Desires, Known

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The tall man in smoke-tarnished black bent over, retching. Hal patted him on the back, once, twice. “Are you hurt?”

  A quick shake of the priest’s sandy head. He was wet with sweat, flushed with fire-heat, and had expended quite a bit of effort. This was one of their more important buildings, and the guards had been armed. Some of the dangers inside the blazing shell had not been quite physical, too.

  Hal had learned much from watching the priest work. “You really are quite admirable.” He waited for the man to catch his breath. Sirens began in the distance, and an explosion deeper in the building sent a column of nasty black smoke up to the iron-gray, ice-weeping sky.

  What was Emily doing at this moment? Perhaps she was in her apartment, comfortable out of the damp, in those pants with strange animals patterned on them and that very large, thick sweatshirt.

  Hal put the thought away. She would not be truly safe until he finished this night’s work. The Sophic Fratres, both their inner and outer circles, were neutralized. Or at least, they would be once he and the priest attended to one more address. The organization had grown large, its tentacles sinking in all over the world, but they had also used computers to organize much of that growth.

  Once Hal had peered into that fascinating chain of electrons and found the patterns, he had little time to do anything other than search for the most damaging information while the priest held the guards at bay. The physical buildings were only shells now, the hidden and quite illegal parts of the Sophics’ network now laid bare to the relevant mortal authorities. While their arcane and esoteric crimes were beyond the mortal law’s purview, several of their financial interests were not.

  Nor were some of the leaders’ peccadilloes, mostly sexual but in one or two places truly repugnant. How little things changed.

  The priest heaved again, a dry, hideous sound. “God…damn you, don’t…do that.”

  “Would you rather have been burned alive?” Yes, he rather liked this man, Hal decided. He might even have been a good bearer. “One left,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “No.” The priest straightened. “Ammo. I need ammo—”

  “Ah.” A moment’s concentration, and Hal nodded. “There.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a demon?” The priest—his name was Frank, Hal reminded himself—crossed himself. He had not, however, loosened his grip on his suddenly-heavier pistol. A well-designed machine.

  Both of them.

  “Very.” The thought of Em, sleeping trustfully in her rumpled, shabby bed, would not retreat. What would she do when he reappeared? Perhaps he should wear another face, pretend to be mortal? Would that make it more comfortable for her? “I was once a mortal man too, Priest.”

  That bit of information seemed to unseat the man’s stomach again. “What happened?”

  “They did.” Hal indicated the burning building, with a short jab of his chin. It was as good an explanation as any. There were always those who sought to use whatever—and whoever—was to hand. “Long, long ago, before your Church.”

  That earned him a mistrustful sidelong glance, but the man was breathing much more easily now. In the end, the priest contented himself with a simple, neutral observation. “The police will be here soon.”

  Which was probably wise.

  “Yes. Are you ready?”

  Frank shook his head, but Hal had closed his fingers around the man’s wrist. The power rose in a shimmering curtain, and the ice-dappled sidewalk was empty well before the first fire engine’s headlights appeared.

  * * *

  It was like stepping through time again, but further than he could even with the powers granted him. The rotunda, the sweeping staircase, the suits of armor on their stands—all familiar, and the incense smell was familiar as well. Clearly, someone was a traditionalist. The most secret of the Sophic houses in Cavanaugh’s time had looked very much like this.

  Muffled chanting behind heavy double doors. They were at work, it seemed.

  Beside him, Frank the priest bent over, trying to contain his retches. This method of travel was difficult for those not accustomed. Emily had displayed a similar reaction, but much more graceful.

  Hal closed his corporeal eyes, feeling about the building. Yes. The priest had been right. This was their center of power in the city. The transition to a new continent had meant much opportunity, and they had seized it. Clever mortals, indeed.

  He patted the man’s back again, alleviating what he could of the nausea and making doubly certain he hadn’t left any of the man’s internal organs behind. It paid to be thorough.

  “Christos,” Frank whispered. He was paper-pale, and it took him a few minutes to regain himself. “Will you stop doing that?”

