Gil Pontside’s pockets held, among other things, a handheld EMP pulse generator that should have been sitting in a techlocker at the precinct house. Annette Cameron had been found in the Tank, her body riddled with bullets and her datband blinking, flushed red. I wondered if the bullets would match up to the ones used to kill Eddie or Gabe, and if her death was to have been blamed on me or the Tanner Family as well.
I wondered how Asa Tanner had survived the demon attack on his house to capture me and bring me to Eve. Wondered if we were even now, the werecain Mob boss and me. Wondered where Lucas and Leander were.
I wondered if Japhrimel was free yet.
Time to get back to work. My shoulders ached with tension. I rolled them back in their sockets, my sword thrust through the loop on my rig. I still didn’t trust myself. “I’ve got other business to handle,” I said finally, when the silence had grown too uncomfortable even for me. “I trust I won’t have any more problems with you brave boys and girls in blue?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Horman looked miserable. I didn’t blame him.
“Thanks to you too.” I turned, ice on the slick pavement crunching underfoot as my new boots scraped. Night air was chill through the bullet holes in my clothes. Eve’s clothes. I was getting hard on my laundry.
Three long strides later, Horman spoke again. “Hey, Valentine.”
I stopped but didn’t turn, my neck steel-taut, my shoulders as hard as hover mooring cables. The sensation of being watched returned, stronger than ever, scraping against my nerves. The Gauntlet was silver again, and so very cold.
As cold as the inside of my chest, perhaps. “What?” Be careful what you say to me right now, sunshine. I’m in a very bad mood.
It was the goddamn understatement of the year. I was ready to explode, and I wasn’t sure anyone in my path would be safe once I did—guilty or innocent.
“You a good friend.” For once he wasn’t sneering. I suppose he had to wait until my back was turned to say it. “Gabe’d be proud.”
I didn’t do what I promised. I left her killer—Eddie’s killer—alive. I turned my back on the man I love and I’m about to break my word once more and turn against the Devil, who is going to be very unhappy with me if he isn’t already. “Thanks.” My voice cracked.
He said nothing else as I walked away, heading for Gabe’s front gate and the rest of all my problems.
Coda
In the depths of the Tank, I found a callbox that hadn’t been gutted. Picked up the phone and dialed a number still scored into my Magi-trained memory. It rang seven times—it was dark, and everyone there was likely to be busy with the night’s games.
Finally, the phone picked up. “House of Love,” a honey-scented voice purred in my ear, strangely androgynous for a sexwitch’s soft submissive tone.
I cleared my throat, staring out through the plasglass of the booth’s sides, scanning the street. I look like hell. Can I please go for a few days without getting shot, or blown up, or having my goddamn clothes shredded? “Dante Valentine, for Polyamour.”
There was an undignified squeak at the other end, a gabbled apology, and I was put on hold. No music, just a crackling silence.
I watched a hooker pace her piece of cracked concrete across the street. She wore blue pleather pants and a white synthfur coat, her clear plasilica platform heels twinkling in the foggy light from the streetlamp. The faint clacks of her heels hitting the pavement beat slower than my heart, she cocked a hip as a hover drifted by. Her shoulders slumped as it passed out of sight. She went back to pacing. Dried blood made little sounds, crackling on my clothes and skin as I breathed.
“Dante?” Polyamour’s voice, even caramel. My shoulders tightened a little more.
“Poly.” The words cracked yet again. I said her other name, the name she’d been born with. “Steve.”
She sucked in a breath. “It’s all over the news. Don’t worry, everything’s taken care of.”
“I’ve got some business,” I whispered. Why was my throat so full? “Will you take care of . . .”
“I said it’s taken care of. Dante, you sound . . .” Her voice deepened, a young boy’s instead of a woman’s. I could almost see her, leaning against a chair with a sleek white ceramo phone pressed to her ear, her exquisite transvestite face ever-so-slightly creased with worry.
