Saint City Sinners dv-4

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Depends on what you want to talk about." He looked around again, a quick reptilian movement that made his lank hair swing. "Thought you said her debt was canceled."

  "She gave me enough, Lucas. I just want to find out more. Another Magi might have a piece of the puzzle, might be able to tell me more about what I… am." And tell me more about this little rebellion in Hell. I've thought all along that there were more players in this game than just Lucifer and Eve; it doesn't make sense otherwise.

  "You don't know?"

  Imagine that. Lucas the Deathless, sounding shocked. "I don't know all of it. I've got some good guesses, I'm figuring everything out." I checked the hovertraffic again, rolled my shoulders back under the rig. Why was I so uneasy? It felt familiar, a half-remembered sensation of my skin crawling with little prickling teeth.

  It's not a premonition. Then what is it?

  "You're an idiot." Lucas wheezed out another laugh. His lank hair ruffled with the night breeze, and I was struck by the fact that the unscarred side of his face was actually not bad-looking. I'd been too terrified to see it before, but he was almost handsome in a pale, yellow, wolfish sort of way.

  Well, except for the scars. And the slightly reptilian cast to his eyes. And his thin colorless lips.

  If you only knew how much of an idiot I really am, Lucas. I kicked another Plasmalt Forty bottle. Someone had a taste for something a little more expensive than soymalt. It must be bad around here, for the streetdrones not to come through and collect the bottles. Paper trash rustled wetly in the uneasy wind. The graceful arcs of plasteel streetlamps cast sickly orange circles on the street. No streetside hovertraffic, and the sudden sense of a storm approaching. "You try shacking up with a demon and killing Santino. Then try hunting down a rabid Feeder and having your brains turned into a barrel of reactive mush. I'm figuring it out, Lucas. Don't fucking ride me, I'm not in the mood."

  "What's got you in a twist, chica?" True to form; my snarl didn't even make a dent.

  Leander's footsteps slowed. We caught up to him, but before Lucas could open his mouth I dropped my news. I had to tell him sooner or later.

  "Gabe Spocarelli's dead. So's Eddie-Eddie Thornton. Something got them both hit-but before she was hit, Gabe got my promise to hunt down Eddie's killers. It's personal." You may decide it has nothing to do with you, Lucas. If you do, we're going to part ways.

  I got a full five seconds of deathly silence before Lucas sighed. "Don't suppose it would have anything to do with the bounty hunters or the Mob, would it?"

  "Or the Nichtvren or the werecain? Could be Lucifer playing with the mix again." For a moment chills danced along my skin, the Gauntlet heavy on my left wrist. I wondered if somewhere in Hell, the Devil heard me when I spoke his name.

  The anger simmering in my belly rose to a fresh pitch. I should have never answered my door that rainy Monday morning. I should have never followed Japhrimel out of my house and into the subway.

  You must trust me to do what you cannot, then. The thought of Japh somewhere out in my city, hunting Doreen's daughter despite anything he felt for me, made me glance over my shoulder and check the street. The whine of hover antigrav overhead made me want to look up. The silent street itself made me itch to get under cover. I told him not to hunt Eve. I told him I couldn't let him hurt her. I warned him.

  "I hate to interrupt," Leander said quietly, "but I think we're being followed."

  My thumb caressed the katana's guard. "This is personal, and it looks big. It's not what you two contracted for. You can take a vacation until I finish looking into-"

  I didn't even get a chance to finish the sentence before a low sleek shape melded out of an alley on the west side of Fiske and loped down the street toward us. Lucas cursed, stepping away from me, a 60-watt plasgun appearing in his hand. Leander's jaw dropped, and my sword clicked free of the sheath, my right hand closing on the hilt as the shape shook itself. A pleased little squeal sliced the bleeding air, ending with a rib-shaking growl as the hellhound hunched its massive corded shoulders and looked straight at me.

  Its eyes were glowing red coins. Heat smoked off its lithe, lethal body of living obsidian. It raised its head, sniffing like a dog scenting fresh meat. The cuff of metal on my left wrist suddenly ran with cold fire, blazing with lines and whorls of green flame over its smooth silver surface. And to top off the fun and games, Japhrimel's mark on my left shoulder crunched into painful life as I tasted copper.

