Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Who have you not broken faith with, Necromance?

  “Dante.” Japhrimel, softly, as if he didn’t want to disturb me. “It is your decision. I will spare him, as a gift to you. Still, he is a liability. This dog’s loyalty is to his masters.”

  The color drained from Leander’s face. It would have been funny, if I’d been in a humorous mood. Why anyone was scared of me while Japh was around was beyond me.

  Still, I considered Leander, holding his dark eyes with mine, my left thumb caressing the lacquer of the scabbard. The sword rang softly inside his sheath, just aching to be drawn.

  Compassion is not your strongest virtue, Danyo-chan. My teacher’s voice when he handed the sword to me, a warning I hadn’t known the depths of.

  Compassion. It kept fucking me up every time. Staying my hand when I should strike. Being honorable. Submitting to my god, or my ethics. Doing the right thing.

  What the hell was the right thing now? Had there ever been one right thing?

  I used to be so certain. Didn’t I used to know what to do, no matter what?

  “Leave him alone,” I said, finally. “Give him back his weapons. If he needs killing, I’ll do it.” I held Leander’s gaze with mine, and whatever he saw on my face could not have been pleasant. “If they’ve given you up for dead, Beaudry, I suggest you start rethinking where your loyalty lies.”

  With that, I turned on my heel and stalked for the cabin, just as the hoverwhine crested and we touched down on Sudro Merican soil.

  CHAPTER 24

  Caracaz was a center of resistance during the last third of the Merican Era, digging in its heels as the Evangelicals of Gilead rose and the Vatican Bank scandal began to unfold. When the Republic reached its height of power, Caracaz and Old Venezela were a major clearinghouse for supplies to be sent to Centro Merica, where Shamans and others fought the desperate guerilla battles against the Republic’s tide. Psions flooded over the borders during the Awakening, joining in the fight against the Gilead fanatics who considered us subhuman, worthy only of extermination—just like anyone else who got in their way.

  In pretty much every language now, Gilead is a dirty word. Republic isn’t far behind. You can only fight the whole world for so long before the world starts fighting back, a lesson the Evangelicals didn’t learn while they choked on their own blood after the Seventy Days War. But then, fundamentalists aren’t bright thinkers. Fanaticism tends to blind people.

  Caracaz is built with plasteel and sandy-colored preformed concrete. The ambient Power tastes like coconut oil, hot spicy food, and sweat, with the bite of petroleo underneath it. The crash of petroleo as an energy source had hit here hard, but the War and its buildup provided the city with the chance to become a major trade hub, which the entire country grabbed with both hands. Or it should be said, which the anarcho-syndicalist collectives who had taken over day-to-day running of the country after the crash seized with all hands. The Venezela territory is still administered by those collectives, which make it the nearest thing to a Freetown in the Hegemony.

  The old proverb is, In Caracaz you can make ten fortunes in a week—and lose fifteen. Just about anything can be bought or sold here, and head on its way in less than an hour to another port. Only in Shanghai is turnover quicker.

  In short, it’s so busy it’s easy to hide a hover. Which was great, since we weren’t inconspicuous, in a freight transport the size of a small building.

  We landed in a deep transport well, the hover powering down. It was an anonymous berthing, at least until someone started running registry traces. How many people were looking for me now? How many were looking for Eve?

  There was a knock on the door, very polite. I turned away from the porthole, where I had been staring blankly at strips of reactive and double-synaptic relays, feeling the familiar urban wash, the surfroar of many minds squeezed into square miles. Japhrimel’s borrowed Power kept the screaming chaos away. If he withdrew it, my shields were in no shape to cope, even with the repair work going on. And forget about taking a direct hit, sorcerous or psionic.

  I was as vulnerable as it was possible to be, without him. It was a wonder the connections inside my head hadn’t fused, turning me into a mumbling idiot.

  Should I call that good luck, or bad?

  Vann opened the door, his face set and composed, shades of brown overlapping and the whites of his eyes startling. A brief glance, then he stared at the floor. “Jaf wants you.” A pause, letting me absorb the fact that they used the shortest version of his name, when they weren’t calling him my Lord. Just like I had when I’d first met him. “If you would like to come, that is.” So excessively polite.

