Dead Man Rising

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Let's have some coffee. We can be civilized, can't we?" She had recovered. Her voice was back to smoothness. But her aura shifted uneasily, and my own Power reached out, caressing her vulnerable edges. Sexwitches were still nicknamed "beggars" in some circles; the natural physiological processing of Power triggered chemical cascades of pleasure in them, endorphins that made them pleading and vulnerable. As a part-demon, I had more Power than most sexwitches ever encountered; if Polyamour wasn't fully-fed she would be distracted, and I would have to be very gentle. If I was careful of my new body's effect on normal humans, I was doubly careful of what I could do to an exquisitely sensitive sexwitch.

  Other halls began to open off this one. I caught sight of round couches, spears of daylight picking out details: a large harp, the glowing green leaves of some trailing plant, a sleeping white Persian cat on a round cushion of black velvet. All in all, it seemed pretty tame.

  As if reading my mind, Polyamour laughed. It was a practiced sound, with a rill of uneasiness underneath. "These are only the reception rooms. Have you ever been inside a House, Ms. Valentine?"

  "Call me Danny," I said automatically. "No. Some bordellos and brothels, but never a House. It's very beautiful."

  She accepted the compliment with a queenly nod. "My private quarters are a few floors down. If you don't mind."

  "It would be an honor." Something that was bothering me became painfully clear. "Where are your bodyguards? I'd think your intra-House security would be a little tighter."

  "What good would bodyguards do if Dante Valentine wants me dead?" Her tone edged on the whimsical. "No. For personal reasons, I'd prefer to keep this meeting private." The end of the hall rose up in front of us and two shielded doors opened, revealing an elevator. I swallowed, my jaw setting, and Jace's hand closed around my elbow. "Besides, I am not without a slight precognitive Talent. It comes in handy."

  We stepped into the elevator. Polyamour's aura pressed against mine, the air roiling with Shaman, sexwitch, and almost-demon. The doors closed. There was a time when I would have drawn steel and started struggling to escape such a confined space, but now I set my teeth together and tightened my left hand around the scabbard. My rings popped and sparked. Jace's touch on my elbow loosened for a second, but then he drove his fingernails in savagely.

  The bright diamonds of pain were negligible, but they helped.

  Polyamour studied my face. In such close quarters, I could see the line of her jaw, too strong for a woman's. There was an old, faint scar running just under her right ear, under the jawbone to the bottom of her chin. Her forehead was a little too broad too. But those eyes more than made up for it. "You're exquisite," she said. "I could get you a ton of work."

  I managed a tight smile. Maybe she didn't assume I'd been genespliced. Then again, she could see the black stain on my aura. Thanks for the compliment. I don't want to look like this. "Not many would like to fuck a Necromance." And I can't touch a man without thinking of a dead demon and how he held me.

  Nothing seemed to throw her. "You'd be surprised." The elevator made a soft sound, and the doors opened. Disregarding safety or politeness, I was the first one out, tearing free of Jace's hand but dimly grateful that he had choked up on my elbow.

  This hall was plain, wood-floored, and white-walled.

  Sunlight poured in from the windows, but gauzy white curtains diluted the force of the light. I blinked, my pupils contracting, and smelled coffee. Polyamour led us through a plain wooden door and into a large comfortable room with a fireplace, a tumbled king-size bed, two blue linen couches, a battered Perasiano rug, and a woman wearing nothing but a collar and long chain standing in the middle of a small kitchenette, pouring coffee from a silver samovar.

  "Please, sit." Polyamour strode across the room, silk fluttering, and draped herself across one of the couches. "Diana will bring the coffee."

  I lowered myself down gingerly, the sword across my knees. Looked up at Jace, who wore a faint scowl. He stood to the side and folded his arms, watchdog written in every line of his body. "I suppose we might start with the obvious," I said. "Someone's killing the members of the Black Room. Why?"

  She gave one elegant shrug, the silk whispering as she moved. The naked woman padded over softly, bearing a silver tray. She glanced at Polyamour, who nodded slightly.

