Saint City Sinners

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I never thought I’d live to see Abracadabra ask me that with her eyes wide like a frightened child’s. I looked away, toward the privacy-tinted windows. Out there in the streets were Mob freelancers and assassins, corpclones and bounty hunters—not to mention werecain and Nichtvren—all waiting for a piece of me. Lucky me, dropping into the middle of a turf war and not even realizing it.

  “First I’m going to go out your back door,” I said tonelessly. “Then I’m going to start digging. I want you to put the word out, Abra. Tell everyone who comes to you that whoever hit Gabe and Eddie should put their estate in order. ’Cause when I get finished with them, even another Necromance isn’t going to be able to bring them back.” I paused. It wasn’t for effect, but Abra’s eyes widened.

  “Danny . . . be careful.” She folded her arms. “Although you’re never careful, that’s how you ended up smelling like a demon.”

  That reminded me. “You know of any Magi willing to let go of trade secrets for a price, Abra?”

  “No.” The gold hoops shivered as she shook her dark head, looking puzzled. “Closemouth bastards. Why?”

  The mark on my left shoulder pulsed slightly, responding to the thought of Japhrimel. The almost-constant pulses of Power had settled into a rhythm, one I welcomed despite the way they made my skin crawl. I drew on this mark, I could do it again. Will that tell Japhrimel where I am? “I need to get some more answers about demons. And Fallen. And hedaira.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You mean you—”

  If one more person said You mean you don’t know? I was going to scream. I knew enough, I just had to figure out how to make it work for me.

  I headed for the stairs behind the Employees Only door. “I’m going out the back. Spread the word, Abra. Whoever hit Gabe and Eddie is dead, they just don’t know it yet.”

  Lucas fell into step behind me.

  “Valentine?” Leander sounded uncertain.

  He’s human, and he could have died back there facing down a hellhound. I’m too dangerous to hang out with, even for combat-trained psions. This is going to get real interesting really quickly. “Go home, Leander. Forget all about this.” I ducked through the door, my boots moving soundlessly. “We’re even.”

  “Valentine—Valentine! Dante!”

  But I shut the door and threw the deadbolt, sure Abra would have a key and just as sure she wouldn’t give it to him right away. She was never one to give anything, and Leander couldn’t effectively threaten her. If he decided to go out the front door she’d delay him for a few minutes, long enough for Lucas and me to vanish.

  Lucas matched me step for step. We made it up the stairs, he pushed in front of me and led me up the ladder to the attic in the top hall; we pulled it up after ourselves, hinges squeaking. “Which one we gonna do first?” he finally asked as I fitted the attic hatch back into its seating. He fiddled with the trapdoor leading to the roof.

  “The werecain. He’s the bigger mystery. We’ll get him roped up and then you can chat with our other set of eyes. Meet me tomorrow at the corner of Trivisidiro and Fourth, at dusk. Have I thanked you lately, Lucas?”

  “No need, your boyfriend fuckin’ paid me.” Now he sounded irritated. I shrugged, though he probably couldn’t see it in the darkness of Abra’s stuffy, dusty attic. Her house shields vibrated uneasily, then pulled back a little so we could slip out the back door. I wondered again just what she was, and felt shame rise behind my breastbone. Had I really half-strangled her against the wall?

  Just like Lucifer. Just like a demon.

  The thought spilled cold down my back. When you hunt monsters, you have to be a monster—but not too much of one.

  Bounty hunting taught me as much.

  How close to the edge of monster was I? “What did Japhrimel pay you, Lucas?”

  “Enough that I’m going to see this through.” Cold air sparkled through the trapdoor as he eased it open. “You comin’, Valentine?”

  I shoved my sword into the loop on my rig. “You better believe it.”

  We dropped on the werecain two alleys away. Literally dropped, I went over the edge of the roof soundlessly and landed cat-light, my main knives reversed along my forearms. Lucas actually landed on the ’cain, destroying the advantage of surprise, but the eight-foot-tall bundle of muscle and fur was so busy with him it gave me time to streak up through piles of stinking human refuse.

