Selene

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Hide me, she prayed. Oh, God, hide me.

  The Power answered, cloaking her in a faint blur. It would be draining to keep it up for any length of time, but she only needed to make it into the corridor. The janitorial staff wouldn’t be out in force until well past dark.

  Cold, creeping fire started in her palms. Her toes were numb, she was dragging her right foot behind her like a cripple.

  Oh, Christos.

  She made it to the metal door and blindly put her hand on the knob. Nobody was looking—the blur should hide her unless they were paranormal, and she seriously doubted she could hold off a werecain—or anything else—while she was jittering and jiving from the Turn.

  I’m going to be a Nichtvren. A weird image of birthday candles and a pink-frosted cake sprang to her mind. Gonna be a Nichtvren, gonna be a Nichtvren, heigh-ho the dairy-o, gonna be a Nichtvren. The knob gave under her fingers—the Power she was pouring into it helped. If she didn’t Turn she was going to be so drained as to be useless.

  And won’t that be fun. Christos. Someone, anyone, help me.

  There was nobody. As usual, she had to help herself.

  Selene ducked through the door, taking care to close it quietly behind her. A slamming door would dispel the blur and cause questions.

  She was in a long, concrete-floored tunnel that went down into the bowels of the bus station. The prickling cold spilled up her arms and legs. She’d have to crawl soon.

  Why didn’t the enzyme work? It only delayed the Turn, goddammit. Seventy percent is bad odds, isn’t it? Oh, God. Jesu, help me, I’m going to be a bloodsucking fiend, I’m going to be like Nikolai, I’m going to be awful, a damned soul, damned, damned. . .

  Amazing how childhood religious training came back to haunt her. They were big on Jesu in the camps. Big on suffering in silence instead of taking up the Gilead sword of righteousness.

  Sometimes Selene wondered if the Republic had the right idea, fighting so hard. She wasn’t the only one—but she was probably the only paranormal who ever wondered. The others probably counted their blessings to be out from under the Gilead thumb. It was a sentence of death to be paranormal during Gilead’s time; nowadays you were only shunned and shunted into menial jobs or taken for government experiments. What a choice.

  There. A broom closet or something like it. She fumbled with the door, the lock throwing itself open in response to the Power, and she saw metal shelves with assorted things on them. Light fixtures, light bulbs, there were fluorescent tubes stacked in racks bolted to the wall in back. Selene stepped in and drew the door closed, locked it, plunging the room into complete darkness except for one small strip of light coming in under the door. She had to try several times before she could focus enough, forced her attention to one still small point.

  One of the Greater Words was in her repertoire, the word of Closing, syllables that would bar an entrance. She sketched the symbol that went with it on the door with a numb finger, feeling the Power bleed down her arm and into it, her lips stuttering over the Word. It had to be pronounced right or it would fail, and she’d be out the Power as well as with a ruined Word and backlash on her hands.

  Light slid out from her fingertip, a violet glow reminding her of Marina, and Selene let out a choked laugh. Draining herself this rapidly meant the Turn would speed up. It was already up to her biceps, and her legs below the knee were cold and unresponsive.

  The glyph wavered, guttered. . .

  And held.

  Sighing in relief, Selene collapsed against the door. Cold fire swept up her legs, racked her pelvis, and the crackling of bones re-forming echoed in the closet. Selene drove her teeth into her tongue. Don’t scream. It will break the binding. Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Jesu, just don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.

  The chill fire spread up her neck, and Selene’s jaw locked.

  Now she couldn’t scream even if she wanted to.

  Her scalp crawled. Bones continued their cracking, her muscles sliding and writhing under her skin, the cold prickling working its way into her very core.

  She tasted blood, and some other chemical tang. Then, dimly, she felt the medallion warm against her chest. The heat didn’t stop the prickling, fiery, nerve-wrenching cold of the Turn, but it was. . .comforting.

  I’m going to make you pay for this, Nikolai. I’m never going to be able to get a regular job now. It was her last coherent thought before the cold raced through her belly and down her chest toward her heart.