  "Leander," I said quietly, "get behind me. And for the sake of every god that ever was, when I tell you to, run."

  Lucas faded left, moving out into the street in a gentle arc to put himself between me and the thing. My right arm tensed, three inches of burning-blue steel leaping free of the scabbard. Gonna have to drop the scabbard and go for a plasgun, Lucas shot the other hellhounds, and it stunned them.

  The thing seemed indisposed to attack, just crouched there watching us. Watching me. I finished drawing my sword, and the steel's heart turned white again, flaring with sharp pavement-drenching light. Runes of blue fire curled along the edges of the blade-a blessed weapon, but one that had its own strange ideas.

  Yet another thing to add to my rapidly growing to-do list: go visit Jado and ask him about this sword.

  Right after I visited Abra and started unraveling whatever had happened to Gabe. And hopefully before Japhrimel got back to find his agent tied up and me gone. I was getting very good at running away from him.

  He was getting very good at finding me. Now there was an uncomfortable thought. Of course he was good at finding me; I carried his mark and was referred to in the singular.

  Maybe he wouldn't find me too quickly this time, though. After all, I was on home ground. Even a few years away shouldn't have changed the boltholes and fluxpoints of the city too much. If there was one place on earth I felt capable of hiding in, it was Santiago City.

  Hiding sounds like a good idea. Just as soon as we figure out what to do about this thing.

  The hellhound paced forward a step. Two. Its eyes were still fixed on me, crimson coins in the shifting seaweed shadows. It hugged the opposite side of the street, and I began to feel a little… well, nervous. Fine time to wish Japh was here, at least now I'm absolutely sure he has a vested interest in keeping me alive, not just something as fragile as caring about me. Always assuming, of course, that Shaunley's right and a Fallen demon suffers a mortal death if his hedaira's killed.

  The hellhound's slow, gelid growl rattled the air. Cool wind kissed my face, rich with the promise of rain.

  Okay, I was a lot nervous. My sword dipped, instinctively taking the guard against attacks from below. What was the thing doing? A hellhound had never hesitated before. No, they'd just come straight for me.

  A very nasty assumption began to surface under my conscious mind. I stepped forward, my sword ringing softly. Leander had turned to a stone, his aura flushed deep purple-red like a bruise. "Kel?" I whispered. "Velokel?"

  The hellhound growled again, and launched itself at me. Lucas shot four times, streaks of red plasbolt sheeting the air. I held my ground, dropping my scabbard and clasping the hilt in both hands, an instinctive decision that might cost me my life. But Lucas already had a plasgun, and he'd missed.

  Four times.

  "Run!" I barked, not looking to see if Leander did because the thing-dense heavy hot demon animal-crashed into me. It was appallingly quick, blurring with spooky demon speed, my sword chimed off claws as I spun aside, the mark on my shoulder lighting up with a fierce spike of pain. The cuff blazed green, a thin crackling whip of fire snaking out to lick at the hellhound, which let out a basso yowl of rage.

  What the hell was that?

  The swordhilt floated up, blade blurring, I made a low sound of effort as shining metal streaked down, sinking into the hellhound's haunch with a deadly low whistle. It coiled on itself, I gave ground, shuffling back. My entire world narrowed to the threat in front of me; streaks of blue fire painted the air as my sword wove
a complicated pattern.

  I had the oddest sensation-as if a rope attached to the cuff on my left wrist was jerking my arm around, quicker than I was meant to move. Didn't matter-I set my teeth as the hellhound came for me again, another pass that drove me back. It was trying to pin me against the buildings on either side of the street, a death sentence. I remembered how eerily fast the hellhounds were in Freetown New Prague and was vaguely surprised to still be alive. The world narrowed to one thing-the hellhound, its scraping scrabbling nails on pavement and my own harsh breathing, its low plasglass-rattling growl and my boots stamping as I smashed down with my blade and leapt like a cat, narrowly missing getting three glassy obsidian claws as long as my hand slicing into my midriff. I'd been eviscerated twice, had no desire to ever go there again.