The effort to speak louder almost tore my throat in half. “I’ll be back, but I don’t know when.” I’m lying. I’m sorry, Poly. I don’t think I’m coming back. I promised Gabe I’d look after her daughter, but if I’ve got demons after me, what else can I do? She’s safer with you.
“It’s in good hands, Dante. Come back soon.” She paused. “If you wanted to come tonight, I would be happy to see you.”
“I can’t.” It’s too dangerous, especially with demons in town. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can. I p-promised.” I promised Gabe, and I’m about to break that promise. Break my word. Again.
“Be careful.” Her voice changed again. “Dante, we had a . . . a visitor. A green-eyed thing, he said he was from you. I didn’t give him anything.”
My heart froze in my chest. “Blond?” If Lucifer knew about Gabe’s daughter. . . .
“What?”
“Was. He. Blond?”
“Nope. Tall, dark and grim. Long black coat, nice boots.”
“When?”
“Three hours ago.”
I closed my eyes. Japhrimel was out, and probably looking for me. “I’ll be back when I can. Do you need—” What? Money? An armed guard? What can I possibly give her now that I’m about to be hunted by something more than a few dirty cops?
“It’s taken care of.” Her tone became again the even restful purr of a sexwitch. “When you come back, you’re free to stay here. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Neither have I.” One of the curses of a Magi-trained memory: I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to. I didn’t bother saying good-bye, just hung up and rested my forehead against the plasglass. One problem temporarily shelved.
The cold crept up my arm and finally slid past Japhrimel’s mark on my shoulder. A fishhook, settling into flesh and twitching. After a few moments of tranced, exhausted wondering, I finally placed the sensation.
It wasn’t a sense of being watched, now. It was the knowledge that I was being pulled.
The premonition rose in front of me. Now that I was too exhausted to move, it had a chance to rise through dark water and unreel in front of me, the inner eye blind except for the vision of my boot-toes moving against cracked pavement.
I lifted my head, shaking free of the vision with an effort.
When I could look out at the world again, everything had changed. Not much, just . . . a little of the color had gone, my demon-sharp sight blurring. A layer of gray covered every surface, from the cracked street to the uneven paving and the tired skin of the hooker still pacing across the street. The old wounds—Lucifer’s kick, hellhound claws, and now bullet holes—all twitched as if they were about to reopen. I’d wondered what the limit was to my body’s regeneration. Maybe I would find out now.
Dante, that’s a spectacularly pessimistic thought even for you.
There was a faint green gleam at the edges of my eyesight, reflected off the plasglass of the booth’s walls. The cuff glowed, and as my eyes locked onto it I suddenly knew, with an instinctive jolt, what I had to do next. The compulsion settled home, humming in the metal of the demon artifact, and the sensation of numb cold Japhrimel’s mark had been fighting off closed around me like walls of diamond ice.
Time to throw all the dice down and see where it lands, Danny. If you can’t do something right, do what you have to.
I sucked in my cheeks, biting gently. Trailed my fingers over my swordhilt.
What I was contemplating was madness. It was sheer suicide. The compulsion tapped at my brain, whispered in my ears, pulled at my fingers and toes.
Come on, it cajoled. Come with me. Someone wants to see you, Dante.
&
nbsp; I lowered my head and banged out of the callbox, my bootheels clicking against the pavement. I knew where I needed to go. Compulsion married to premonition—instinct and logic rising and twining together—spoke in an undeniable whisper, like the voice of a star sapphire on its platinum chain.
Like the chill lipless voice of the wristcuff, glowing on my wrist and finally tugging me in the right direction. Gently, but with increasing urgency.
I caught a cab on the corner of Fiske and Averly, tapping my swordhilt as the driver kept up a steady string of invective at other hoverpilots. A cab can run on an AI deck for everything other than takeoff and landing. But the hovercab drivers won exemption status under the AI Job Loss Prevention Act and so were mostly fanatically determined to prove that a human was better than an AI for the cab-riding experience. I suppose it was nostalgia or nervousness that made my driver keep cursing.