  I wonder what new parade of heartstopping excitement he’s got planned next. Another decoy? I rolled my shoulders back, settling the rig more securely, and gave Vann my best fuck you, sunshine glare. “Am I really all that necessary?”

  The Hellesvront agent didn’t even blink. He moved into the cabin, smoothly, freeing himself from the door. “To him. So, to us.” Another pause, letting me digest an all-new cryptic comment. “Hellesvront is the Prince’s toy, but McKinley and I—and some others—were recruited by Jaf. We’re his shadow organization, his vassals inside. Something happens to him, we’re left without protection. Sometimes the only thing keeping a demon from unzipping your guts is fear of the other demon—the one you belong to. So we’d like to keep you breathing. For his sake.”

  Well, that’s a nice bit of news. “Glad to hear it.”

  “You should be.” Vann’s thin mouth stretched into a mirthless grin. “If we didn’t, there’d be no place on earth you could hide.”

  I stared past him, at the slice of the main chamber, the shape of the hull giving it an odd distortion. “You know, that sounds an awful lot like a threat.” My throaty whisper, a Necromance’s voice with an overlay of demon seduction, turned cold. The small flaming thread running through the bottom of my head paused, swelling slightly.

  It would be so easy, even if he was armed to his shiny bright teeth. Even if his stance shifted slightly, shoulders coming up a fraction and his weight pitching a little forward, ready to move in any direction if I exploded.

  I didn’t blame him.

  “Not a threat. The truth.” He stepped back, aiming for the door, and edged out, not looking directly at me. It was the way he might ease out of the cage of a not particularly tamed or predictable animal. His soft shoes made no noise against the grated flooring. He didn’t even breathe loud enough.

  Go away. Just go away. I unfocused my eyes and stared at his moccasins, the way his feet moved inside supple thick leather.

  He vanished. I let my vision stay hazy for a few moments, breathing deep and soft until the rage retreated, folding back down into its bright ribbon.

  “I don’t like it,” Lucas muttered darkly, glancing back over his shoulder at me. “Leavin’ him there is just an invitation for ol’ Blue-Eyes to get loose.”

  “It matters little.” Japhrimel walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his long dark coat moving fluidly. The heat painted every surface, a wet Sudro Merican heat smelling of tamales, rice, beef cooked in spices, and the ever-present coconut oil. I’d gone from Chomo Lungma’s deep-freeze to this, and I wasn’t unhappy. This weather was purely, blessedly human.

  Vann and McKinley flanked me, McKinley hanging back on my right, Vann close enough to touch me on my left. Between them, Japhrimel, and Lucas, I was beginning to feel hemmed-in. They surrounded me like Mob bodyguards around a Family Head.

  I shot a look back myself at the hover, drifting gently in its berthing. Leander was locked in the cabin I’d just vacated, and Eve was in the hold, surrounded by a thin silver line.

  Japhrimel pressed the button for the cargo lift. “If the Necromance sets her free, where will she go? Lucifer will not care what prey is snared in his nets, and will not treat her kindly now. I am her only chance, and my hedaira is her only chance for mercy. No, I think the Androgyne will remain our guest for some t
ime.”

  I eyed the metal grating. There was an elevator not thirty steps away, along the curve of the platform. A hot wind blew steadily up from the depths of the well, air buffeted by reactive and antigrav.

  Thank the gods we’re not taking the lift. I couldn’t stand it. The thought of being trapped in such a small space made prickles race up my back, spreading down my arms. The claustrophobia was getting worse. I wondered if it was stress.

  In fact, I wondered so hard I didn’t hear the conversation, slapping myself back into awareness as the cargo lift shuddered to a halt. Pay attention, Danny. Don’t wander.

  I’d been doing more and more of that, lately. All through the hunt for Gabe and Eddie’s killer. Staring off into the distance, thinking about the past.

  As a coping mechanism, it sucked.

  The cargo lift was open plasteel meshwork, no walls to close the air out. I was grateful for that, at least, even though the agents pressed closer and Lucas eyed me speculatively.