  Eleven

  kaTHUD. kaTHUD. kaTHUD. kaTHUD.

  Teeth. Sliding free. Nerve impulses, slow and sluggish at first. Prickling in her flesh. Light. . . against closed eyelids.

  What. . .is. . .

  Groggy, Selene tried to open her eyes. It took another two tries before she could actually do it.

  The closet seemed lit up with floodlights. Every detail stood out in sharp relief: the sheen of the fluorescent tubes stacked in racks against the back wall, boxes of light bulbs and fixtures, the writing on their sides crisp and clear; the concrete below her veined with little sparkles, walls lit from within by a soft sick green glow.

  I didn’t switch the light on.

  The thought brought her up to a crouch, immediately. She shook her head to clear it, her hair sliding and swinging in her face.

  ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD.

  It took her a moment to realize her knees were sticking out grotesquely to either side, her elbows bent and palms flat against the concrete floor. Either her hip joints had decided to go floppy on her in a way that would make a hop dancer die from envy, or. . .

  Oh, Christos, she thought, as the regular, mechanical thudding sound intensified. And along with that sound came something else.

  Thirst. Terrible, burning, racking thirst that made her throat into a desert and her head an aching bomb cradled on her neck. Her nostrils flared. She could smell it, copper liquid thudding through living veins, hot and salty.

  I’m thirsty. She held up one hand. Her fingers wriggled, long and slender in the greenish light. Then the claws burst free, and she almost fell over backwards, choking back a cry. Her coat brushed a box of light bulbs sitting on a low shelf, and the box fell.

  Selene’s hand arrived before it could hit the ground, scooped up the box, and set it neatly back on its shelf without any conscious direction from her brain.

  Reflex. I’ve got Nichtvren reflexes.

  She stared at her hands in disbelief. The thudding sound was getting louder. She could also smell the source of it—male, she thought, without knowing quite how she knew. Getting closer. Probably a janitor.

  Selene’s first meal.

  She stuffed her hand in her mouth, forgetting her teeth would be sharper than a human’s, and tried to muffle the choked mewling sound of need springing from her throat. Her body demanded blood. Older Nichtvren could live on sex or violence, but the young ones—the fledglings—needed blood. Hot, pulsing, coppery, salty blood. Her teeth scraped her skin, but didn’t break through.

  Yet.

  She stared at the closet door. The knob jiggled.

  Go away! For the love of God, go! Run away!

  The glyph on the door flared, holding it closed. A small metallic snap sounded.

  “Fuck,” someone said, clearly audible through the door. “Key broke. God damn it.”

  Selene’s eyes rolled. Prey. It’s prey. It’s blood.

  So close.

  Her breathing slowed, stopped. She couldn’t stop breathing fully until she fed for the first time and the Turn was completed, so red pinwheels revolved behind her closed eyelids. Oxygen deprivation. Her body would start to cannibalize itself unless she fed, and after twenty-four hours she’d be a rotting brain-damaged hulk without even the sense to stay out of sunlight.

  Oh, God…

  The medallion, hanging between her breasts, sent out a silent pulse like the warm push of air in front of an explosion. It scorched at her skin and settled comfortably, pound
ing out the rhythm of her own frantic heart.

  A new smell filled the closet, sweet and cloying, fermented. Her body, dying, the human cells committing mass suicide, the Nichtvren cells splitting, filling up, altering, taking their place. She could feel it, consciousness invading every single cell in her body, as if her mind was stretching. Mental silicon-putty gooping and glorping all the way through her liver, her kidneys—shrinking and self-destructing now, because Nichtvren didn’t need kidneys.

  No wonder they have such great reflexes, they think with their whole bodies. She stifled a moan. The thirst set her throat on fire, like greasy petroleo smoke.

  The knob jiggled again. Go away! She couldn’t concentrate enough to raise any Power to push the man away from the door, or—

  She blinked.

  That was all it took, one blink. Her body slipped the leash of her will, bolting, and the door crumpled like tinfoil, the hinges and lock tearing free with one crunching noise. She burst out into the hall, knocking the portly man with his bucket and mop onto his ass. Then she was on him, her bag bumping her hip, something crunching as she grabbed his hand, instinctively jerking the man back into the dark hole she’d just vacated. The fluorescents overhead tore at her eyes until her pupils contracted.