  “If you would prefer to walk, I can accommodate you.” Hal’s mouth tilted up at one end. Strange, to wear such an expression. Emily might have been pleased to see it. “Listen.”

  The priest closed his eyes now, struggling to contain his runaway breath. He stilled, and for a moment, that was almost concerning. Almost as motionless as Hal himself could be. “Sorcery,” he breathed. “Is this not diabolical?”

  “I believe this ritual dates from 1548.” Hal kept his own voice low. “Which could possibly make it so, according to your Order’s standards. No, do not try to disturb it.” He hauled the man back. “You will be occupied with the other guards.”

  “Which are?” Frank’s sandy eyebrows rose, and Hal let himself look up the stairs, where the smokesteam shimmers of very nasty apparitions were beginning, scenting mortal meat and blood. “Oh,” Frank continued, wry realization filling his tone. “They’re right behind me, aren’t they.”

  Very intelligent. “Once I let go of you, they will attack. You should be able to fend them off.” Hal exhaled softly. “Are you ready?”

  “God protect us,” Frank whispered. “Yes.”

  “Good man.” Once he finished with the circle of Fratres behind the great door, he could return to Emily.

  He could, perhaps, wait as she slept, and make coffee when she woke. It sounded like…well, no doubt, Frank the priest would call it heaven.

  Hal let go.

  Be Precise, Poppet

  It wore off in stages. Em surfaced slowly, her head aching and her shoulder on fire. She tried to move, but something bit her wrists, and she blinked several times, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. What was happening.

  Why do I suspect nothing will make sense ever again?

  “You’re awake,” he said, harshly. “Good.” A crisp accent, the words almost sounding foreign. He gripped her shoulder, rolling her onto her back; Em winced, a small sound driven out of her because her hands were tied behind her and it was not comfortable. Someone else was gasping, and there was a sharp sour stink of vomit.

  “Your friend is quite the wild one.” His face thrust close to hers, and she smelled a screen of minty toothpaste over the furred stench of onion rot, an expensive aftershave, and a strange coppery stink. “In my day, she’d be taught some respect. Come on, up with you.” He had hazel eyes, a nose that would have been proud if not for the bulb on the end of it, and for some reason, she knew she must know who he was, even though she’d never seen him before. Those scars on his cheeks…

  Smallpox, she realized. He wouldn’t have had a vaccination, now would he.

  He hauled her upright. Her legs didn’t want to work, but he was stronger than he looked. He shoved her down into the couch, and the gasping was from May on the floor in front of the television, her eyes closed. The vomit-smell was from her—a puddle of it spread from her best friend’s mouth, and there was a bruise spreading up the left side of her face. A deep, dark-red one.

  He hit May. Em cleared her throat. “George…Cavanaugh…I presume?” Her tongue didn’t quite fit in her mouth; the rest of her face was numb. She sounded drunk. That was a tranquilizer gun. Jesus Christ.

  He looked pleased for a bare moment before his mouth drew itself into a tight, prissy little line. “Well
. A bright little doll you are. Where is your husband?”

  What? “I’m divorced.” Good God, just imagining Steven trying to deal with this was enough to make her want to laugh, albeit in a weird, screechy, hysterical sort of way. Steven’s conflict resolution was nonviolent to the max. “It’s not here.”

  “What?” Cavanaugh glared at her, and the mad gleam in his hazel eyes told her he was two tons past crazy and not slowing down anytime soon.

  She took a deep breath, propping herself against the couch arm. A real charmer, no wonder Hal hadn’t liked this guy. “You’re going to…try to torture me into…telling you where the ring is.”

  He drew himself up. He was short and more than a little bandy-legged—malnutrition or some childhood disease, maybe? The tuxedo looked like it had been mothballed in the twenties. And instead of the tranquilizer gun, now he had a knife.

  It was thin, and pointed, and looked like it was made of glass. Or some kind of clear rock, but there wasn’t any knapping on the blade. His right hand, pale and spidery, clutched the leather-wrapped hilt. His left, with its mangled first finger, shot out and clamped on her shoulder. “Do I have to torture you, poppet?”