  "Cream?" the naked woman asked, her breasts moving gently as she knelt to place the tray on a low ebony table. Her pubic fleece was smoky darkness, her hair a long rippling fall of chestnut. She was a sexwitch too, a ruby glittering in her cheek. She seemed utterly unself-conscious of her nudity, almost to the point of parody. Her aura was at a low ember, fully fed, but she still made a subtle, inviting movement as soon as the edge of my aura touched her. "Sugar?"

  "Just cream." If this is a game to see how I react, Poly,

  you're going to be very disappointed. Even when I was human I didn't go in for this.

  She looked up at Jace, who shook his head.

  The naked woman handed me an antique silver cup full of expensively smooth coffee and chicory, cut with heavy cream. She spent a few more moments preparing Polyamour's drink, handed it to her, and sat back on her heels, waiting.

  "You may go, Diana. I will be quite all right. Come back in two hours." Poly waved her away.

  The woman bowed, her breasts moving, hair falling forward to veil her face momentarily. Then she rose, looped the chain from the leather collar over her arm, and left, closing the door with a quiet click.

  Polaymour seemed to shrink slightly at the sound of that click. "I suppose you want to know how they did it."

  I took a sip of the coffee. "This is very nice."

  She acknowledged the compliment with a small nod.

  Let's get down to business. "The more I know, the better prepared I am to stop this thing."

  "I'm not sure you can stop it." She crossed her legs, demurely, but a faint sheen of sweat showed on her forehead. I wondered if she'd had her chin laser-treated to get rid of stubble, or if hormone treatments had taken care of it. "It's probably Destiny coming home to roost. Do you believe in Fate, Danny Valentine?"

  I shrugged. "No more than the next Magi-trained Necromance."

  She gave a coughing little laugh. "That's very funny. I was involved in a conspiracy to kill a Hegemony officer. Are you going to arrest me?"

  It was my turn to laugh, a laugh that dropped and shattered in pieces on the wooden floor. "Not fucking likely. Any truth to the rumor that someone turned into a Feeder and took him on in a predator's duel?"

  "In a way, I suppose." Polyamour shivered.

  My nostrils flared. I Saw her fear, rising in trails that rippled and eddied like heat. A sexwitch's fear is perfumed, and smells like something fragrant and wanting, pheromones pressing hard against anyone in the room. Humans and Nichtvren like the smell, psions are particularly sensitive to a sexwitch's pheromones of fear or excitement; werecain and kobolding aren't affected at all.

  And me? It was difficult for me not to look at the curve of her throat where the pulse beat. She smelled like food. She also smelled—just a hint—of amber musk and burning cinnamon, a smell that made me think of Japhrimel's body against mine, his spent, shuddering sigh as he buried his face in my throat, the tang of demon blood burning my mouth. It's not real. It's only chemicals and Power. She's just scared.

  Her long caramel hand came up and touched the spade necklace. She curled her fingers around it, then broke the chain with a flick of Power, held the necklace up. "They made it stop." Her eyes moved with the spade as it dangled back and forth, glittering. "Or Keller did."

  I breathed shallowly, trying not to inhale any more of the delicious, electric, mouthwatering scent. "Keller?"

  Her mouth quirked slightly. "Our fearless leader. I…" She was trembling. Abruptly, Polyamour swung her legs off the couch, set her coffee down on the tray, and rolled up to her feet. The one quick movement told me she'd had some combat training, and that was very interesting. Sexwitches don't
normally go for combat; fear turns into desire for them, crippling their ability to respond. "You know," she said tonelessly. "You know how bad it was."

  I swallowed. The coffee turned to ash in my mouth, but the taste of it cut through the tantalizing scent. I wondered if that was why she'd offered it. "I was in the cage four times. But I know the sexwitches had it rough."

  "Oh, rough." She waved a hand, pacing away from us. I could breathe again, without her pheromones drowning me. "Rough. We were fucked every which way but loose, Valentine. That's not rough. The rough part was having that bastard pawing away at your mind while he or one of his cronies stuck whatever they wanted in their orifice of choice. If you're a sexwitch, you learn early that your body betrays you—it's your mind that has to stay impregnable. Your soul. To have that filthy old maggot fingering inside your head…" Her cascade of dark curls shuddered as she turned her supple back. She was shaking.