When he let me out, I smelled the heavy wet blind scent of the sea. Fog was rolling in. I could catch a transport out to Paradisse or hovertrain to North New York Jersey or another hub. Would Japhrimel and Hellesvront be watching the transports for me? I would have to figure something out, I didn’t want to lead him to Eve.
Dante, you know it doesn’t matter.
When I got to the low slumped building, I found the demonic shields on the dilapidated place that had once been a school were now earthed. There was no sign of anyone—demon, human, or other—as I pushed through the broken-down fencing and paced over the cracked concrete of the outside gravball court.
I shivered, right hand clamped around my swordhilt. The place was silent. Too silent, and it reeked of spice and Power, the smell of demon. Gravel crunched underneath me, the sounds of tiny breaking bones. I flinched as soon as I thought that, drew my sword. Blue flame dripped along its keen edge, glad to be free. The cuff on my wrist thrummed, pulling me forward as if a fine chain was attached to it, pulling me along. Just like a leash bringing a bloodhound in.
If I couldn’t spill the traitor’s blood I would settle for trying to kill a demon. I would die, of course—I couldn’t kill a demon, no matter how minor.
Could I? I’d killed a hellhound. The memory of claws tangled in my ribs made a small sound escape my lips. I’d also killed an imp, with the help of a lot of reactive paint.
A hellhound’s not the same thing, Dante. Neither is an imp. What you’re about to try is suicide.
It was. What else did I have left? Even the most faithless of traitors could redeem themselves by choosing the moment of their death.
“Just going to have a chat with an old friend,” I whispered. The chilling little giggle that rose in my throat didn’t comfort me. There was no amusement in it.
I let myself into the building I’d left just this afternoon. It felt like a lifetime ago. Eve wasn’t here, and Japhrimel in all likelihood wasn’t here . . . but I thought someone might be here. Someone I’d met before. Premonition blurred under my skin, pushed me forward, impelled as surely by my own minor talent for seeing the future as by the cold glow of the Gauntlet leading me on.
The mark on my shoulder was a glove of soft heat, curiously distant, trying to reach through the shell of ice. The wristcuff dulled. Green light stretched forward, easing me along. Seducing me through the labyrinth, luring me just as my own voice could lure a human.
Gods help me. Head held high, sword ready, I walked into the open jaws of the building.
The school resembled a stage set now, its walls bare and white, no furniture left. Everything was gone except the faint echo of musk and thrumming in the air, the sound of cackling, little whispers just out of human auditory range. Nasty little voices that jeered and whimpered even as they screamed and begged for release.
I extended a little past the borders of my shields. Power swirled, uneasy, my own fragrance of spice and musk rising to twine with a darker scent. I knew that smell. Phantom goosebumps crawled up my spine, ruffled my upper arms, and spilled down my forearms. My teeth chattered until I clenched my jaw, pain blooming down my neck. But my stance was good, and I checked the halls and empty rooms, working closer to an almost-familiar part of the building.
The gymnasia.
The layout of the school was clear in my mind. In the end, I simply stopped checking the rooms and walked slowly through the halls. Fog creeping up from the bay wrapped the entire building in a cotton blanket of silence. It might have been the last night of the world.
For all I know, it might be. The cuff on my wrist pulled me on, I didn’t resist. It was useless to resist.
The voice of self-preservation shrieked at me. I paid it no mind. There was only one thing I could do now, one action that was mine alone.
Lucifer wanted to kill me.
Fine. But I’d choose the place and the time.
The door to the gymnasia reared up in front of me. I didn’t even have to touch it, because it opened at my approach. A slice of ruddy light showed, and I could see leatherbound books, a rich patterned-red rug. I smelled woodsmoke, heard the crackle of flames.
The door was wrong. It pulsed, its lintels swaying like seaweed. I blinked, hoping my eyes were deceiving me for the first time in my long angry life. Power fumed in the air.
There were no books here before. Goosebumps—real goosebumps—turned hard and prickling on my arms, little fingertips trying to claw free of my skin. I had never had goosebumps before, not in this demon’s body.