  It was too quick. I could barely hurl aside its claws and had to fade to the side as it looped impossibly, turning with a much smaller radius than something so big should be able to. Its spine crackled as it jerked fluidly, turning. Black smoking blood striped the beast, and it favored its left forepaw as it hunched and snarled at me, apparently chiding me for my lack of ability to die respectfully when it attacked me.

  I snarled back, lips peeling from my teeth. Frustrated fury rose under my breastbone. I was happy to have the outlet, too happy, adrenaline overtaking good sense. I'd make a mistake, this thing was too quick for me to have a chance of winning the fight. Heart pounding, sweat sliding down my back and soaking into the waistband of my jeans-it took a lot of effort to make me sweat, nowadays.

  It backed up, one slow fluid uncoordinated step at a time, growling all the while. I considered advancing, my ribs flaring with deep harsh breaths. My left leg burned, high on the thigh-had it gotten me? I honestly couldn't remember.

  Darkness breathed between streetlights. Fiske Avenue was utterly still. My aura pulled close, demon shields pulsing, my rings spitting golden sparks. The mark on my shoulder had settled into a slow steady burn, as if flesh had been partly torn away but not yet started to bleed. The wristcuff squeezed mercilessly, I almost heard small bones in my wrist splintering. A ragged huff of breath left my lungs; I tried frantically to think of something else to do. Throwing a runespell or two at it, or a tracker, would probably not work-I'd tried a tracker on an imp once, and gotten a head-ringing case of backlash for my trouble. Japhrimel had made the other hellhound rot with a word in the demon language, but he had also refused to teach me any of his native tongue.

  A plasbolt raked in from the side, splashing on the creature's hide. It shook its head, stunned, and I threw myself back as Leander and Lucas, both firing, yelled something shapeless.

  The hellhound thudded to the ground, its hide smoking. I looked up. Leander was white-faced, staring at me like I'd grown a new set of kobolding arms. Lucas's upper lip curled. He looked grimly pleased, yellow eyes blazing.

  I tried not to gasp, failed miserably. My heart raced, thudding as if it intended to fling itself out through my ribs and dance a few nightclub kicks on the pavement of Fiske Avenue. Sweat dripped, stinging, in my eyes. "We'd better… get out… of here."

  "You think it's dead?" Lucas kept his gun trained on the loose lump of hide and shadow. I saw no flicker of movement, was unconvinced.

  "No. Probably just stunned. Come on, let's go!" I regained my breath with an effort, Lucas tossed me my scabbard. My hand flashed, caught it, the cuff was back to dull silver on my wrist. I flipped my hand palm-up, palm-down; there was no space in the Gauntlet anymore. Dammit, how did that happen? It was a solid band of metal welded to my wrist above my datband, and its sudden chill was enough to cause a swift flash of pain through my temples. Not going to think about that right now. It just helped save my life, good enough, let's go! "Anubis et'her ka, let's not stand around!"

  We left the stunned hellhound lying slumped in the middle of the street, and I had the uncharacteristic urge to glance over my shoulder all the way to Abra's. I even did glance back once or twice, unsure of what I expected to see-another low fluid hellhound shape, or a pair of green eyes and a long black coat.

  It's anyone's guess which would have scared me more.

  Chapter 15

  This part of the Tank District had grown even more forlorn. Half the streetlamps on Klondel were dead and dark, either broken or fallen out of service. From the rooftop of the row of buildings Abra's pawnshop was in, the darkened streetlights looked like spaces left by broken teeth. A flock of unregistered hookers milled in dark doorways, and hovers with privacy-tint and magcoding crawled streetside, cruising the strip. I smelled sour human sweat, decay, synth-hash and the salt-sweet odor of Clormen-13.

  Chill.

  Chill always raises my hackles. Chillfreaks in Saint City seem to smell worse than anywhere in the world. Maybe it's the radioactive cold of the city's Power well. Maybe it's just the rain giving everything a musty smell. I hate Chill anyway; the drug is instantly addictive and a blight upon the urban landscape. I've lost good friends to Chill and Chill junkies, starting with my foster-father Lewis and continuing down the years in successive waves. Each time a new flood of Chill hits the street someone-or several someones-dies.

