The sounds of the flute carry to him clearly through the squarish passage of the underground sidewalk, which parallels the one at street-level. Several people pass by, heading both up and down the block. They are black and white and several shades in between, and include three humans, an ork, and a pair of elves. Some are dressed like artisans or painters or musicians. Raman turns and goes through the door of the shop of R. Liddy, Herbs & Artifices.
A small bell rings as he pushes the door open.
The shop is small and cluttered. Incense drifts like a haze through the air, accompanied by the soft strains of what Raman takes to be a sitar. Roots and plants dangle in bunches from the ceiling. Stones and crystals line the shelves. Cups and flasks of powders and more exotic materials fill the transparex-lined display cases running up the sides and across the rear of the place. These cases also contain a variety of ornate knives, sticks, scepters, drums, rattles, and jewelry. A number of cats, ordinary cats, lie about the place, on the floor, the shelves, and the display cases.
The woman who comes through the beaded doorway at the rear of the shop is called Risa. She wears an extravagant abundance of jewelry and a long, flower-printed dress of some antique style. Her expression darkens as she meets Raman’s eyes. She joins her hands before her, lacing her fingers, and looks at him questioningly.
“Eliana,” Raman says.
Risa shakes her head. “Not here.”
“You lie.”
Risa’s eyes widen, her lips pressing tightly together as a hot red flush rises to her cheeks. Her eyes show fear, her lips and cheeks show anger. “She won’t see you,” she says adamantly.
“Tell her I’m here.”
“She already knows—”
“Tell her,” Raman growls.
Risa turns and walks swiftly into the rear of the shop. Her attitude is unimportant. She is a servant, nothing more. Her opinion of him will not influence the person he has come to see. Risa returns a few moments later to announce haughtily, “Eliana will see you.”
As Raman expected.
He steps through the doorway hung with beaded strings and into a small room lined in satin drapes. Occupying the center is a circular table, richly inlaid. The inlays form an intricate image of mystic shapes, figures, and arcane symbols. The meanings of these shapes and symbols Raman cannot guess, for he is no mage, nor shaman. He skirts the table. Opposite where he entered, he draws back the drapes and steps into a short, narrow corridor. Both ends of this passage are cloaked with drapes. In the doorway along the left stands a heavily constructed ork, naked to the waist but for the straps of a shoulder holster bearing a large automatic.
The ork nods as Raman passes along.
The drapes at the end of the passage lead into another small room, one richly furnished. A small chandelier hangs from the ceiling, which is covered with mirrors and ornamented in gold. The walls are paneled in lush red velvet. Luxurious drapes cloak all four corners. The floor is thickly carpeted. Opposite where Raman enters is a kind of sofa, possibly an antique, composed of intricately carved darkwood and plushly appointed with dark red tasseled pillows.
Here lies Eliana, sprawled languidly on her side. In form, she is a most appealing female. Her hair is a pale shade of blonde, cascading about her face and against the pillows. Her features are fair, as fair as her complexion, yet tinged with the quality of a vixen. She wears a loosely flowing robe as lustrous as gold, but otherwise appears to be naked. Her long, tapering fingernails and the nails of her toes are anointed in gold. She wears one item of jewelry.
The large medallion that dangles from a ropey chain at the base of her throat is an unusual orange-gold color. Impressed into the medallion is a strange image, a face like that of a kind of feline Raman has rarely seen. Its pupils are slitted, the face slim and alien. Raman supposes that it most closely resembles the type of feline that occupies this room, ordinary house cats.
Five such cats share the sofa with Eliana. A dozen more lie about the room. Though they come in varying shapes and colors, only one is black. Several of the cats have collars, but only the black one’s is golden. The black cat sits on the floor midway between Raman and Eliana. It sits unmoving, gazing at Raman.
Raman pays it no attention.
“Eliana,” he says.
