Tank District; thin predawn drizzle dewed my hair with heaviness and made me acutely conscious of heat from my metabolism sending up tracers of steam from my skin.

  My left shoulder was heavy and numb, my entire left arm cold. I almost slid my hand under my shirt to touch Japhrimel’s mark. That fleeting contact would be enough for him to possibly track me, and I… missed him.

  If there’s one thing a demon hates, it’s helplessness. Well, that made us about even, I hate being helpless too. But it was a huge stretch to think of Japhrimel at anyone’s mercy, including mine. After all, he had no compunction about using superior strength to force me into being a good little obedient hedaira. Helpless? Him? Not bloody likely.

  But still.

  The only time I feel any peace is when you are safe, and I am near you.

  Maybe the helplessness wasn’t a physical thing.

  He had actually grabbed Lucifer’s hand and pushed the Devil back.

  The Gauntlet rang softly, like a block of ice touched by a sonic cutter. I didn’t want to think too much about that. It made my hands want to shake and my knees go a little softer than usual. Lucifer had intended to kill me, quite probably painfully. I was still looking at a very short lifespan without Japhrimel around to keep my skin whole, even with a demon artifact clapped on my wrist.

  I took advantage of the shadows across the street from the Danae Clinic. Their windows were boarded up, a smell of scorched plasteel and plurifreeze drifting across the street. I inhaled deeply, my nose sorting out the different tangs, and extended a tendril of awareness toward the clinic.

  I retreated as soon as my receptive consciousness touched the shields. Careful, heavy sedayeen and Shaman-laid shields, layers of energy pulsing and spiking. They had probably deflected most of the explosion, I caught no flavor of Power in the lingering echoes of the bomb. Just explosives, probably C19 or vaston. Which meant Mob work, most likely.

  The tang of sedayeen— violets and white mallow—slid a galvanic thrill through my bones. I hadn’t sought the company of a healer since Doreen’s murder.

  That thought made me shiver again, hearing my own harsh breath and feeling the claws tear through my human flesh again. Memory rose, swallowed me whole.

  “Get down, Doreen! Get down!”

  Crash of thunder. Moving, desperately, scrabbling… fingers scraping against the concrete, rolling to my feet, dodging the whine of bullets and plasbolts. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the razor glinting in one hand, his claws glittering on the other.

  “Game over,” he giggled, and the awful tearing in my side turned to a burning numbness as he slashed, I threw myself backward, not fast enough, not fast enough—

  I exhaled. My fingers were under the collar of my shirt, but instead of the mark they were playing with Jace’s necklace. It thrummed reassuringly under my touch, throbbing like a bad tooth implant.

  I rubbed the knobbed end of a baculum as I watched the clinic. Small movements in the shadows warned me I wasn’t the only one watching the place. I settled against the brick wall, feeling the bite of hunger under my ribs. The temptation to dig in my bag and fish out the book was almost overwhelming, but strictly controlled. I had no time for research now, I was on a hunt that would only get faster.

  They’re not going to open for a while. Go get some breakfast, Dante.

  Not while there was someone else watching. Whoever-it-was was well hidden, blending into the landscape. The brick was rough and cold against my hair as I leaned even deeper into the wall, buttoned down tightly, almost invisible.

  Selene was right. There were demons in Saint City, and things were getting unpredictable. The familiar mood of the cold pulsing heart of the city’s Power well had changed a bit, spiced and spiked with the musksmell of demons. I’ve noticed it before—when a demon or two moves in, the whole city starts to smell.

  Demons are, after all, credited with teaching humanity how to build cities. Yet another thing we can thank them for.

  Go over it again, Dante.

  Eddie had been working on something, and a biotech company was involved. He was murdered—and Gabe either wouldn’t quit digging or knew something dangerous about what he was working on. So she was executed. The little bottles of granular stuff and the papers with Skinlin notations were either a decoy—or they were what he’d been killed for. And someone who had no trouble getting inside her shields had been willing to spend the time and effort to tear apart Gabe’s house and go to the trouble of cleaning up psychic traces.