  I willed myself to ignore the thunderous odor as I slashed at the ’cain’s hamstrings. The alley was too narrow for swordwork and I didn’t want to make the noise of plas or projectile guns. Flesh gave like water under my blade and my rings ran with golden sparks. The ’cain would have howled, but I leapt and dragged it back, my slim arm over its throat, strangling its protest. Hot copper stink of blood, the blade of my left-hand knife singing against my forearm, my right-hand blade pricking just under the ’cain’s floating ribs on the left. I could work the knife in here and go for a kidney, if my knowledge of werecain anatomy was sound. It was in full huntform, and not that different from a human if you knew where to jab.

  The amber rectangle on my right-hand second-finger ring sparked as I yanked on Power, deftly snapping invisible weights tight around the werecain’s wrists and ankles. It would cost me—but better to be safe than sorry where an eight-foot bundle of lethal muscle and claw is concerned.

  Besides, all the Power I would ever need sang through the demon mark on my shoulder. I didn’t precisely want to use it—gods alone knew what the price would be—but if it came down to it, any tool at hand was all right by me. I’d deal with consequences later.

  If there was a later.

  In short order, Lucas had the ’cain trussed-up with a length of discarded plasilica fiberoptic grubbed up from the floor of the trash-strewn alley. I’d almost suspect you’ve done this before, Lucas, the lunatic voice of hilarity in the middle of an impossible situation caroled through my brain.

  The Deathless vanished into the shadows at the alley’s entrance, going to take care of the other pair of eyes. I promptly put both problems out of my mind.

  I kept my arm across the cain’s throat as it pitched and struggled, trying to throw me off. The advantage of almost-demon strength was a thin one—I was breathing hard by the time I got him wrestled to the ground, my knees braced against cold wet concrete that smelled like . . . well, garbage.

  Mercifully, my nose shut off. Something about ’cain scent, it overloads nasal receptors in everyone other than swanhild and other werecain after a while.

  Given how most of them reek, it’s a goddamn blessing.

  “Cooperate with me,” I snarled in his ear, “or I’ll use psi on you. I mean it.”

  The eight-foot hulk writhed one last time under me and went still. Harsh breathing echoed in my ears, I heard a low growl and choked up on its throat again.

  Werecain don’t like psions. As a species, they’re generally vulnerable to psychic attack. Nichtvren and pre-Paranormal-Species-Act Magi used that vulnerability against them too many times. The big advantage werecain had was their longer lifespan—when human psions get old and weak ’cain can struggle free of psychic enslavement and make life difficult. They are also—mostly—pack animals. A pack of werecain can even take on solitary Master Nichtvren and give them a hard time. Enough ’cain in a pack spells bad luck even for a preternaturally powerful suckhead.

  “Your choice.” Fur rasped against my shirt and my chin. “Either you play nice or I’ll clean the inside of your head out like a transport toilet flush. Just try me.”

  The ’cain snarled, struggled . . . and subsided.

  I eased up a little on its throat. “Who you looking for, huh? Who you waiting for out here?”

  “Necromance,” he growled. Definitely male. I could have told by the genital ruff, but the light wasn’t good enough to be staring at a werecain’s crotch. Never mind that I could use demon sight, right now I was too busy making sure Wolf Boy didn’t heave me off and snap his bonds, or shift shape and slither free. They
tend to be pretty big as humans, six-four to six-eight; shifting to a smaller human form would let him get his hands out of the bonds. I was only an inch or so taller than I had been while human, topping out at five-six, I needed leverage to deal with him no matter which form he was in. A ’cain in human form can still shift a hand into claws and strike before you realize what’s up. “Long dark hair, pretty tan. Smell like a goddamn bakery in heat. You.”

  “How sweet.” My heart began to thud. I did probably smell like a bakery, thanks to the cinnamon sweetness of almost-demon. With the musk underneath it, it was probably extremely distinctive to a ’cain’s sensitive nose. “Who were you going to deliver me to, furboy? Huh?”

  “Agh—” He gurgled, I eased up a little. “You know I can’t.” His voice was choked not only by my arm across his trachea but also by a mouth not truly shaped for human speech. Too many sharp teeth and a wrong-sized tongue.