  Selene came to with her teeth driven into the man’s throat, hot blood filling her mouth. Her jaw distended, cartilage popping so she could get a better hold on him. Her slim hands held him down, overriding his struggles, batting away his ineffectual punches.

  It poured down her throat, hot life, it tasted like fresh bread and chocolate and red wine, everything good and wholesome she’d ever had. A tide of strength exploded from her throat, filled her stomach, tingled in every finger and toe as the Nichtvren cells finished the task of converting her body into something else.

  Something inhuman.

  It didn’t stop until the dried husk dropped from her hands. Selene backed up, crouching, along the wall. Boxes full of light bulbs fell onto the thing. It lay slumped on the concrete, a round blob in a blue jumpsuit, the name Carl stitched with white thread on its left front pocket. A lifeless husk.

  No, not husk. Body. It’s a body. I’ve committed a murder.

  He had a metal brace on one leg. It looked like a War wound; the army prosthetics all had that weird shine to them. She stared at him for a long moment, her lower lip trembling. She wiped at her mouth, a futile movement, as if she could clean herself. Oh, God…

  There was no God to hear. There never was. Nikolai had Turned her after all. Made her a Nichtvren.

  I just killed a man. She looked down at her fingers, stained with a few drops of crimson. The urge to lick them clean rose up inside her, and she had her finger halfway to her mouth before she realized what she was doing.

  She let out another strangled little cry and wiped her hand on her sweater under her coat, uselessly. Her fingers tingled. When she lifted them again, they were white and smooth, her nails looking like a human’s. Camouflage. The blood had vanished, drawn into the surface of her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  The body on the floor didn’t reply.

  ***

  Cassidy’s was open late, and Selene got a back booth.

  The restaurant was on Klondel and Eighth, in a part of town the university students frequented since it was close to the U District and had cheap beer. She ran the risk of being recognized, but the warmth of a cup of coffee and some good dim lighting, not to mention some humans—

  Prey.

  —humans drew her. It seemed like a safe enough place to sit and collect herself.

  Where else does a murderer go after her crime, anyway? To the nearest café, where she coldly orders a cuppa joe. Good thing we’re not still on ration cards. I wonder if they’d have one for blood banks?

  The hostess showed her to a red-vinyl booth and gave her a glass of water Selene suspected she’d be unable to drink. Selene ordered coffee and, as soon as she’d gotten rid of the waitress, dug in the bag she’d been hauling around and pulled out the battered manila folder.

  I killed a man. I’m a murderer now. Takes one to catch one, maybe? You think?

  There weren’t many students in here on a weeknight, especially this early. The lighting was low, but still glaringly harsh to Selene’s new senses. It even hurt her skin. No wonder Nichtvren preferred silk, dim light and rich colors. Their vision was so acute it was painful for them to sit under fluorescent lighting or look at bright color.

  Pictures of old silent-screen stars on the walls stared down at a few scattered customers. Red vinyl booths and glass-topped tables reflected the light bulbs. The entire front of the restaurant was glass windows, looking out on the top of Klondel Avenue—the nice part of the Avenue, the part where you wouldn’t get mugged or raped past dark. South of Twentieth Street, the Ave became a cesspool, choked with poverty and cheap liquor. Not to mention other, darker things.

  She opened the folder. The rasp of paper against her newly-sensitive fingertips was like sandpaper.

  I killed a man, and I’m sitting here like it doesn’t matter. My God.

  Responding officer’s report, a copy of the report Jack had typed up from her, a transcript of the emergency-dispatch call she’d made. . .autopsy report.

  Well, there wasn’t that much left to autopsy. Selene flipped the report over with one convulsive movement. Her eyes prickled, but she set her jaw. Don’t do it, Selene. Don’t dissolve now.

  I won’t even get to go to a memorial service, they hold them during the day, don’t they? And I’m a fugitive. A criminal, even though nobody knows it yet.

