Dead Man Rising

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Why the Feeder glyphs? And who else was in this?" The pattern was rising from the depths of coincidence like a shape breaking up through smooth glassy water, pieces falling into place. But not enough pieces, and not nearly quickly enough.

  "Only Keller knew. We'd meet him in that boathouse on the grounds—you remember that shack? Anyway, none of us knew about anything other than the person we recruited—never more than one more—and Keller. He took secrecy very seriously. I was only recruited to get Keller and the others through the security."

  "The others?" You'd think she'd be spilling everything she ever even thought she knew about this Keller and Mirovitch, I thought sourly. But she was pale and shaking, only the flush of my power keeping her from collapsing. If memory could reopen the scars on my back and almost force me into shock, echo in Eddie's head loud enough to make him shake even after all these years, and push the fabled Polyamour into losing her careful control, then she deserved a few seconds and all the gentleness I could muster.

  Especially since I was almost trembling with the urge to do something unforgivable, just so I could have a few moments of oblivion. I had never understood bought sex before, never.

  Not until now.

  "I think Yasrule was one of them. Maybe. I don't know." Tears thickened her exquisite voice, welling in her dark, haunted eyes.

  "You weren't there? How could you short out the security and—"

  "He liked orgies." When she mentioned Mirovitch, it was obvious; her voice took on a weight of whispery fear and utter loathing that scraped the air and made it bleed. "So I brought fresh meat, and I brought Keller. I had to get close to him and—"

  "Sekhmet sa'es," I whispered. "Your one recruit and Keller."

  She nodded. "Once we were inside, Keller slipped his collar and bought enough time for me to get the security circle down. Then I dragged the meat away—she was a Magi, Dolores Ancien-Ruiz, she didn't know anything. That's why I hate myself. He was busy with her while I' Keller started his… plan… and I worked on the net." Polyamour held up her caramel hand, examining her shaking fingers as if they belonged to someone else. "I do hate myself for that."

  I had to know. "Why?"

  Her shoulders dropped and she pulled them back taut again. "Dolores committed suicide two years later. She was eleven when she hung herself."

  Shit. I would have wanted to question her too. The thought of an eleven-year-old girl hanging herself… I pushed it away.

  "I hauled her out of the Headmaster's House. She was screaming. They went past me—they were all wearing sk8 masks, but I thought I recognized Yasrule. And Aran. And Hollin."

  "Hollin? Hollin Sukerow?" Him I knew, by reputation at least. I glanced up at Jace, who was pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. It wasn't a comfortable story. He was vulnerable to Poly's pheromones, too. I wondered what he smelled when she drenched the air with fear.

  "The very same." Polyamour's chin lifted, a faint note of challenge. "Are you almost done? I have an appointment I would rather not miss."

  As if you have anything more important to do. But it might just have been that she wanted us gone, that she wanted to start forgetting the fear that made her helpless. I made it to my feet, this time scooping up my sword. Paced over to her, avoiding the low table. I don't know what she saw in my face, but she dropped her eyes, her entire body shifting just a few millimeters. It was amazing how she could express complete but grudging submission with such a subtle movement. I wished I had body language that expressive.

  Less than a foot from her, I halted. My fingernails scraped her hand as I took the spade necklace from her slackening fingers. This close, with my aura blurring and wrapping around her, she sighed, leaning forward as if she would lay her head on my shoulder.

  I stuffed both spade necklaces into my pocket and caught her nape again with my free hand, holding my sword well clear. Polyamour's forehead touched mine.

  Her skin was fevered, but still not as warm as mine. She exhaled, I smelled human breath, coffee, and sexwitch musk. If I kissed her, she would melt against me, and Jace would be left standing on the couch. It had been a long, long time for me; and she…

  But I want to scare her. I don't think I could control myself. The thought frightened me, because it was so goddamn tempting, and would be oh so very easy.

  What have I become?

  Her aura turned gold as I pushed Power into her, more and more and more until she cried out hoarsely, her body shuddering and hips jerking helplessly forward again. My fingers suddenly turned to iron to brace her. "Full-up," I whispered. "Now for a few nights, you don't have to feed. Take a vacation. And stop beating yourself up over Dolores." My own breath caught as I inhaled, struggling for control. Kept it. I don't do that. I don't use people like that. I DON'T.

