by Battis, Jes
“Miles.” The sharp, atonal sound of what telepaths called vox—the control tone—echoed in the air between us. “Come over here.”
Miles just stared at him, uncomprehending. His fingers were still twined in the materia, and as I watched with a growing sense of dread, those golden threads began to wrap and snarl around his hand. The gentle, plantlike undulations of the materia became a distinct tugging motion. Miles lurched backward. I wondered if the energy itself could devour him. Judging from what I’d seen Mia’s power do a year ago, I didn’t doubt that it was possible.
Then Derrick did something unexpected.
I felt his power flex itself in concentration. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense for something. Then, slowly and deliberately, he traced a sign in the air. He held both hands in front of his closed eyes, thumb and index fingers pinched together, then opened up his palms in a dramatic gesture. As his fingers moved, his eyes snapped open. The movement seemed to occur in slow motion, and as I watched, a glowing outline followed Derrick’s hands. It was faint at first, but when he opened his palms, it flared molten silver. It was like looking directly at an arc welder.
The outline of his hands burned in the air, a reverse shadow, silver-on-black. He seemed to be pressing the sign directly into what Miles had called the spatial dermis, just as a photographic image could be pressed into the silver emulsion of film. The sign hung before us, coursing with its own electric current, endlessly folding and unfolding itself into startling existence.
Wake up, it said.
Miles hesitated. Then he took a small step forward. The golden threads tore at his right hand, but Derrick’s sign only burned brighter. I stared at the loops of liquid silver as they delicately unscrolled before me. Was this dendrite materia? The essence of every synaptic impulse? Or were my eyes playing tricks on me?
“Keep walking,” Derrick said. His voice was steel.
Miles took another step forward. The luminous gold thorns made one last attempt to ensnare him. Then they fell away, and his hand abruptly lurched free. He stumbled. I thought he would fall, but Derrick was between us in the next moment. He wrapped an arm around Miles, steadying him.
The glowing sigil was gone. The air had returned to normal, but I could still see traces of power curling off Derrick. His whole body was steaming with it.
What the hell had just happened?
“Miles?” Derrick still had one hand wrapped around his waist, the other pressing firmly on his shoulder. “Are you okay? Let’s see your hand.”
I took a step closer and sucked in my breath.
Miles had claw marks on his hand.
The skin was ugly and red around the welts. They smelled of something familiar. Oil and ashes. That same trace of evil I’d been sensing for the last week.
“I . . .” His pupils were still wide, but this time I could see the whites, at least. “I think I just need to sit down for a minute.”
Derrick guided him to the bed. “We should get you to a clinic. There’s no telling how serious these cuts are. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“They’re fine. They don’t hurt . . .” Miles flexed his hand and winced. “Much. They’re like cat scratches.”
“Miles”—Derrick glared at him—“the universe just bit you. I think some professional help is in order.”
“Yeah.” His voice was shaky. “You’re probably right.”
Derrick reached for my portable kit, pulling out a sterile antiseptic cloth and a coil of clean white gauze.
“This’ll sting,” he said, daubing a streak of iodine across Miles’s hand with the cotton pad. Miles flinched a bit, but didn’t say anything. Derrick tossed the packaging, then gently wound the gauze around three times, clipping the ends.
“Too tight?” he asked.
Miles flexed his hand experimentally. “Nope.”
Derrick smiled. “Good. That’ll do till we get to the clinic.”
“Miles,” I began, “what was that? When you touched the gold materia, your voice—everything about you—it changed.”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “I just felt—empty. I don’t remember.” Concern flashed across his face. “What did I say to you?”
Oh, nothing. You just called me a dumb fat bitch. It’s not like I’ll be turning that little gem over in my paranoid brain for the next few weeks.
I smiled. “Nothing, really. You just sounded different.”
Miles sighed. Then he turned to Derrick. “Can you reach into my bag and pull out the spare vacutainer? We need to get a sample of that—stuff. Whatever it is.”
“You’re not getting anywhere near it again,” Derrick said. “I’ll do it.”
Before I could make a crack about chivalry, my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number. It wasn’t a CORE extension.
“Hello?”
“You still want to deal?”
It was Patches.
I pushed down the butterflies in my stomach. “Of course. When and where?”
“I’ll text the address to you. Come alone. Mister Corvid wants to meet you.”
“Mister who—?”
He hung up.
Derrick gave me a look. “Trouble?”
“Maybe. Can you and . . .” I glanced at Miles, then sighed. “Who am I kidding? I’m sure you two can get yourselves to the clinic without my help.”
Derrick smiled. “Should be able to manage it, yes.”
“Good.” My cell began to vibrate. “Because my night is about to get busy.”
The address led me to a gleaming new high-rise on Hornby Street, where I assumed “Mister Corvid” would be waiting for me. Apparently, Hex dealers did quite well in this city, since the strata payments alone for a building like this would have bankrupted me. I buzzed suite 909, as instructed, and an unfamiliar voice answered.
“Yes?”
“I’m here to meet Mister Corvid,” I said into the speaker.
A pause. “You were referred?” It wasn’t really a question.
“By Patches. My appointment is for nine thirty.”