My blade began to sing, blue flame dripping wetly from its point to smoke on the floor, scorching the hardwood. My shields shivered, on the verge of locking down to protect me. The blood cracking and simmering on my clothes heated up, rough dried edges brushing my shivering, shrinking skin.
There was only one demon who would go to these absurd lengths of theater.
The door swung open all the way, its hinges uttering a small protesting squeak. I peered through a door torn in the fabric of the world and into a room I was unhappily almost-familiar with. A neoVictorian study done in crimson and heavy wood, carpeted in plush crimson. Leather-clad books lined up on bookcases against the dark-paneled wooden walls, three red velvet chairs in front of a roaring fireplace, red tasseled drapes drawn over what might have been a window. A large mahogany desk sat obediently to one side. Next to one red velvet chair by the fireplace stood a slim figure clad in black. His mane of golden hair blazed in the firelit richness of the room, a second sun.
The cuff on my wrist glowed, frosty green light swirling around me like colored oil on water. The Gauntlet was from Lucifer; I’d been warned several times not to take anything from the Prince. Yet Japhrimel had put it back on my wrist again while I slept, hadn’t he?
Hadn’t he? I hadn’t done it. Then again, if I’d been asleep so deeply I didn’t know Japhrimel was leaving me during the day to hunt down Eve, would I know Lucifer was sneaking into the room? McKinley was a Hellesvront agent—and anyway, would he be able to stop the Prince of Hell from opening up reality and walking right into a room?
The thought of lying asleep, dead to the world while the Devil was in the room, sent a sharp spike of terror through me.
Everything else was gray, covered with a leaden film. But through that door, in Hell, color sprang to life, sparked by his hair. The shadows of bullet holes, twinging fiercely, melded shut in the warm bath of Power that curled along my skin and stifled the sob trying to escape my throat. My left wrist yanked forward, the Gauntlet thrumming, pulling me behind it. Japhrimel’s mark on my shoulder was warm and forgiving, humming with taut alertness.
Lucifer looked back over his silk-clad shoulder, presenting me with a quarter profile of a face more sheerly beautiful than any demon’s. The emerald glowed mellow in his forehead, and the wristcuff sparked with light. His eyes. The thought was almost delirious in its fevered panic. It echoes his eyes, it’s exactly the same color as—
It was a door into Hell, and the Devil had his back to me.
“Come in, Dante,” Lucifer said. “Sit down. Let us better understand each other.”
to be continued . . .
Glossary
A’nankhimel: (demon term) 1. A Fallen demon. 2. A demon who has tied himself to a human mate. Note: As with all demon words, there are several layers of meaning to this term, depending on context and pronunciation. The meanings, from most common to least, are as follows: descent from a great height, chained, shield, a guttering flame, a fallen statue.
Androgyne: 1. A transsexual, cross-dressing, or androgynous human. 2. (demon term) A Greater Flight demon capable of reproduction.
Animone: An accredited psion with the ability to telepathically connect with and heal animals, generally employed as veterinarians.
Anubis et’her ka: Egyptianica term, sometimes used as an expletive; loosely translated, “Anubis protect me/us.”
Awakening, the: The exponential increase in psionic and sorcerous ability, academically defined as from just before the fall of the Republic of Gilead to the culmination of the Parapsychic and Paranormal Species Acts proposed and brokered by the alternately vilified and worshipped Senator Adrien Ferrimen. Note: After the culmination of the Parapsychic Act, the Awakening was said to have finished and the proportion of psionics to normals in the human population stabilized, though fluctuations occur in seventy-year cycles to this day.
Ceremonial: 1. An accredited psion whose talent lies in working with traditional sorcery, accumulating Power and “spending” it in controlled bursts. 2. Ceremonial magick, otherwise known as sorcery instead of the more organic witchery. 3. (slang) Any Greater Work of magick.
Clormen-13: (Slang: Chill, ice, rock, smack, dust) Addictive alkaloid drug. Note: Chill is high-profit for the big pharmaceutical companies as well as the Mob, being instantly addictive. There is no cure for Chill addiction.
Deadhead: 1. Necromance. 2. Normal human without psionic abilities.
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