  "Sekhmet sa'es," I whispered. At least the few cubic inches inside my skull had been all mine. No matter how much of a smoking wasteland it became, it was still my wasteland. What was that old fable?

  Why do you eat your own heart? Because, O King, it is bitter, and because it is my heart.

  Even in the middle of my blackest moments, I'd had my books. The hard kernels of immortal stories, each one a reminder of how deeply Lewis loved me, of how strong I could strive to be. My books and my god, steady sources of strength in the impregnable fortress of my head. I had been lucky.

  Lucky. I never thought I would think that.

  Polyamour turned back to us. The beauty of her face had become harder, more brittle; her eyes were dark holes. "I learned early that I wanted to be strong. Or at least have a strong protector. And so, I built this. But would you believe I still have nightmares?"

  "I believe it." My eyes flickered over to the mantel. Hung above it was a restrained, priceless Mobian print, the famous black-and-white of the woman's back tattooed with a rising dragon. I would bet it was the original. The subtle shades of gray and stippled black were alive to my demon sight. I could have contemplated it for hours. "I believe it." I had Anubis, and you had nobody. Should I feel guilty about that? Lucky? Or guilty about feeling lucky?

  "Would you believe I actually felt guilty?" Her throaty, husky voice broke on the last word. The sharp pinch of my own guilt settled in, twisted hard. The scent of her fear still lingered on me, and it took an effort of will to calm my own racing pulse.

  If I could, Poly, I'd walk out of here and let you get back to trying to forget all about it. Because as soon as I finish this, I intend to forget every-fucking-thing that has to do with Rigger Hall too. "Poly, I need to know who. I need to know what you did. And why the Feeder glyphs are supposed to protect you against it."

  She dropped her head, stood with her carefully ringletted hair around her face. After a moment I realized the sound in the room was her. She was breathing like a horse run too hard, her fear rising in waves like heat from pavement. Her aura swirled in blue and violet, trembling, about to go nova.

  I was off the couch before I knew it, leaving my sword behind. I approached her softly, my own aura stretching; my rings swirled steadily. When the gold glow of my aura touched the edges of hers, the result was startling—her light yearned toward me, the classic response of a sexwitch. They need to feed, either on sex or the power sex raised; pure Power always raises a sexual response in them. That is what makes them so vulnerable—their bodies beg for it, slaves to the deepest urges of the body itself. The smell of her fear rose to drench me, but my own demon-scent overlaid it, a fiery, smooth kick like brandy igniting in my stomach.

  Gods above, I could get drunk on this.

  I'd forgotten how much more I was. How much more Japhrimel had made me. The outer layer of my defenses dropped, and a thin, humming sonic note of Power slid through the air like oil into a glass. Her head tipped back. Even though she was taller than me I caught her nape and wrist easily, the demon-hard calluses on my golden hands from daily knife-drill rasping on her soft skin. Then my aura closed around her, the full-scale plasgun charge of power sinking into her veins. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she moaned, helpless against the riptide.

  Was that what I looked like when Japhrimel changed me? I shook the thought aside. Pleasure scraped against my nerves, sparked through my bones. It was just like alcohol, a thorny electric lassitude like the best stage of every drunk I'd ever been on. Yet I was in control, not helpless in its grip. Gently, ever so gently, I stroked down Polyamour's spine with a feather-touch of Power. She moaned again, the silk of her dress whispering as her hips jerked forward. I kept one hand steady on her nape, my skin roughening slightly as the wave of her pleasure wrapped around me. My other hand touched her chin, her skin startlingly soft. My fingernails scraped slightly as I traced the scar on her jaw. This close, I saw that her skin was flawless; her eyelids fluttered again, eyelashes as thick and dark as a young boy's.

  I could do anything I wanted to her. The thought shook me. I had power, more power than I'd ever had in my life. And Polyamour was helpless, as helpless as we had been under Mirovitch.

  Shock jolted me out of the haze of sensation. No. I'm not like that. I want to help her, dammit. I'm trying to help her.