  Oh yeah? For once, the snide voice of my conscience didn't sound like Japhrimel. What about Jace?

  I drew in a deep ragged breath. "Chances are it wasn't you, Bastian. Lots of kids killed themselves rather than handle the fallout from that place. Who knows what she suffered before she helped bring Mirovitch down?" My voice sank into its lowest registers, a throbbing contralto husk, swirling into her skin as I tied mental strings in a complicated knot, sealing the Power into her. For a few days, Polyamour would be free; she wouldn't have to feed. The power-charge I gave her would last longer if she didn't attempt any spells—and if she was attacked, she now had a full charge to fight with. It was poor payment for what I'd just put her through, but all I could give.

  One thing was certain. Our killer wasn't Polyamour. Sexwitches didn't turn Feeder. Their capacity to hold a charge of Power was finite; they couldn't feed from anything other than sex. Not only was our killer not Polyamour, but she wasn't implicated in the mess. She was clean.

  She gained her balance, and I let go of her neck. "And the next time you need another few days of rest, Poly, you come see me." I forced myself to step cautiously, then turned on my heel and tilted my head at Jace. "We'll let ourselves out."

  Jace turned too, preceded me to the door. His hand touched the knob.

  "Valentine!" Polyamour's voice didn't quiver. I halted, not looking back. If I looked back I was going to do something I shouldn't My left hand almost creaked, I clutched the scabbard so tightly.

  "You bitch." Now her voice broke like a teenage boy's. "Thank you."

  If you only knew how close I was to scaring you, to using you, you might not thank me. "No problem." I touched Jace's shoulder, he pushed the door open, and led me out into the hall beyond.

  "We're going to have to do the elevator again," he said. I let out a sharp breath, closing my eyes. My hand dug into his shoulder. He leaned into it. If it hurt him, he gave no indication. "Don't worry, Danny. I'm with you."

  It was more comforting than I expected. "Good." My voice was still low, it made a shiver run through Polyamour's House. That was close. That was so fucking close. And I invited her to call me again. She needs it, every sexwitch needs it. Loathing crept up my spine, skin-crawling dislike. No. I can offer her some help. That's all. Payment for what I almost did to her, for what I was tempted to do. lam not a demon. I'm human. Human.

  But that exquisite sensation, the blessed relief from pain, the pleasure of smelling her fear, sweeter than anything I'd tasted since being locked in a demon's arms…

  No. No. I was human, goddammit. I was going to stay that way, no matter what. Genesplicing didn't make a human less human, and neither would this. Only my body had changed. The rest of me remained the same.

  Didn't it?

  Oh, Anubis, I prayed, don't let me be wrong on this one.

  "Danny?"

  I let out a ragged breath. "Yeah?" Don't ask me, Jace. Don't ask me if I can give you any more than what you already have from me. The best thing I can do is finish out this case, however it ends up, and try to find some way to set you free to live your own damn life. I can't do this anymore.

  But once again, he surprised me. "Where we going next? Let me guess. To find
Hollin Sukerow."

  I opened my eyes again. The mark on my left shoulder throbbed against my skin, and I felt hot fingers trail up my back. Dead fingers. Japhrimel's fingers. Had my fear smelled like that to him? Had he loved the smell of my terror? Had it strained his control? I wrestled the thought away with an almost-physical effort, forced it down. "You got it. But first we're going to rendezvous with Gabe."

  And as soon as I can, I'm going to see if there's a slaughterhouse in Saint City that will do me a blood vat.

  It was a good thought, one that made my heart lighten. The one that came after it made my entire chest sink. But what if I'm wrong and I dump Japhrimel's ashes in a vat of blood and ruin them? Lucifer lies, and the rest is just guesswork. What if he's taunting me?

  If the Devil was taunting me, he was doing a goddamn good job of it. I would have to finish this goddamn hunt and then find every book I could lay my hands on about resurrecting demons. No more bounties.