Another pause. I suddenly envisioned a turret-mounted laser appearing from nowhere to vaporize me.
“Go to the west elevator,” the voice said finally. “To the penthouse. Code 114. He’ll meet you there.”
The front door buzzed open. I walked through the foyer, which was floored in midnight black marble, past an empty concierge desk. A trendy shale fountain burbled innocently in one corner, surrounded by soft and pleasant lighting. There was something eerily Club Med about this place.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button marked PH. An LCD screen flickered to life, asking for the pass code. I typed in 114, and the doors closed smoothly with a soft chime as the elevator lurched to life. I noticed multiple cameras trained on me from the elevator’s ceiling. Apparently, Mister Corvid valued his personal security.
The doors opened, and I found myself in a chic living room. It had all the right touches—cherry laminate flooring, generic art on the walls, even a few flowers nestled in expensive vases—but there was still something suspiciously nonhuman about it. Like the whole room had been programmed into a computer designed to approximate mortal behavior, and then spit out again, courtesy of Ikea and Pottery Barn. Everything looked sterile and untouched. The couch and ottoman were pristine. An afghan thrown over a chair in the corner was tilted just so, to look as if it had been tossed askew, when it had actually been arranged that way. Nobody had ever lived here.
“Come into the office,” a voice called.
I walked down a short hallway and into a cozy parlor. Bookshelves lined the walls, and an enormous desk sat in the center. The desk was made entirely of frosted black glass, which gave the illusion of delicacy but reflected nothing save for chill, angular shadows. Mister Corvid sat behind the desk.
He was wearing a deep mauve dress shirt with a high collar—Ted Baker, I think—buttoned up to the top of his neck. He had pale skin the color of a wash
ed-out shell, and startling green eyes. You didn’t see that shade of green in human eyes. But I didn’t need an occult manual to tell me that Mister Corvid wasn’t human. His hair was almost silver and braided in dread-locks, which had been swept up neatly over his left shoulder. A black pearl dangled from his right ear, winking. There was also a thin, vertical scar across his lip.
This gave me pause.
If I knew anything at all, I knew that Mister Corvid was veritas—a real pureblood demon, born and raised far away from the material plane. His genetic signature made me feel like I was being buried underneath a mountain of ancient earth, cold and wet and irredeemably dark, an enormity of shadowed presence. The thought of something equal to that, or even stronger—powerful enough to cleave into that perfect, bone-bleached skin—made my stomach cramp with fear.
His hands were folded in front of him on the desk. They were very long, and I could see night black veins crawling beneath them. Each finger ended in a tapered claw, but there was no visible separation between flesh and nail, so that the claws themselves appeared to be a bizarre fusion of skin, bone, and blood. A carnelian gleamed on his right index finger. I imagined those claws tearing through my neck. Good times.
“Have a seat.” He smiled. His teeth were very white.
I sat down. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“It’s my pleasure. Would you like a drink? I have pomegranate juice chilling in the fridge. Or wine. A Riesling, I think. Quite nice.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He sighed. “Are you sure? It’s these little niceties that keep us from becoming entirely like animals, isn’t it? Otherwise, we might as well be meeting in a dank basement somewhere.”
“I’d be fine with that, too.” I shrugged. “I’m adaptable.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.” He picked up what looked like a brandy snifter and poured himself a drink. But the liquid wasn’t brandy. I tried not to think too much about what it could be.
“Patches said that you don’t often meet with people,” I continued, keeping my best game face on. “May I ask why?”
“I have trust issues.” He drained the glass, smiled, and looked at me. His eyes seemed to flicker through a number of different shades, but settled on the green of a glowing circuit board. “People often disappoint me.”
“I get that.”
“Patches mentioned that you were quite”—he blinked—“proactive in your dealings with him. Is that your usual style?”
“It seemed like something he’d understand.”
“Ah. You’ve dealt with his ilk before, then.”
I shrugged. “He’s just a soldier. He understands the bottom line. I wanted to make sure that my message got through.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” He was smiling with his mouth, but none of the other muscles in his face seemed to move. I felt like an entirely different, ethereal part of him was casually wrapping its fingers around my neck. “I’m very interested in your proposition. Very interested.”
“Then it sounds like we’re ready to deal.” I slid a suitcase across the desk. “We never hammered out an exact figure, but here’s a down payment.”
Mister Corvid’s fingers danced across the leather of the briefcase for a moment, as if stroking it. Then he flipped open the lid, examined its contents without expression, and closed it again.
“Very nice. I have one question.”
Uh-oh.
“What’s that?” I asked coolly.
“How old do you think I am—Miss Corday?”
This was the part where I should have screamed Hey, look over there, and then run for the elevator. I’d never told Patches who I was. But Mister Corvid most likely had access to any database that the CORE could get its hands on. He wasn’t only a professional—he was a pureblood.
“That—um—seems like an impolite question,” I hedged.
“Oh indeed.” His face was still as marble. “I’d like you to guess my age, though. Honestly. It would give me pleasure.”
Demons suffered from reverse vanity. They all wanted to appear older than they really were, rather than younger, like humans. I could always play on that.