  That made whatever I was carrying a hot property. Not to mention the file—had Gabe lifted it from the Saint City PD before it could be copied? Or were there more copies in a police station somewhere?

  I had a few contacts on the police force from the days when I would take a turn doing apparitions to assist homicide investigations. Digging in the police department seemed the next logical choice after I found out whatever was at this clinic.

  A quiet place to go through Eddie’s file and the book Selene had given me would help. Two mysteries: what had killed my last two friends, and where the hell was Japhrimel? He’d seemed pretty insistent on not letting me out of his sight, and if I could be used to force him into joining Eve’s rebellion—and now that Lucifer had made it clear I was living on borrowed time—it made no sense for him to leave me alone with McKinley.

  Not to mention the added mystery of this treasure and the Key, whatever they were.

  Footsteps. Someone approaching.

  I faded even deeper into shadow. Listened, taking deep smooth breaths. Smelled a pleasant mix—the violets and white mallow of a sedayeen and the spiced honey of a Shaman.

  My right hand closed around my swordhilt. I tensed.

  They came into view, two women, neither carrying edged metal. Which usually means helpless. It always irks me to see a Shaman or Necromance without combat training—what good is being legally allowed and encouraged to carry weapons if you don’t take advantage of it?

  The irritation quickly turned to full-flowered anger as I noticed the skittering in the shadows of the alleys opposite me. I caught a glint of metal and heard the soft, definite snick of a projectile assault rifle’s safety being eased off.

  I was already moving.

  Reverse grip on swordhilt, tear the blade up, wet gray stink of intestines slithering loose. I kicked the fifth one, a snapping side kick that smashed his ribs on one side and sent him hurtling back. The momentum of the kick brought me around in a neat half-turn, sword singing up and making a chiming noise as I blocked the downsweep of the mercenary with the machete.

  They had good, corporate-laid shields. Some Magi had been paid to lay
a concealment on them so their blaring normal minds wouldn’t broadcast their presence to psionic victims. That alone told me they were up to no good—if they’d just been surveillance teams, they wouldn’t have had both concealments and enough projectile-weaponry to start a new riot in the Tank District.

  The fight was short, sharp, and vicious, ending with me flicking smoking human blood off my sword, Power flaring to clean the steel before it flickered back into its sheath. I grabbed the last one left alive—the merc whose ribs I’d shattered—and hauled him up, bone grinding in the mess of his chest.

  He was maybe thirty, sweating under his streaky gray camopaint, in standard merc assassin gear—a rig like mine, black microfiber jumpsuit, various clinking weaponry. His body shuddered, eyes glazing, my rings popped a shower of golden sparks as I shook him.

  “Don’t you dare die on me,” I snarled. “Who sent you? Give me a name and I’ll ease your passing.”

  I heard a low choked sound from the mouth of the alley—the sedayeen.

  I ignored it, shook the man again as he mumbled. “So help me Anubis, if you don’t tell me now I’ll rip the knowledge out of your soul once you’ve passed the Bridge.”

  I couldn’t, of course—I could only have someone question him as I held an apparition, as long as that person was trained in the protocol of questioning the dead. You can get misleading answers if you don’t phrase the questions right.

  Just like with demons.

  I couldn’t rip the knowledge free of his soul—but he was normal. He probably didn’t know that. I felt less guilty than I should have for even threatening it.

  “P-P-Po—” The man choked on blood as he tried to scream. I shook him again, his six-foot frame like a doll’s in my slim golden hands. My fingers tensed, driving my claws into his shoulders.

  A hand closed over my shoulder, and I almost slashed before I realized it was the sedayeen. A familiar deep smooth sense of restful Power slid down my skin, clearing my head and washing away some of the cold fury.

  “Let him go.” A clear, soft, sweet, young voice. “I can tell you who sent them. They’re Tanner Family goons.”