  We spilled out onto a Caracaz street, all hot sunshine and bright colors. They paint the sandy concrete in primary colors, outside. Under that sun it’s an assault, the head reeling and the breath suddenly stopped by a riot of color. The crowd wasn’t bad, but we were still outside a transport well. Hovers lifted off every few moments, their rattling whine cycling up as they rose to take their places in the complicated pattern overhead, run by an AI in realtime and watched over by failsafes. Others landed, a stream of blunt reactive-painted undersides feeding into the well.

  Japhrimel looked up, taking his bearings. He looked suddenly out of place, a tall golden-skinned man in a long black coat under the oppressive yellow weight of sunlight. The world spun underfoot. I blinked against the assault of light, the unfamiliar weight of Japhrimel’s shielding over mine restrictive, bearing down and squeezing me into my skin.

  Japh finally tilted his head back down. He reached back with one hand, his fingers open, and I didn’t think twice, just stepped forward and laced mine into them.

  “Walk with me,” he said, as if there was nobody else around. It was suddenly like every other time I’d ever been beside him, close to the not-human heat from his skin.

  Even my rage retreated from him.

  “Where are we going?” I finally thought to ask.

  “To see a Magi. It’s not far.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It’s not hard to hide in cities. That is, in the right parts of cities. As a bounty hunter, you get the feel for a place where nobody asks questions—the red light districts, the bordellos and hash dens, the places where a drink makes you friends and another drink makes you liable to get killed one way or another. Places where the air is thick with sex and violence, psychic static to hide even the stain of a demon on the ether.

  Unfortunately, we were in the wrong part of Caracaz. It was a quiet, upscale neighborhood, and we walked down a sidewalk in the shade of giant genespliced palms, broad fronds fluttering and drenching the sidewalk with relative coolness. There were no crowds and precious little cover.

  So we walked along, two Hellesvront agents, Lucas in his worn boots and bandoliers strapped across his chest, his shoulders hunched, and one tall demon with eyes that glowed even through Caracaz’s hot sunlight.

  And me. I was beginning to feel more and more conspicuous. Almost naked.

  The houses were large, high sand-colored walls surrounding gardens that peeped through iron gates. Several had shimmers of shielding over them, each with its particular tang—a Shaman’s spiked honey-smell, another with the earth-taste of a Skinlin. At least Japh’s shielding didn’t stop me from Seeing here.

  Welcome to the psionic district. I wonder who’s peering out the curtains, seeing us coming for dinner. The thought of psions running to their windows, peeking at us like old grannies, drew a sharp bitter humor up in my throat.

  “Do you think he’s home?” Vann stepped carefully, amazingly quiet for someone with so much metal strapped to him.

  “He’d better be,” McKinley replied, shortly.

  Japhrimel didn’t even slow down, though his steps were shorter to compensate for mine. He strode right up to a low, pretty villa behind a scrolled-iron fence, the walls blocked in red and yellow, harlequin paint screaming in the heat of the day and covered with a nervous, shifting mass of energy. I catalogued it before I could stop myself—Magi, with the subtle spice-tang that meant both active and demon-dealing.

  Japh broke stride only once, to wait for the gates. They were already opening on silent maghinges, the curtain of energy parting to let us through.

  Someone’s expecting us. Knock knock, demon calling. I kept a straight face with difficulty. The front of the house, pillared to within an inch of its life and covered with yellow and blue mosaic—I suppressed a shudder—yawned sleepily and regarded us with falsely closed eyes, each window blind with polarized glass.

  The door was a concrete monstrosity hung on mag-hinges and reinforced with shielding so strong it sent a weak glimmer even through the vicious sunshine. Someone’s paranoid, was my first thought. And, I wish I’d had shielding like that when Japh came to my door the first time.

  Too late, sunshine.

  Japh didn’t even knock. He simply stepped close to the door and stopped, regarding it with a narrow green gaze.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The door creaked, the shielding’s shimmer pulsing. A slice of cool darkness grew as someone pulled it open, frictionless hinges working slowly with the mass.