“Five hundred?” It sort of came out as a squeak.
His laugh was rich and rolling. I shivered. I could feel those spectral hands all over my face and neck, like spiderwebs.
“Miss Corday—have you ever seen a perfect, bloodred sunset, like a burning coin, sinking over a Mesopotamian village? Have you watched Egyptian women in yellow and blue silk dipping their bronze vessels into the filth of the Nile? Have you seen the hetaera with their beautiful, tanned limbs, resting against the sun-drenched walls of Thebes? Or the blue-skinned Celts with their hair soaked in lime, running naked through the forests of Carthage, their dogs trailing behind them?”
I cleared my throat. “Um—no.”
He leaned forward. “I have. Does that explain things for you?”
I nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to get a picture.”
“So we understand each other. That means, when I ask you what, precisely, you’re doing here, I expect you to answer truthfully. I know you haven’t come to buy Hextacy in bulk. Frankly, your department couldn’t afford it.”
I didn’t doubt that.
“Why are you here, Miss Corday? It would be helpful if you could tell me in a few sentences or less. I appreciate brevity, and it will be a good exercise for you”—his expression didn’t change—“should you survive to interview someone else like me.”
I swallowed. Was it too late to update my life insurance policy? I’d heard you could do it online now. Maybe I could just sneak out for a moment to check my e-mail.
I remembered Lucian’s advice when I’d first met with Duessa. Always tell the truth. Immortals valued honesty. It was one of the only things they valued, in fact. Thinking about Duessa gave me a brief spike of courage. It wasn’t like I hadn’t met with powerful immortals before. And what’s the worst that could happen? Mister Corvid slices and dices me with those freak hands. Most likely, he transects my common carotid artery, or maybe my jugular, or even both. I experience a few moments of intense pain, then my body goes into shock and I exsanguinate. I bleed out on his lovely Berber carpet, and that’s it. End of story. It actually sounded kind of peaceful.
“The CORE is conducting an investigation,” I said finally. “Four youths have been killed in the past month—all the children of mages. Their murders all had ritual elements, and we found trace amounts of Hextacy, both at the scenes and in the blood and bone marrow of the victims. We believe that the killer is either a skilled mage or a nonnormate with access to significant mystical energy. He also has a vendetta against powerful mage families, although we’re not sure why. He appears to be drugging or otherwise incapacitating them with large doses of Hex.”
Mister Corvid nodded appreciably. “You really should have led with that. It’s an intriguing angle.”
“He’s going to kill again.” I tried to keep my nerves under control, but all I wanted to do was puke on his beautiful obsidian desk. “Soon. I’ve met with Duessa, and she suggested finding a midlevel dealer who sold Hex.”
“Patches.”
I nodded. “And he led me to you. So here I am.”
“But what do you want from me exactly?”
“Mister Corvid . . .” The name sounded so odd on my tongue, like I was addressing my fourth-grade math teacher. “The killer is obviously buying Hex from a supplier, and you’re the only supplier we know of who works in the city. There’s a good chance that you’ve sold to him in the past. All we’re looking for is a physical description, even a vague one. Anything that might help us track him down.”
He tapped his finger claws together. It was disturbing. “Now that could be an issue. I do have client confidentiality to think of. If people learn that I’ve been discussing a client with the CORE, I could lose a lot of business.”
Bargaining. Why was it always about bargaining with immortals?
/> “The CORE does have a vice division,” I said slowly, watching his eyebrows—or what passed for them—rise at the mention of the word, “but they’re not especially interested in tampering with the urban Hex trade. As long as you personally aren’t selling to minors or normates, they can ensure total compliance.”
“You mean they won’t bend me over if they don’t have to.”
I smiled weakly. “I mean that, in addition to their existing cooperation, the CORE is prepared to guarantee you immunity in a variety of legal and paralegal venues. They’re also prepared to refocus their policing efforts on your competition, which would effectively increase your sales base.”
His eyes turned from green, to mauve, and back to green again. “How delicious. You’d cripple my competitors so that I could turn a profit—and all for a name?”
“Names are valuable in our line of work, Mister Corvid,” I said, knowing that his real name was probably very different and unpronounceable. It would stick in my throat. “The CORE is prepared to cooperate with you, on the condition that you volunteer us probative information leading to the arrest of this killer.”
“Will you try him in your mystical courts? Like some naughty warlock?”
“That’s for the ADA to decide. Most likely, he’ll be sentenced according to our legal precepts, yes.”
“A fair trial for a monster.” He shook his head. “How fascinating.”
“Do you think you can deal with us, Mister Corvid?”
He leaned forward and stretched out his palm. The hem of his sleeve moved up an inch, and I saw a black tattoo on his pale wrist. It actually burned before my eyes: a salamander that danced and shuddered and flicked its tongue at me. I could almost hear it whispering.
I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do. Gingerly, I put my hand in his. It was surprisingly warm. His touch dissolved all of my mental barriers. I felt his breath on my heart, slipping through the pericardium, a dark vapor inside me. I shivered.
Satisfied, he withdrew his hand, and the finger claws went behind the desk again. The memory of his taint would stay with me.