The name is pronounced in a specific way: E-lee-ana. Rolled swiftly off the tongue with equal emphasis to each part of the word. Eliana… To pronounce it in any other manner is to guarantee that the she will take offense and refuse to cooperate. Eliana is haughty to the point of arrogance. She looks at him as might a queen, with one arched eyebrow, bidding him enter with a vague gesture.
Raman steps through the doorway, which is flanked on either side by more plush seats. He prefers to stand, stand and wait. To speak before she makes some inquiry would also offer offense. Raman has been here often enough to learn the ways and means, what is done and what is not.
Eliana gazes at him a few moments, looking him over, then pushes against the thick cushions of her sofa and slowly sits up. Tossing her hair back behind her shoulders, she crosses her legs and smoothes her robe. She takes a cigarette from the darkwood box on the table beside the head of the lounge, then extends her left arm fully, shaking back the sleeve of her robe. Softly, she hums. A small flame bobs into existence at the end of her index finger, just above the top of her long, tapered fingernail. She uses the flame to light the cigarette; then, without warning, the flame rises toward the ceiling, swelling into a slowly boiling cloud of fire that fades into a haze of orange-red spreading slowly across the ceiling, deepening in color as it gradually disappears.
When Raman looks at Eliana again, she is gazing at him steadily with a smug smile and one sharply arched brow. “Why do you come here?”
“To ask your help.”
“Indeed.” Her smile grows very smug. She closes her eyes as she takes a puff from her cigarette. She is several moments blowing the smoke away through puckered lips. “Perhaps you offer me money?”
“Yes.”
“I have all the money I desire at present.”
Raman has known this she to refuse work, refuse to cooperate, on just such a basis. “Perhaps there is work you would like done.”
“Perhaps there is,” Eliana replies. “That is for me to know, of course.” She pauses to smile at him, and now the smile turns seductive. She gazes at him from the corners of her eyes. One eyebrow rises discreetly. “What do you wish of me?”
Her tone and manner are like a sensual invitation, but Raman knows better than to respond in kind. She is just toying with him. Something she delights in doing. It makes her difficult to deal with. Reminding himself of just who and what he is facing, Raman suppresses his rising impatience. “There is someone I would like to find.”
“And why should I desire to help you?”
“I will help you in return.”
“What makes you think I need your help?”
“Perhaps there are matters you would prefer to leave to others.”
Now she smiles broadly, and tosses back her head as if to laugh, but does not do so. Rather, she leans down on one elbow. Her long, thick hair tumbles across her shoulders and over the pillows. “You know I loathe getting smudged,” she says, still smiling. “That’s not fair.”
Doubtless, she would much prefer that he not know why she might desire his aid. They could go on talking for hours. She could continue toying with him all night.
“There are others I could persuade to do my bidding. Why should I use you?”
Raman recalls the seven youths sitting on the stairs outside. Perhaps they are her followers, her band. Eliana has hinted in the past about having many connections, and has even remarked about “her servants” a time or two, but has never explained herself fully, in this or any other context.
“What’s so special about you that I should do you this favor?”
Raman simply speaks the truth. “Few have my qualifications.”
Again, Eliana smiles as if to
laugh, but does not. Raman has never heard her laugh. The closest she has come to it in his presence is a soft expulsion of breath. Sometimes, she hisses. Now, she hums. The black cat turns its head and looks back at her, then goes to her. She takes it into her lap and begins to gently stroke it between the ears. The cat purrs audibly, gazing at Raman through eyes like slits.
Raman waits.
Eliana looks up from the cat and across at him. “You must think I find you very appealing.”
Raman says nothing. It is obvious to him that the she finds him appealing. He has sampled her talents on a number of occasions, and each time she was the initiator. This does not surprise him. Many females he has met find him dangerous and therefore seductive, and so consider him extremely desirable.
“Perhaps I will grant you this favor,” Eliana goes on to say, smiling vaguely. “Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
The she is as inquisitive as she is arrogant. “The person I want to find is called Striper,” Raman explains. “She is an artist like me.”