  I'd grieved long enough, goddammit.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The station house was a seethe of activity, and we made it to the Parapsych floor from the underground parking garage without trouble. I guess my hover was known to the cops, because their parking-lot AI deck took care of bringing the hover in. Jace said very little, and his face was thoughtful. I had finally managed to unclench my left hand and convince myself I hadn't just tempted Poly to call me again. I'd only been offering an exchange, fair payment to her for making her remember the Hall.

  So what if I felt the lightest touch of sweat prickling along my forehead and under my arms when I thought of her? I didn't sweat easy anymore, it took phenomenal effort that left me numb and hungry to wring water out of my skin. But there it was.

  Gabe stalked into her office with a stack of paper to find us waiting for her. Her dark eyes glittered with something close to rage, her sleek hair ruffled. She stopped, seeing us, and tossed the paper on the desk. "Find anything useful?" A slight snarl turned her pretty face feral.

  Yeah. I found out that I can get drunk off scaring a sexwitch. How about you, Gabe? "Lots of interesting, and possibly useful." I blinked at her. "What's up, Spooky girl?"

  "I made a list of the kids in the yearbook that had that mark. One of 'em I can't find. All of the few still living are still in Saint City. The others are dead."

  "How many?" Jace leaned against the wall of her cubicle, folding his arms. I tried to tell myself I didn't want to know what he smelled in Poly's fear.

  Lying to yourself is a bad habit to start when you're a Necromance.

  "Nine outside Saint City dead." Gabe's mouth turned down at the corners. "It looks like they scattered to the winds: three of them in Putchkin territory, two in Freetowns, and the rest in Hegemony territory as far away from Saint City as possible."

  "Let me guess." I dropped down in a chair and leaned back, closing my eyes. Thank the gods, something else to think about. "The one you can't find is Kellerman Lourdes."

  "Sounds like you've had a productive few hours," she said sourly. "Here's the thing: all of the nine are dead. It started in Putchkin territory, then in the Freetowns, then coming closer and closer to the city. Then this last string of killings in the city itself. And nobody's caught on. Guess when the first killing was."

  I shrugged, reaching up and rubbing at my temples as if I had a headache. I wondered if part-demons ever got headaches, or if a psychosomatic headache would explain the way my head was pounding. "Tell me." Not in the mood for guessing games, Gabe. Sorry.

  "Exactly ten years to the day after Mirovitch's death. The victim, Anders Cullam—"

  "I remember him." I shivered. "One of Mirovitch's stooges." The phantom scars on my back started to bum, three stripes of fire; the branding along the lower crease of my left buttock gave one flare of pain and then settled down. My left shoulder spread a prickling heat down my chest, velvet fire threading through my veins, soothing me just as I'd just soothed Polyamour.

  I was almost happier with a demon mark that was cold and quiescent than one that seemed to have a mind of its own. Especially since I wondered if the mark was reacting to my fear. But that was impossible. I was not a sexwitch.

  Gabe dropped down into her chair. "He had one of those spade necklaces and a serious case of being ripped limb from limb. The Putchkin police had the case cold-filed after they hit a wall and no other homicides in the city fit the profile. Look, Danny, I don't understand just one thing. The normal, Bryce Smith. How the hell does he fit in?"

  It was a small, sour reprieve to have a puzzle to think about. Neither do I. That's the thing that bothers me the most. "Don't know yet. Can you pull his records? Everything not covered under the blind trust?"

  Gabe shrugged, dug in the pile of paper drifting up on her desk, and retrieved a thick file. "Already did. Let's see. He didn't have one of those spade necklaces either."

  "He was a jeweler. His slicboard was registered to someone named Keller," Jace piped up. "Guess what Kellerman Lourdes's school nickname was, according to Polyamour."

  "No shit?" Gabe shook her head and flipped the file open. "Bryce Smith. Applied for a Putchkin visa as a 'technological advisor,' which would put him in that territory at about the right time… hmm. He took someone else with him, but it doesn't say who. Goddamn diplomatic seals." Her eyes came up to meet mine. "Goddamn, Danny. It's good to have you with me."

  That managed to bring a weary smile to my face. I leaned forward to take the file. "I live to serve. You have a list of the ones living in Saint City?"