  “Give it up, or I’ll brainwipe you.” To give the threat a little more credence, I extended the borders of my awareness and pressed, very gently, on the edges of his mind. Curiously unprotected, the cranial fire of his consciousness shivered under my touch like a dog begging to be stroked. It would be so easy, so very easy—and he was paranormal; his mind wasn’t the open sewer of a normal human’s.

  I caught a breath of something—more musk, the smell of oranges, and heart-pumping fear. Demon.

  This sparked a few more moments of furious struggling, ending up with me yanking back and choking until he went limp. Then I eased a little. Wait a second, how did a demon get mixed up in this? Or is it just that anyone following my trail is going to come across demon stink? “Names, furboy. I want names.”

  “Mob!” he half-barked. “I think he’s Mob, he acts like Mob, corner of Fifth and Chesko, East Side. Paying two hundred thou for you. Fifty thou for information; where you are, who you visiting.”

  “A bargain, all things considered.”

  The werecain didn’t see the humor in it. I suddenly longed for Japhrimel. He’d get the joke, it was just the kind of thing he might have said. Another few seconds of furious struggle, and the ’cain began to whine a little, far back in his throat. The sharp stink flooded my nostrils again, my nasal receptors suddenly waking up. Garbage, wet fur, werecain—what a combo.

  “Relax. I’m not going to brainwipe you, you’ve been a good boy. Spread the word: Dante Valentine’s back in town, and she’s on the warpath. Whoever knocked off Gabe Spocarelli is already dead. Got it?”

  A growl was the only answer I received. I could have pistol-whipped him a few times to give myself enough room to get away, but that would have been too much. My arm loosened a little, he drew in a whooping breath, his flexible strong ribs heaving under me.

  I was at the mouth of the alley before I realized it, my body moving too fast for me again. I still wasn’t used to how damnably quick my demon reflexes were.

  It was a good thing too, I heard scrabbling and a snarling roar behind me. Time to move, time to move—I almost wasted precious moments worrying about Lucas while I blurred through patches of streetlight shine, the wind making a soft sweet sound in my ears, combing my hair back. I was fairly sure I was fast enough to outrun a werecain—but it wasn’t just the running I was worried about, it was breaking my trail. Werecain are extremely good trackers, and the only thing keeping them from putting psion bounty hunters out of business is the fact that criminal psions are generally unwilling to be brought in without exploiting a ’cain’s psychic vulnerability. And normal criminals aren’t averse to hiring out a little work from a psion to keep ’cain away. Not to mention the fact that the Hegemony only licenses ’cain to hunt down criminals among the other paranormal species.

  Running. He’s not still behind me, he can’t be, got to be sure. . . . Breathing coming hard and harsh, muscles burning. Burst out into the confusion of Klondel and Thirty-Eighth, streaking through the crowd and probably bowling over a few of them; I went for the darkest alley I could find and crouched in the garbage, shuddering and hyperventilating, the mark on my shoulder numb as if I’d been shot up with varocain. As I crouched there, my back against the damp brick wall of the alley, I silently berated myself.

  He’s not following you, a ’cain knows better than to follow a wary combat-trained psion. He’s going to head straight to the East Side to sell his information, and this possibly-Mob connection is either going to pull up the stakes and vanish in a hell of a hurry or hire a hell of a lot of security posthaste. Probably the latter if he has to stay put to receive information and possibly your own sweet self trussed up like a Putchkin Yule turkey. You can’t fight off every mercenary and paranormal in the city, Dante. You just can’t.

  Besides, what was the breath of demon I’d caught in the ’cain’s memory? What if the people watching Abra’s shop weren’t there because of my search for Gabe’s killer? Or what if only some of them were, and the rest were the hunters looking for Eve, or looking to snatch me because I was suddenly so goddamn important?

  More important to the Prince of Hell than even he realized, Japhrimel had said.

  Great. I have such a choice of enemies it’s not even funny. I leaned my head back against the weeping brick. The smell of a demon rose around me, a cinnamon-laden filter to keep out the reek of human filth.

  “I’ve got to steal a slicboard,” I whispered.

  17

  I massaged my numb shoulder while melding into the shadow of a large holly hedge, watching the intersection of Fifth and Chesko on the East Side of Saint City. My skin prickled with harsh hurtful awareness and my heart pounded a little too rapidly. The icy cuff of metal on my left wrist didn’t help, taunting me with its dull dead surface.