  No, you don’t. But you look like you’d like to. “It’s not here.” She was beginning to get her breath back. And, wouldn’t you know, her bladder suddenly felt two sizes too small. Either she had a UTI or something about being in dire danger made her want to wee-wee like mad.

  “No husband. Then a paramour?” He cast a glance over her apartment. “Who keeps you here? You could do better, you know.”

  “What?” The urge to tell him to speak English, for God’s sake rose and was ruthlessly strangled in the same instant. She was looking at a man who had been alive before electricity was discovered. Almost before the steam engine, maybe.

  It didn’t look like he’d put the intervening time to good use.

  “The man. Who has my ring.” He touched her cheek with the knifetip. It was very sharp, and very cold. “Your lover, or whatever he is to you. Where is he?”

  What the… It dawned on her that he maybe didn’t even realize she’d been the one to wake Hal up. He just figured there had to be a man somewhere, and she was an afterthought. Or he assumed she’d given the ring to a man, because…why?

  Who the fuck knew?

  Think fast, Em.

  “Do you think he’ll still fancy you with an eye put out?” He grinned, baring discolored, crooked teeth that were nevertheless strong. One of his molars on the bottom left was missing. It was a wonder he wasn’t missing more, judging by his halitosis. Maybe he’d brushed before coming out to climb into her apartment? Could she imagine him going in to get braces?

  Did this guy floss? Her brain kept shying away from the situation, serving up the strangest and most unhelpful goddamn things.

  The knifetip drifted up. Slowly. Em swallowed, hard. “Look.” She tried to lean away from the knife, an instinctive movement, but his left hand crawled up into her hair and grabbed a handful, tensing. The nubbin of his mutilated finger dug into her scalp; her stomach gave a loose, weird shake inside her, as if she was going to projectile puke all over him. Don’t you dare, Em. “That’s my friend. She has no part of this. Let her go, and I’ll tell you where it is.”

  May groaned, a long liquid sound ending with a slurred “—sonofabitch.” Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Oh, so now you know where my property lies? Out with it.” The tip jabbed, high up on her cheek, and the pinprick welled with heat.

  Oh, God. She couldn’t even look at May. His face filled up her field of vision, sweat along his temples, lank brown hair matted at the ends. Blackheads festered on either side of his nose, but the worst was his eyes. Hazel, bloodshot, and completely normal on the surface. It wasn’t until you got this close that you saw the complete, utter madness shining in the depths of his pupils.

  “I can show you,” she hedged. Her eyes felt naked, and the knifepoint lingered, a tiny hot welling tiptoeing down her cheek. She stared at him, her pulse thundering in her ears. A rushing noise began, trying to seep in and fill her head.

  Stop that. May. Think of May. Keep her safe.

  “And I can carve your face like a turnip, poppet. Where is my ring?” He shouted the last bit, his breath swarming over her face, and Em flinched. The knife dug a little more, and the trickle down her cheek fattened.

  “You bastard,” May said, slurred but still recognizable. “Fuck off!”

  Oh dear. “May!” For Chrissake, can’t you be quiet for once in your life and let me—

  Cavanaugh shifted. He pulled the knife back, jabbed it over his shoulder in May’s general direction. His hand twisted in Em’s hair, pulling viciously, tearing some strands free. “Or I can carve your foul-mouth little dagget of a friend. Which do you prefer?”

  “It’s not here!” The words burst out of her. “I gave it to Hal!”

  Silence, except for May’s harsh breathing and her own.

  Cavanaugh let go of her hair. He straightened, and the knife retreated. “To whom? Be precise, poppet.”

  Oh, what the fuck. Maybe if he knew it was completely gone, he’d…what? Climb out the window and leave them alone? Maybe he’d just kill her and May could get away? “May? May, are you all right?”

  “What a party,” her best friend slurred. She coughed, wetly. “Jesus fuck.”

  Yeah. Like she’d be able to fight this maniac off or run. Maybe if Em screamed—

  The slap came out of nowhere, smashing her head to the side, her non-bloody cheek on fire now. Then Cavanaugh’s fingers were in her hair again. He wrenched her head back, and the knifepoint rested against her throat.

