SM Stirling

by Shadowspawn 01 - A Taint in the Blood (v5)

  invited to the estate?” Jules said. “Speaking of the party

  .” “Oh, Jules,” Julianne said. “You’re not still angry with the man for killing us?” “It was grossly offensive,” Adrienne’s father replied. Adrienne smiled. “And you’ve been very good about living in a reclusive way down in La Jolla since then,” she said. “With me as public head of this branch of the family, the Tōkairins felt . . . easy and un-threatened. But now . . . now I think it’s once more time for the Brézés to spread their wings here in California, a little.” The molten eyes turned to Adrienne. “Oh, my darling girl, whatever could you mean?” her mother said. “We were simply taking our time adjusting to the postcorporeal state.” White teeth gleamed in the night, and all three laughed. A servant’s hand shook a little as she poured more of the wine. A few red drops spilled on Adrienne’s wrist; she considered them and then slowly licked them up. “We should talk. And then, if you have a taste for midnight flight, perhaps we could do some hunting together. There’s a little loose end you could really get your teeth into.” “Let me give you a hand!” Peter said. He took the big ceramic bowl of potato salad out of Ellen’s arms and put it on one of the picnic tables. Others jumped to take the rest of the precariously-piled loads from the two women. People were milling around the walled rear yard, and into the house through the sliding-glass doors. Japanese lanterns bobbed overhead, casting shifting light. More than half of the attendees were apparently the Villegas clan, but a substantial number of Monica’s tennis and library-volunteer friends were there too, and their spouses and children. Fiona Duggan was attending, with a Chinese man a little younger than she. Most families seemed to have brought a dish, including enough cakes and trifles and empanadas to make her feel guilty just looking. The sheltered walled garden was comfortable if you had a jacket, but there was a constant traffic of laden plates into the house and empty ones coming out. Children ranged from teenagers—the male ones giving her wistful looks—to a small fair-haired baby being dandled and admired. Oh. That’s where the . . . little girl from San Simeon went. She was too young to cry much, though she looked around dubiously. She’ll forget. She’s really too young to know her mother’s gone. And growing up a renfield . . . well, better that than some things. The big brick barbecue pit smoked over the oakwood coals at the edge of a flagstone patio, with Jose presiding—or attempting to, as his father and uncles crowded around offering advice with bottles of beer in their hands. A long spike over one end held a yard of carne al pastor

  , thin-sliced pork loin dripping with little sputters and spurts of flame. Smells pungent and meaty and spicy drifted on the air. Jose flourished a knife as long as his forearm and sliced off an edge from top to bottom onto a plate of tortillas. More of the flat wheat-breads warmed on a comal

  , a flatiron, supervised by Jose’s rather stout mother and a doe-eyed, strikingly pretty girl who was probably his sister from the way they teased each other. Chicken thighs and breasts and drumsticks sizzled, and some hamburgers and bratwurst, and steaks that smelled as if they’d been marinated in lime and garlic and pepper . . . “The brats I brought, they’re one of Minnesota’s national dishes,” Peter said. “These things always turn into an amoeba party when Jose’s putting it on.” “Amoeba party?” “Multiplication by division. He has a lot of relatives,” Peter said. “Beer or wine? The Rhône de Robles is good, but . . .” “Beer, thanks. More cooling!” He fetched her one, a light pale ale from the Rancho Sangre brewery. “Maria’s—Jose’s mother’s—adobo chicken mole is just great,” he went on. “And Frank Milson, he’s the husband of one of Monica’s tennis buddies, makes this amazing cowboy beans and bacon thing.” She loaded her plate with everything he’d recommended, and a red chili tamale with shredded pork and an ear of roast corn, and circulated. That was prolonged by Monica dragging her off for a complete rundown on her hours at Jean-Charles’ establishment to an admiring and envious group. Evidently an outfit from him was a rare and coveted reward in female renfield circles, much less a complete wardrobe. Then she returned to sit beside Peter and the doctor at the end of one of the outdoor tables, a folding model that was a little unstable on the clipped grass. “Hello, Dr.—” “I’ve been in America a generation now, Ellen. Fiona will do,” she said. Then she grinned. “I’ve not brought any haggis, honest. Though it would have to be certified organic

  haggis here. You’ll find few towns this size with healthier populations.” “I’ve noticed,” Ellen said. “Why . . . oh, of course . . . Fiona.” She nodded, with an odd smile. It’s a show ranch