  A breath of cooler air slid out, fragrant with musk, spice, and the thick sweetness of kyphii. The Magi in the door was well over six lanky feet tall, with large paddlefish hands and skin shaded a rich dark cocoa. His chiseled lips set themselves in something less than a grimace, despite the laugh lines bracketing his mouth and fanning from his chocolate eyes. He wore a loose indigo tunic and a pair of blue canvas pants with enough pockets and loops to make any plasteel worker proud. Bare feet resting gently against the floor, placed just so, told me he was combat trained. The scimitar riding his back, its hilt topped with a star sapphire, told me so as well, quietly and with no fuss.

  He watched Japhrimel the way I might watch a poisonous snake hanging on a tree branch right before it’s hurled at me.

  “Anton.” Japh got right to the point. “Your services are required.”

  The ripple of fear spiking through the smell of dying human cells plucked at my control. My lips parted, the fear scraping against raw edges on my shielding, taunting. My Magi-trained memory gave a twitch, sending a hook through dark waters, fishing for a name to match the familiarity of his face. His tat, fluorescing with Power and inked with dullglow to make it visible against his skin, was a Krupsev, its spurs and claws fitting nicely on his cheek.

  Then I had him. I’d seen the newspapers and holostills, not to mention the retrospectives. “Anton Kgembe.” I was too shocked to whisper. “But you’re dead!”

  The Magi’s eyes flicked to me, their irises so dark the pupil was almost indistinguishable. “So they tell me.” His voice had the crispness of Hegemony Albion, each syllable precisely weighted. “My Lord. You are welcome in my house, and your companion as well.” He stepped aside, and Japhrimel moved forward, taking me with him.

  “You have not lost your courtesy.” Japh’s tone veered from politeness toward amusement, settled somewhere between. A cool draft folded around us, and Lucas made a slight tuneless whistling sound as his worn boots touched the floor.

  Inside, it was dark before my eyes adapted. The floor was bare stone, the interior walls mellow wood hung with loose linen hangings and a few priceless, restrained pieces—mostly masks, none prickling with life or awareness but still gorgeous and worth a great deal to any Shaman for their aesthetics alone.

  The Magi padded in front of us, his back very straight and the sandpaper perfume of fear roiling off his aura. He didn’t look like the most powerful Magi in the world, and he further didn’t look like a man who had died years ago in an industrial accident. He
looked healthy and unassuming, just like any other combat-trained psion wandering around. He didn’t even seem all that twitchy.

  He also didn’t look like the most dangerous Left Hand theorist around, the one who had single-handedly revised the entire canon of those who worship the Unspeakable. Kgembe’s Laws, four principles of dealing with Left Hand magick, had been standardized only because they were so effective the Hegemony and Putchkin Alliance needed some way of dealing with practitioners who used them for purposes outside the law. In other words, he was responsible for one of the biggest cover-your-ass moments in Hegemony psionic-affairs history.

  All things considered, I figured he had a legitimate reason for wanting to be dead.

  He’s a Left Hander. That means dangerous and not particularly careful about casualties all in one pretty package. I suppressed a shiver. Japh’s arm tightened around my shoulders. The scar sent another warm oil-bath down my skin.

  “Might I inquire what I’ll be doing for you, my Lord?” Kgembe’s tone hadn’t altered its crisp politeness. The Hegemony Albion stiff upper lip at its finest. The doors closed with a click, sealing us in coolness and quiet, the walls thrumming with shielding that felt familiar because it was demon-laid.

  I was beginning to suspect I knew which demon.

  Japhrimel glanced down at me, his face unreadable. “You will be opening a door into Hell, and keeping it open long enough for one demon to pass through.”

  I slammed the Knife down on the tabletop. Glass cracked with a sound like projectile fire, a single well-placed shot. I didn’t even feel bad for killing someone else’s furniture. “No.” My voice cracked too, like a young boy’s.

  The small room was lined with bookshelves, its polarized windows looking onto a central courtyard teeming with lush green. A bird feeder stood on a graceful curve of iron just outside, and a fountain plashed musically, audible even through the glass.

  “There is no other way.” Japhrimel’s face was set and drawn, his eyes veiled as he stared at the Knife. “Creating a scene does not help.”