  So sharp. So sharp it was cold. Probably would go right through her like butter.

  Hot knife through butter, isn’t that the saying?

  He was very quiet now, and the only thing worse than the pseudo-politeness in his tone was the sense that he was already considering whether or not to stab them both. “To whom did you give my ring? Answer me, and I might decide to leave you and your whore friend still breathing.” His breath brushed her cheek. A bubble of something hot and bilious lodged in her throat. She had to cough, didn’t want to. Swallowed, wished she hasn’t because the point of the knife was right there.

  “I gave it to Hal,” she whispered. “The genie. The spirit. I put it on his finger. He’s free.”

  The knife fell away. So did his hand in her hair, and Em almost sobbed with relief.

  “You…what?” Cavanaugh’s throat worked vigorously for a few seconds. “You did what?”

  Maybe I can kick him. Her head was swimming from the tranquilizer, a flat copper mallet pounding in the back of her throat. And somehow get the knife.

  Sure. With her hands tied behind her back and her ankles tied, too. Right.

  “You did what?” he repeated, and slapped her again. This time it was her bloody cheek, and it was more like a punch because he’d closed his fist around the knifehilt to brace it. The force of the blow tipped her over on the couch, and the world went white for a few seconds.

  When she came to, she heard someone yelling.

  It was her own voice. “—you do to him, you sonofabitch! He didn’t ask to be stuck in that ring, he didn’t ask to be a slave!”

  “SHUT UP!” Cavanaugh roared, his knees on either side of her supine body, lifting the blade overhead.

  The glass blade glittered as it plunged down, sinking to the hilt with an odd, meaty sound. For a second Em could only think that’s odd, it doesn’t hurt before the pain began, and it did.

  It hurt plenty.

  May kept screaming.

  Best You Leave Now

  The priest had sunk to one knee, his forehead against his hand on the hilt of his strange black-bladed sword. Hal flicked his fingers, dismissively, and blood spattered, smoking in the sudden chill. Every battlefield smelled the same; the only differences were the exact degree of smoke and the language the wounded cried out weakly in.

  A
nd the silence, when they were done.

  Hal straightened, taking a deep breath. The smoke was beginning to thicken. There were no cries.

  He had left no wounded.

  “Are you injured?”

  “Gonna feel this tomorrow.” Frank’s breathing came in deep heaves. His sandy hair tangled over his forehead, strands glinting gold in the electric light. His cassock was rent and torn; it had stood up admirably under the night’s assaults, much like its owner.

  “Not necessarily. Would you like to forget this entire incident? It is possible, you know.” Hal glanced at the ruins of the sanctum doors. Behind them, the bodies of the men gathering sorcerous force lay in twisted, shattered ruins. It was, to put it mildly, a mess.

  “Oh, no. Don’t tempt me with that.” Frank heaved himself up, groaning a little. Tested his right ankle—his boots were quite well designed, and Hal had taken note of their structure to clothe himself in a similar pair. When the priest was certain he could stand, he drew himself up, put more weight on his ankle, and winced afresh. “My superiors will want to know about this. The Sophics, meddling in the forbidden and trying to use us to clean up.” He grimaced again. There was a stippling of gunpowder on his cheek, and it was quite likely the blood in his hair was at least partly his own. “Perhaps they’ll set me to hunting down the rest of them.”

  “Perhaps they will.” Hal’s smile felt…genuine. “And me?”

  “Far as I can see, you’re no diabolus.” The priest eyed him speculatively. “Perhaps I’ll carry a sin of omission.”

  “Balanced against all the souls you have saved?” Hal watched the man’s hand. Any change in his grip would require a…response. Something was burning, flames perfumed with bricks of ceremonial incense dancing inside the Sanctum. Someone had indeed known the old recipes; Hal had not smelled that particular blend since Cavanaugh’s last meeting with his Fratres. The heavy draperies would catch in a little while. “I have other business tonight.”