  , she thought. But a

  people show ranch. We’re the palomino horses and certified Angus cattle. Or . . . well, considering all those jokes they tell about sheep and shepherds, maybe we’re the cute bouncy waggle-tailed big-eyed fleecy flock of pedigree ewes and rams. She concentrated on eating for a while; everything was

  good, and she’d gotten used to spicy in Santa Fe, where even the chocolates could have red chili. From here a big pepper tree shut out most of the stars . . . and the lights of the casa grande

  over the wall and on its hill. There was a pleasant burble of voices, mostly talking in English but liberally flavored with Spanish words, sentences, inflections and occasional conversations. Ellen ate and let the ambience flow into her. It was more relaxed than she would have expected, and for a long moment she closed her eyes and imagined she was anywhere else. What Peter was saying brought her back to reality: “. . . and I think I’ve got a handle on a really rigorous mathematical description of why the Power can’t affect some materials—” “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Fiona said softly. Peter blinked at her. “Why not? That’s what I’m supposed

  to do.” “Indeed you are,” Adrienne said, and reached around Ellen for a forkful of the potato salad on her plate. Eeeeek! Ellen fought not to spill her food for an instant. The talk didn’t die at the Doña’

  s presence, though it did drop several octaves. Ellen noticed a number of older people glance nervously at their teenage or young-adult children. Some of those were giving Adrienne the sort of glances usually reserved for the extremely cool

  ; others looked a little apprehensive themselves. The Shadowspawn was wearing a loose caftan-like robe; it looked comfortable but not the sort of wear for stealth. How did she sneak up on me like that? Did she— “No Wreaking needed. I just move very quietly when I want to, and you humans have the most terrible hearing,” Adrienne said to her. I wonder how far away she can read thoughts? “That’s for me to know and you to worry about, chérie

  .” And now I’ll never be sure if she’s standing behind me! “No, you won’t. Ah, that was a very nice shiver up the spine you had just then; it gave me this almost irresistible impulse to pounce on you. You’re such a flirt

  , Ellen!” “Not intentional,” Ellen said tightly. “As if that mattered, you teasing minx!” Adrienne snapped teeth at her playfully, then went on to Peter: “Though the good doctor has a point too. It’s occurred to me from time to time that my enthusiasm for things modern may be misleading me. That understanding the Power could have disadvantages. After all, we don’t really need to understand it to use

  it, and if other people understood it better than we did . . . that could be unfortunate.” “Ummm . . .” Peter frowned. “Well, you

  could use it better if you could understand it.” “Yes, but . . . you’re thinking about your work right now, aren’t you?” “Of course.” “And it might as well be in Swahili. I can read your thoughts but they’re meaningless to me, even the bits of what’s apparently English interspersed, and . . . is that some sort of graphic notation? Worse, because I could learn Swahili in a couple of weeks without particular effort. I couldn’t follow the mathematics and theory in your head without years

  of very hard work. It’s odd. I can decipher computer code easily enough.” “I think that’s a different order of representation,” Peter said judiciously. “It’s not just knowing a language, it’s knowing a lot of facts in


  the language and understanding their relationships. Knowing English doesn’t make you an expert on Shakespeare. You could

  do physics, with enough time and work, I think. You pick up concepts well.” “But the number of Shadowspawn who could is quite limited, while we can all use

  the Power. It’s the difference between being able to walk and being able to learn ballet.” “Why . . . oh, yes, limited talent pool,” Peter said. “Bell curves.” “You get the most fascinating spike of intellectual pleasure when you realize something, Peter. It’s part of what makes you interesting. Like one of those minimalist-cuisine dishes, with a little dab of ahi and a single artfully arranged French bean and a thin calligraphic drizzle of some sharp-tasting sauce. Ascetic, but a pleasure nonetheless.” Ellen looked between them, puzzled. She’s not the only one listening to a strange language. Adrienne turned to her for a second: “It doesn’t matter if only one human in ten thousand has a natural talent for physics. That’s still millions in total. For us

  one in ten thousand means one or two individuals in the entire race.” “Oh,” Ellen said. She smiled. “Guess that shows why I’m cuisine bourgeois

  and not minimalist.” “You’re very good of your kind, my sweet. Just as Monica and Jose are two varieties of honest American comfort food, like this potato salad or the carne al pastor