  This made only the second time I’d been on the east side of the river since boarding the transport to take me to the Academy. I suppressed a guilty start every time I realized where I was—and found, without any real surprise, that my hands were shaking a little. So I braced them with my sword in its scabbard, and settled down to watch. The slicboard I’d stolen—a nice sleek Chervoyg deck—leaned against the hedge next to me, hot-taped and magwired. I’d lifted it from a rack outside a yuppie club in the Tank District. More than likely some rich kid gone slumming would have to take a hovercab home, I wouldn’t have stolen a slic courier’s deck.

  I waited, my knuckles almost white as I clutched the scabbarded blade. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

  I couldn’t even enjoy the fact that I’d ridden a slicboard again. It used to be after every Necromance job I’d take a slic up into the hoverlanes until the adrenaline hammered my heart and brain into believing I was alive. Now the rushing speed and sense of being balanced on a stair-rail, sliding down with knees loose and arms a little spread, was oddly diluted.

  Maybe because I was on the East Side again. On the same side as Rigger Hall.

  I looked back over my shoulder again, checking the empty street under its drench of streetlamp light. At any moment I might hear a soft sliding footstep, or catch a whiff of chalk, offal, and aftershave.

  Stop it. Mirovitch is dead. You killed him. You scattered his ka and Japhrimel cremated Lourdes. He burned Rigger Hall to the ground, wiped that cursed place off the map. Just stop it. Stop.

  A different set of memories rose. Japh touching my back gently, his fingers digging into cable-strung muscles as I sobbed and shook with the aftermath of Mirovitch’s psychic rape tearing through my vulnerable head. My own hands clenched in fists, my wild thrashing when the flashbacks returned, Japhrimel catching my wrists in a gentle but inexorable grip, stopping me from beating my head against the wall or flinging myself into damage. The pulse beating in his throat as we lay in the darkness, his voice a thread of gold holding me to sanity.

  I let out a soft breath. I wish he was here. It was a traitorous thought—would I be in this position if he hadn’t maneuvered me from square to square in Lucifer’s game? He’d been sneaking out while I was asleep, maybe hunting Eve, and keeping important information from me.<
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  What choice did he have, Danny? Lucifer trapped him, just like he trapped you. Japh’s doing what he has to do. You can’t argue with his methods if they’re keeping you alive. And who was it that just held Abra up against the wall and scared the hell out of her? You’re losing your moral high ground here.

  I could have done with a little backup at the moment. Where was he?

  A flicker of movement caught my eye. There, a quick feral flash, leaping over the fence of the mansion on the northwest side of the intersection.

  Well, what do you know. Idiocy strikes again.

  I eased myself out of the shadows—or I would have, if the air pressure hadn’t changed and a faint shimmer coated the air beside me. I pressed back into the spiny greenness of the hedge, my right hand closing around my swordhilt—and the figure of a tall, slim, dirty-blond and blue-eyed holovid angel appeared, resolving out of bare air. One moment gone, the next here, Tiens closed his hand over mine, jamming the sword back into its scabbard. “Tranquille, belle morte,” he whispered, stretching his lips and showing his fangs. “Do not go in there. It is,” and here he sniffed disdainfully, “a trap.”

  Nichtvren generally only Turn humans if they are either exceptionally pretty or exceptionally ruthless; I’ve never seen an ugly Nichtvren. Truth be told, I’ve barely seen any Nichtvren despite the mandatory Paranormal Anatomy and Interspecies Communication classes I’d taken. In the relatively short time I’d been an almost-demon, I’d met more Nichtvren than in my previous thirty-odd years combined.

  Then again, Nichtvren don’t like Necromances. What species that prizes immortality would like Death’s children?

  Tiens was a tall male with a shock of dirty-blond hair and a beautifully expressive masculine face, his eyes curiously flat with the cat-sheen of his nighthunting species. Below the shine, they were a pale blue. He had a slight flush along his cheekbones—he’d fed somewhere. He wore dusty black, a V-neck sweater and loose workman’s pants, his feet closed in scarred and cracked boots; he looked just the same as he had in Freetown New Prague.