“How like you is she?”
“She is freelance muscle. She kills and intimidates. She has eluded capture for many years. She is reputed to be a powerful fighter and very clever.”
“Does she kill with blades?”
“Usually with guns.”
“How old is she?”
“I do not know.”
“She is tall?”
“For a female.”
“What color is her hair?”
“She paints it. Sometimes it is red and black. Other times brown. Brown with some blonde. She also paints her face. Red with black stripes.”
“Is that why she is called Striper?”
Raman shrugs. It seems as likely an explanation as any other. “Perhaps.”
“She is human?”
“Apparently.”
“Does she have magic?”
“No one knows. Some say she has an edge. Perhaps a magical edge of some kind.”
“She is a physical adept?”
“She is very adept.”
Eliana’s lips curve into a sneer. “I mean a physical adept. One who uses magic to improve only her body and physical abilities. A semi-mundane.”
“That I do not know.”
“Obviously.”
Raman draws the plastic O.P.S. evidence bag from his jacket pocket. “I have this. Striper wore it on one of her kills.”
Eliana looks at him briefly, then seems to sigh, softly and with exaggerated frustration or impatience. The bag flies from Raman’s hand, tugging free, then arcing across the room. It slows in descending into Eliana’s left hand.
“What is this?” she asks, examining the bag as if quite curious, tilting her head from side to side. “Some kind of mask?”
“Yes,” Raman replies.
“It will do,” Eliana says, abruptly rising. “Come.”
Lifting the black cat to her breast, Eliana crosses the room and opens a narrow door. That door, Raman knows, leads to a narrow stairway. Raman starts to follow, then stops. Each of the two dozen cats in the room converge on the door in a headlong rush. Several more come dashing past Raman’s ankles from beyond the doorway behind him. Why they hasten to follow Eliana, Raman does not know. He does know, however, that accidentally stepping on one of the creatures would make Eliana very unhappy, though she rarely shows more than a token awareness of their presence.
Of the cats, Raman can say only one thing for certain: the black one is special. It often gives the impression of possessing a degree of intelligence far greater than an ordinary cat’s. It responds to Eliana’s smallest gesture and is always watching.
Even as Eliana descends the stairs, the black cat appears at her shoulder, its face veiled by Eliana’s long tresses, its golden eyes staring straight at Raman.
Raman waits for the creature to descend out of sight, then checks the floor around him and follows.
The stairway is steep and barely wide enough for Raman to descend without brushing his shoulders against the walls. The steps are carpeted and seem as sturdy as stone. They end at a small space barely a meter square. To his right is an opening cut from the juncture of two concrete walls, through which Raman can only fit sideways. He pushes aside a heavy black curtain as he passes through.
The room he enters is moderately large. Its walls, ceiling, and floor are black. The floor is as smooth as glass. The only light comes from the hundreds of candles climbing the wall in six tiers at the far end of the room.
As on previous occasions, Raman notes not a hint of dust or dirt anywhere. The air is cool and fresh and pure. Doubtless, the place is routinely cleaned. A small ventilator whirs softly from a recess in the ceiling.
The twenty-odd cats that followed Eliana down the stairs are scattered around the room, some seated on their haunches, others sprawled on their sides or bellies. For the moment, they seem like ordinary cats, disinterested or unaware of anything involving anything but themselves. That will change as the time progresses.
Eliana stands before the wall of candles. At its center is a small cabinet covered with a black cloth. The she calls it an altar. On the altar is a large mirror and a variety of containers, including several cups and urns, plus other items like those Raman has seen in the shop upstairs. There are more such supplies on the shelves hidden within the altar.
Abruptly, Eliana lifts her arms out from her sides and the light of the candles swells in intensity. The cats all look up, then return to washing themselves, or stretching, or napping.
This is just the beginning.