  .” Peter nodded enthusiastically, sticking to the original thread: “And science requires a community

  of trained minds. Which is why I’ve been so slow here.” Ellen winced; even on short acquaintance she’d noticed how he would follow a line of argument anywhere, once he had his teeth in it. And looking at Adrienne’s smile . . . That’s an unfortunate metaphor. The Shadowspawn nodded. “The last time we did anything like that was back in the nineteenth century, when Brézé adepts researched how to bring back Mhabrogast from the fragments we had.” “How?” Duggan said, obviously taking mental notes. “Using reconstructive philology boosted by the Power . . . If you cut the possible answers down to a reasonable number, then the Power can tell which is most likely right, which gives you more information for the next deduction. That was scholarship, not real science, though.” “Do you want me to stop the work?” Peter said anxiously. “No,” Adrienne said slowly. “Not for now. It’s all in your head, after all.” Then she smiled. “We can talk later, but I had some other topics in mind. Ellen has given me some interesting

  ideas on how we could pass the time agreeably. Drop by the casa

  in an hour or so and don’t plan anything but rest tomorrow. Dr. Duggan, a word with you. There’s a bit of an extra load for your clinic coming up, I’m afraid.” The two moved off into a corner of the yard; Adrienne ate a tortilla wrapped around some of the pork loin as they spoke with their heads close together. “Interesting ideas?” Peter said, looking at Ellen with his eyebrows raised. What . . . Oh, God! “Ah . . . Peter, it’s not my fault—it’s really

  not my fault. I’m sorry!” “What

  isn’t your fault, Ellen?” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and then opened them again despite the heat she felt in her cheeks. “Ah . . . OK, there’s no way to say this without being embarrassed, at least not for me. I’m . . . well, I sort of like some kink stuff, some of the time. Fairly often. Nothing extreme! Not edgeplay.” “Like?” he said curiously, and took a swig of his beer. “Really, it’s all right, Ellen. I’m not easily shocked either.” “Ah . . . I’m a bottom. Ropes and chains. I like being tied up. Tied up and beaten with whips. Symbolic

  whips! Well, partly symbolic, they sting, but . . . It’s a game

  , Peter. All consensual, safe-words, that sort of thing. When Adrienne found my . . . my gear in my apartment, she thought it was hilarious. She ordered a duplicate set in San Francisco. God, we went in this shop and . . . I

  got all mine on the Internet before. I thought she was just going to use it on me

  , Peter. As a joke.” “Oh,” he said quietly. “Well, whatever happens, it’s not your fault, Ellen.” His mouth quirked. “Compared to direct Power jolts in your pain centers or sensitive parts, it’s probably not bad. See you later.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN “O

  h, Jesus wept, now what?” Harvey asked, panting as they toiled up the last, almost vertical stretch of the dune. “You auditionin’ for a remake of Rocky

  now, boy?” “I’ve gotten soft,” Adrian said. He pushed himself to the top and stopped, feeling the burn in his thighs, and the way the cool wind off the Pacific flushed the wet warmth of his soaked T-shirt to instant chill. He paused for a moment, testing his leg for any twinges from the healed wound. There was nothing but the clean strain of hard effort. Then he pulled the practice blades out of his rucksack. “Not so much in body, as in mind. I have to be a warrior again if I’m to free Ellen and kill my sister.” “I haven’t gotten soft.