  She glanced over the rest of file, her skin going cold in instinctive reaction.

  Demoskenos Kirai Nikolai, Turned by Kelaios Grigorivitch Grigori. A picture of Nikolai exiting a limo, his collar up against wind. A few paragraphs, detailing everything Jack had been able to dig up.

  No wonder he couldn’t tell her. Nikolai had been Turned by this mysterious Grigori. A little bit about Nikolai’s financial holdings, and the extent of his territory. He wasn’t as powerful as she thought. No, he was far more than he let on.

  Selene shivered, glancing through the information. She’d been lucky to escape him. He was a very busy boy, and a very rich one.

  Selene turned the page.

  Nikolai had killed him. Killed his maker. As far as Selene understood, that was a mortal sin among Nichtvren. Patricide among immortals, she thought, black humor bubbling up in her throat.

  Except for one little thing. Grigori didn’t appear to be dead.

  Selene flipped another page. This was a photograph, poorly done in black and white, pixilated as if an old-fashioned printer had run it off. Underneath it were a few more lines—the date taken, a month ago. The location, down on the docks on the west side of town, a tanker from the Venezuela Republic, docked at the same time. The name?

  Grigori Kelayos.

  They’re not very creative, are they. Next was the memo from the top, detailing that the Thompson case had to be lost. The sister might be a problem, she read, her skin roughening into large goosebumps. She will be dealt with by the Prime Power. She is to be left strictly alone.

  Well, wasn’t that nice of them. Would they leave her alone now that she was a sucktooth, and a murderer to boot?

  “Anything you need?” the waitress said. She had high cheekbones and a straight fall of crow’s-wing hair that brushed her back. Like Nikolai’s hair, with a blue sheen to it.

  And her pulse echoed in Selene’s head, a lighter flutter than the janitor’s heavy drumbeat. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD.

  “No, thank you,” Selene said, politely enough, and tried to smile. But her fangs were aching to slip out, and she didn’t know how to stop them. She settled for a sort of smiling grimace.

  The waitress stared at her for a long moment, as if wanting to say something, but shrugged instead. “OK. I’ll be back with more coffee in a minute.”

  “Thanks.” Selene’s eyes dropped to the
file again. The waitress, mercifully, went away.

  She flipped back to the picture.

  Grigori had a nice face, at least. Broad cheekbones, strong chin, straight eyebrows. He looked vaguely Asian, his eyes slightly elongated. Beardless, his hair braided into long strings. Braided or beaded, she couldn’t tell, the picture quality was poor.

  The face seemed familiar. Her skin roughened, instinctive reaction, and she flattened her palm over the picture. Intuition ran a river of ice cubes right under her new, pale, perfect skin.

  Give my regards to Nikolai.

  Selene shuddered. Was this her brother’s killer? He looked familiar. Had she seen him before? But that was ridiculous. Or was it? She knew better than to discount her instincts, but they had to be severely fucked-up by shock now.

  No wonder Jack didn’t want this getting out. She picked up her cooling coffee cup, raising it to her lips as if she was taking a sip. Sensitive information on the Prime of Saint City, it’s pure blackmail material in the right hands. Her back crawled with shivering gooseflesh. “Grigori,” she whispered into the cup.

  He’s probably got a huge grudge against Nikolai. So do I, come to think of it.

  That still didn’t solve the question of who killed Danny, though. Unless this Grigori did it, because Danny was working for Nikolai and popped above the radar.

  It was the only possible explanation. Which meant she had a picture of her brother’s killer, even if he hadn’t personally ripped Danny’s body to shreds.

  The other Nichtvren—Sevigny—had said something about Grigori. Just before all hell had broken loose at the House of Pain. And then all the werecain had turned on the Nichtvren. And the dead werecain in her bedroom. . .

  I’m woefully behind on my werecain research. Not to mention a few little things about Nichtvren I wish I’d known before now. Nothing like field experience to make a good teacher into a great one.

  Yeah. Good luck getting hired now.

  She glanced out over the restaurant. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she was uneasy, the back of her neck prickling. That always meant bad news.