  Leander came through the shadows, flitting down the street as if trying to stay unremarked. He did a good job, showing just enough of a flicker of movement to make an onlooker believe he wanted to stay unseen.

  "Let's go in;" Lucas wheeze-whispered in my ear. He stood by the hatch, I melted away from the low wall sheltering Abra's roof. "After you, chica."

  I jammed my sword into the loop on my belt and dropped into the dark hole, negotiating the slick iron ladder with little trouble. It took my weight easily, something I was glad of. Denser muscle and bone gave me more strength, but also made me a little too heavy to trust sometimes-rickety human construction. My left leg throbbed, my jeans flopping loosely. Black demon blood had coated the slice from the hellhound's claws and healed it, but I still moved gingerly.

  Lucas followed. I heard the whine of an unholstered plasrifle as my feet touched dusty wood floor.

  "Dammit, woman," Lucas rasped. "Put that thing away!"

  "Sorry." Abra didn't sound sorry at all. She rarely did.

  I turned slowly, keeping my hands away from weapons. The attic was low and dusty, the roofhatch sealed and magshielded now, and I felt the crackle of magickal shields springing back into place. Abra had been expecting us.

  My nostrils flared, demon-acute eyes piercing the dimness with little trouble.

  She looked just the same.

  Abracadabra had long, dark, curly hair and liquid dark eyes, a nondescript triangular face with a pointed chin. A blue and silver caftan fell to her slim ankles, sandaled brown feet met the floor but rested only lightly. Large golden hoops dangled in her ears, peeking out from under her hair.

  The shop's smell-beef stew with chilies, dust, human pain-was the same. But Abra, of course, didn't smell human. She smelled like sticky dry silk and short bristly hairs, a smell that rubbed me the wrong way. Japhrimel hadn't liked her, and if his instinctive response was anything like mine I could see why. But I'd never had any trouble dealing with her while I was human. Even afterward, running infrequent messages between her and Jado, I never had cause to complain. She was always the same, mindnumbingly cautious and looking to drive a hard bargain. She never left her pawnshop, and I had amused myself several times by trying to deduce exactly which paranormal species she was.

  The Spider of Saint City blinked her long lashes at me. "Valentine. Might have known. You're trouble all over."

  Oh, if you only knew.

  "It's not my fault I'm a popular girl, Abra. How are you?"

  Her lip curled. "Be a lot better if Nichtvren and 'cain weren't showing up at my door. Where's the demon?"

  So she knew Japhrimel was in town, and connected to me. Sometimes I wondered how much she knew that she didn't tell. "I left him at home tatting lace. And you like being in the thick of things; you get all your information that way."

  Abra til
ted her head. "The Necromance is here. Your idea?"

  "Lucas's." I moved aside as Lucas leapt down, landing cat-silent. "Are you sure you trust him unattended?"

  "What, like he'll steal from me?" A mirthless little-girl giggle, she made a complicated parade-drill movement, ending up with the plasrifle slung over her shoulder like an old-time bandido. "Come on down, I'll make tea. This is a complex situation."

  "You better believe it. Abra, Gabe Spocarelli's dead. So's Eddie Thornton. And I'm hunting their killers."

  Dust stirred in the air.

  Silence. Finally, Abra sighed. "Come on down." Was it my imagination, or did she sound weary? "You're not going to like this."

  Abracadabra Pawnshop We Make Miracles Happen was stenciled on the front window with tired gold paint, and the windows were dark with privacy-tint. That was a new trick, Abra had never been the tinted type before. Racks of merchandise stood neatly on the wood floor, slicboards and guitars hung up behind the glassed-in counter that sparkled dustily with jewelry. Her stock did seem to rotate fairly frequently, but I'd never seen anyone come into Abra's to buy anything physical.

  No, we come to the Spider of Saint City for information.

  There was a rack of the new, hot Amberjion pleather jackets, with shoulderpads up to the ear; a display of antique chronographs stood in a plasilica cube on one counter. Otherwise, it looked just the same as it always had.

  Nice to have a friend that doesn't age.

  Leander leaned hipshot against the counter, studying a display of necklaces. His eyes flicked every so often to the door, and his hand rested on his swordhilt. "Any eyes?" I asked.