Eliana removes her lustrous robe and lets it drop to the ground. That leaves her clad in only the briefest of string bikinis, a black one. Raman surveys her form from behind. The she’s body is delightful, slim and supple, enticingly curved, neither extreme nor spare in any of its proportions. Raman feels a stirring of arousal, as he always does at the sight of a female so nearly naked.
Knowing this one as he does, he would expect Eliana to turn her head and look back at him, if only to ascertain that he is indeed looking at her. It is the cat that looks, however. From its place beside Eliana’s ankles, the black one turns and looks directly at Raman, then bares its teeth and hisses. This, Raman knows, is a warning of sorts. He lowers himself to the floor and sits with legs crossed, leaning back against the wall. Standing is not allowed. It is considered a great privilege to be permitted to witness the conduct of the magic. He must sit here, remaining silent and unmoving, until the magic is done.
Eliana tosses her hair, then begins to hum. She steps up to the altar and casts a small quantity of some powder into a metal crucible. A peculiar bluish flame immediately bursts into life. Eliana then turns and casts more powder toward the four corners of the room. Her humming rises into a chant.
“Spirits, I call thee… Spirits, I call thee…”
Raman becomes aware of a strange buzzing tension, one that seems to pervade the room, passing right through his own skull. The tension swells into a vibrancy that makes him dizzy, as though he would topple if he tried to stand. He comes to feel rooted to the earth, fixed in his position. Such feelings are disturbing, but he has survived them before. They are a part of the magic. A side effect, the she claims.
Eliana now sways before the altar and her voice rises into song. Every intonation is like gold, ringing forth with bell-tone clarity. Such purity of tone makes the sensual beauty of her body seem so trivial as to be irrelevant. Raman has never heard another voice quite like it. The sound is captivating.
Abruptly, the she is dancing, swaying sinuously, seductively, smoothing her hands along the luscious contours of her own body, rolling her hips. Her movements carry her slowly around the circumference of a broad circle, and rival even the beauty of her voice for sheer sensual appeal.
What magical significance any of this has Raman does not know, nor does he care. To him, as a male, the seductive dance has only one true meaning. It is an invitation, and very difficult to resist. He becomes fully aroused even a
s the she begins. He spends the next quarter-hour or so struggling against the urge to rise and answer the she’s enticing siren song. His blood begins to rush hotly through his flesh. The heat in his groin seems almost molten. Yet, he realizes, the she is only toying with him again, intentionally or not. Were he to follow his urgings, interfere with her magic in any way, Eliana would become enraged, and that would be very dangerous indeed.
With just a movement of her hand and a whispered word, she once hurled him against the rear wall of this room with such force he was sure his spine was shattered.
Never again…
Abruptly, a wall of flame erupts around the circle Eliana has sketched out with her dance. The flames send a billowing cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, then vanish. As the smoke clears away from the floor, Eliana is revealed, now kneeling at the center of the circle, facing the wall of candles, the altar, and the mirror.
Her singing continues, but softly now. From time to time, she sways, raising her arms, and the greater strangeness begins, brought on by the magic. The room seems to grow blurred. Raman feels his eyes growing heavy. The desire to sleep becomes all but irresistible… and then suddenly he sees Eliana on all fours, crawling before the altar.
The magic has begun in earnest. Power vibrates through the air. The she is changed. Her face resembles the strange feline image on her medallion. Her eyes are black as jet, her fingernails like claws, as long as each of her fingers. Her hands resemble paws. A lustrous golden down seems to cover her entire body. As she moves, turning back and forth, sometimes turning completely around, she hisses and purrs, at times baring her teeth, revealing a pair of diminutive fangs protruding from her upper jaw.
Every cat in the room surrounds her. They sit on their haunches facing her as though entranced. Each time she moves, the ones immediately before her bolt aside as if frantic to get out of her way. The instant Eliana stops or turns elsewhere, they immediately halt and turn back, sitting as before, motionless as statues and staring as if captivated.
[Shadowrun 11] - Striper Assassin Page 23