  I’ve just gotten goddamned old

  , Adrian! Hold up!” Seabirds wheeled overhead, or skittered long-legged through the low waves below. The air smelled wet, salt, cold, and faintly of the wrack along the high-tide line. Harvey joined him, bending over and resting his hands on his knees for a moment to suck in more air. “Y’know, boy,” he said, taking the wooden blade. “If this were a movie instead of real life, we could have a great montage

  right now. It’d be more economical.” “Montage of what?” “You know, little short clips of us doin’ all these sweaty manly warrior things, and then they skip to the part where we’re all toughened up for the fighting. Saves the waste of good killing and bikini time in an action movie.” Unwillingly, Adrian grinned at him. “Instead we have to do

  all the sweaty, manly warrior things.” “You do. Ol’ buddy, you’re going in close. I’m going to be hanging back with my fancy sniper rifle. Nothin’ wrong with my trigger-finger yet, as opposed to my reflexes, my knees and my wind. I leave that personal-style stuff with knives to you youngsters.” Adrian snorted. “I’m fifty myself.” “Yeah, you’re fifty years old chronologically and physiologically maybe twenty-eight. You-um purebred Shadowspawn prince. Me-um lowly human ape scum. I’ve seen quite a bit more than fifty years and I feel every physio-fuckin’-logical one of ’em.” “You have a guarantee you won’t be face-to-face with Dale Shadowblade?” Harvey straightened and looked out over the blue-gray Pacific waters and the endless ripples of white foam that stretched eastward. “No, but I can guarantee you I’ll be dead if I do. Couldn’t have handled him by my own self on my best day, even in a silver suit. Less I took him by complete surprise.” “I’d like to know what he’s doing now,” Adrian said grimly. “Well, I bet it ain’t running up a sand dune.” “And we need to know. We need a great deal more detailed information.” “Anything from Ellen?” “I haven’t dared risk a high-link with her lately, not for more than a few moments. The multiple feedings and . . . closeness . . . mean that Adrienne is deeper and deeper into her mind. I have to be cautious.” He smiled, and Harvey looked at him dubiously. “But there’s another way, and it’ll be easier than running up and down dunes. I did manage to tell Ellen about that. She agreed.” Softly: “I would never set a compulsion on her, unless she agreed.” Then Adrian’s smile grew into a grin. “And now, my old . . . old . . . old

  friend . . .” He crouched and held the knife in the ready position. Harvey groaned and took his in a thumb-on-hilt dagger grip, his other hand stiffened into a blade across his chest. They began to circle. “Age and treachery beat youth and strength,” Harvey grumbled. Adrian lunged, his feet sending up spurts of sand. Harvey countered with a backhand slash to the face; he dodged and dove to the side with a shoulder roll that brought him back upright out of reach. “But I have both age’s treachery and

  youth’s strength,” Adrian taunted genially. Harvey said: “Just makes you want to—” Harvey launched himself forward, pivoting on his hands and kicking out. One boot thudded painfully into Adrian’s thigh, and he fought not to topple. The edge sliced upward in a curve that whipped the edge across his abdomen. “—cry,

 
; don’t it?” “I’m going for a drive before I go home,” Ellen said. “God, how can you have any energy left?” one of Monica’s tennis-club friends said. “After beating us all into the ground on the court.” They sat around a table not far from Rancho Sangre’s civic center pool. The early-May sunshine was warm, this Sunday afternoon, another perfect golden Californian day. All had tall frosty glasses of fresh lemonade or iced tea or soda before them—or in one or two cases, something stronger. The place was more like a private spa than the usual bare-bones public facilities towns had; there was a pleasant clubhouse with a café, a bright well-equipped gym and a big circular swimming pool with a fountain in the center, besides tennis courts and much else. The yelling children splashing in the water made a pleasant burring background to conversation, and the smell of chlorine mingled with cut grass and lilac blooming along a wall. “Ellen’s improving our games,” Monica said proudly. “She beat me to flinders back in February, but now it’s May and she just had me running like a mad thing!” The other women ranged from their twenties through late middle-age, and initially hadn’t seemed much different from any other clutch of small-town, middle-class Californians. One was head of the town library; another principal of the high school; there was a pediatrician, a dentist and the town clerk, and several teachers. The housewives had an architect, a surveyor, the winery and dairy factory managers and others of like ilk for husbands. Dr. Duggan was there, along with her older daughter and several of the others’ offspring, one of whom was attending Cal Poly and had given Ellen a serious game. Let’s see . . . most of them have these little black-sun-and-trident pendants or bracelets somewhere visible; maybe some keep theirs tucked away, like I do. And apart from that everything’s normal . . . until suddenly it isn’t. “Monica,” one of the matrons said. “Do you know if the Doña