  I exhaled, disengaging, the flow of Power slowing to a trickle. Waited until she stopped trembling and made sure she had her balance. She leaned toward me. I pressed a kiss onto her cheek, smelling the peculiar musk of sexwitch laid over the smell of human. It was oddly pleasing, but now the edge of fear was gone, and so was the buzzing, blurring pleasure slamming through my nerves. Do demons feel like that when they scare us?

  Had Japhrimel felt that when he frightened me?

  "There," I murmured. "Isn't that better?"

  She blinked. Consciousness flooded back into her eyes. She tore away from my hand; I let her go, backed up two steps, and paced back to the couch. Jace stood in the same place, studying the Mobian. He wasn't blushing—but I could smell his arousal. It didn't smell nearly as good as hers. My shoulder wasn't burning—the mark had settled back into a dim glow. I picked up my cooling coffee cup, my hand stopping halfway to my mouth. My head suddenly cleared, swept clean by the jolts of sensation.

  Can it be you have not resurrected him?

  You will not leave me to wander the earth alone.

  Feed me.

  Sexwitches needed feeding. I needed feeding—but thankfully I could use human food. Japhrimel had needed blood. He had visited a slaughterhouse in Nuevo Rio.

  I would not have you see me feed. His voice, old and fiercely dark as whiskey. I stared into the coffee. Polyamour stood with her back to us for a few minutes, taking in deep ragged breaths; but her aura smoothed out. When I could talk around the lump in my throat, I repeated myself. "I need to know who. I need to know what you did. And why the Feeder glyphs are supposed to protect you against it."

  She let out a clipped little laugh, then swung around to face us. "I'll tell you what I know. You've paid for it, after all, with that little display."

  You enjoyed it. But that was unfair. So had I. "For fuck's sake. You could be next, Sebastiano. Quit fucking around with me and tell me what I need to know or I'll leave you to it and track it down from the other end."

  Polyamour held up the spade necklace. It glittered, a venomous dart of light. "I'm dead anyway. We couldn't kill Mirovitch, we were just kids. It was Keller's idea that they… they each take some." Her hand jittered. The spade danced, more barbs of light spitting. "I don't know all of it, Valentine. My job was to get them into Mirovitch's private rooms past the security. Keller couldn't take him on by himself. And nobody wanted to take him on in a Feeder duel. Nobody wanted to become a Feeder, hunted down, despised even after treatment. So Keller came up with the idea. They each take apart."

  I blinked. That's part of why the inquiry was sealed. If word got out that a circle of psions—just kids—had slipped their collars and murdered the Headmaster of a school, especially one as experienced as Mir
ovitch…

  That would be even worse than the public-relations fiasco of a school with a Headmaster gone awry. It was publicly more palatable for the Headmaster to abuse the students. Psions were already hated and feared equally in some places, uneasily accepted at best. The Hegemony needed us, we were protected under the law—but publicity was another thing entirely.

  My stomach turned sour. It was the reality of living in the modern world, but it still nauseated me. It was more acceptable for him to abuse us than for us to turn on him. Because after all, if psions could kill when they were children, where did that leave the adults? Too dangerous to be left alive, maybe. That was the logical extension to that thought, wasn't it?

  Jace shifted slightly. I caught his meaning as if he'd laid it in my brain with a telepath's light open touch.

  "Keller?"

  "Kellerman." Polyambur sighed.

  The name didn't ring a bell. "I must not have met him."

  Her voice took on a scraping note of sarcasm, elegantly done of course. "I doubt you'd remember it even if you did. He was eminently forgettable."

  "Kellerman?"

  Polyamour shivered, her hair trembling—I didn't bother to speak softly, and the entire room reverberated, the tray ringing softly against the creaking table, the walls groaning slightly, the curtains over the windows blown back, throwing gauzy shadows over the walls. I wondered if her body was betraying her, if she was fighting the urge to come back and drop at my feet, fawn on me.

  I suppressed a shiver. I thanked my gods I hadn't been born a sexwitch or been sent out as a breeder. Or indentured to a colony. Or any of the thousand other things that could have happened.

  Still… it would be so easy to scare her a little, just a very little, and feel that delicious drowning feedback again.

  "It was a nickname. Kellerman Lourdes. His parents were Novo Christer, died in a colony transport crash." Polyamour let out a low breath. "What else do you want?"