  "I do. Seven of them settled here and are assumed alive—"

  "Take Polyamour off the list. And Kellerman Lourdes. That leaves five. Is Hollin Sukerow on the list?"

  "Yep. Is Kellerman our suspect, Danny?"

  I took a deep breath. My brain clicked over into "work" mode, and it was a relief. "I don't know." I'm working on blind instinct here, Gabe. You keep expecting a miracle.

  Well, wasn't that what blind instinct was? Wasn't that what magick was?

  "Why are the people in Saint City still alive?" Gabe's eyebrows drew together.

  "Because Rigger Hall is located here. That's where it started—so that's where it will stop." The prickling heat from my left shoulder slid down my back, the phantom scars turning to liquid fire and then subsiding. I blew out through my teeth, a whistling tone that served as punctuation. "All right then. Let's get this hover in the air. What are we going to do?" I was slightly surprised my voice didn't shake. I sounded normal except for the throatiness left over from Lucifer crushing my windpipe. Time hadn't taken the sting from that memory—or from any other, for that matter. A Magi-trained memory is both a blessing and a curse; there were so many things I wished I could forget. The list seemed to be getting longer lately. Much longer.

  Do you believe in Fate, Danny Valentine? Polyamour's voice, terrified and low. I hadn't really answered her, because the answer was too… scary.

  For a moment I contemplated telling Gabe that some things should be left to Fate, that something was being worked out here, some horrible equation being finished. I wondered what she would say if I told her that I was beginning to see the pattern, and that it was a terrible one, complete in its infinite awfulness.

  Then I had another thought, rising like bad gas from the darkest vaults of my mind. They—whoever it was in that dark room after Polyamour dragged away a screaming nine-year-old who had probably suffered more than any child should have to face—had fed on Mirovitch, torn M him into psychic pieces and perhaps physical ones too, since physical dismemberment would definitely help the psychic mutilation. And now, decades later, they hadn't contacted the police when they felt danger closing in. Instead, they had retreated to their sanctums and drawn circles with consecrated chalk. Were they the same circles and glyphs Keller had altered and used to drain the life out of a monster wearing the Headmaster's clothing?

  I was suddenly, chillingly sure that something had risen from those circles and torn them to pieces. Had Christabel w
ondered if this might happen all those years ago and marked those she knew might be in danger? A Necromance knew that the dead stayed dead, but could she have suspected something would rise from an unquiet grave and…

  I shook the thought away, my braid bouncing against my back. She hadn't been a full-fledged Necromance at the time. But maybe Christabel had started to wonder about things… And maybe she was like me, with a small precognitive talent that had whispered to her to mark her fellow conspirators, maybe as a fuck you to the world that hadn't saved them from Mirovitch, forcing them to do the unthinkable to save themselves.

  Remember Rigger Hall. Remember.

  My hand dropped to my pocket, feeling the small bumps from the silver necklaces. Maybe I should just let this take care of itself.

  I couldn't believe I'd just thought that. It had to be the fear talking.

  I didn't even recognize myself anymore. The old Danny Valentine would never have thought so, would never have entertained the notion that perhaps it was better for this circle to be closed. That this murderous cycle might best be left to finish itself out unmolested.

  No, the old Danny Valentine would know that whoever had killed Mirovitch was due a debt of gratitude, if nothing else.

  The old Danny Valentine wouldn't have wanted to scare a sexwitch just to get a few cheap moments of enjoyment either.

  Come on, Danny. Think about it. There is a circle being closed here. You get in front of something with this type of momentum and it could run right over you. And besides, this is not your fight, is it? If it's vengeance, it's a vengeance you have nothing to do with.

  It was a dishonorable and uncomfortable thought. A thought not worthy of someone Gabe could count on, a thought unworthy of the woman Jado had given another sword, unworthy of the terrified Necromance Japhrimel had tried his best to protect and the woman Jace was even now protecting as best he could.

  But still, the thought persisted. Like the Devil's perfumed, silken voice, crawling in the corners of my mind, searching for entrance.

  The Devil's voice—or Mirovitch's.