Maybe the helplessness wasn't a physical thing.
He had actually grabbed Lucifer's hand and pushed the Devil back.
The Gauntlet rang softly, like a block of ice touched by a sonic cutter. I didn't want to think too much about that. It made my hands want to shake and my knees go a little softer than usual. Lucifer had intended to kill me, quite probably painfully. I was still looking at a very short lifespan without Japhrimel around to keep my skin whole, even with a demon artifact clapped on my wrist.
I took advantage of the shadows across the street from the Danae Clinic. Their windows were boarded up, a smell of scorched plasteel and plurifreeze drifting across the street. I inhaled deeply, my nose sorting out the different tangs, and extended a tendril of awareness toward the clinic.
I retreated as soon as my receptive consciousness touched the shields. Careful, heavy sedayeen and Shaman-laid shields, layers of energy pulsing and spiking. They had probably deflected most of the explosion, I caught no flavor of Power in the lingering echoes of the bomb. Just explosives, probably C 19 or vaston. Which meant Mob work, most likely.
The tang of sedayeen-violetsand white mallow-slid a galvanic thrill through my bones. I hadn't sought the company of a healer since Doreen's murder.
That thought made me shiver again, hearing my own harsh breath and feeling the claws tear through my human flesh again. Memory rose, swallowed me whole.
"Get down, Doreen! Get down!"
Crash of thunder. Moving, desperately, scrabbling… fingers scraping against the concrete, rolling to my feet, dodging the whine of bullets and plasbolts. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the razor glinting in one hand, his claws glittering on the other.
"Game over," he giggled, and the awful tearing in my side turned to a burning numbness as he slashed, I threw myself backward, not fast enough, not fast enough-
I exhaled. My fingers were under the collar of my shirt, but instead of the mark they were playing with Jace's necklace. It thrummed reassuringly under my touch, throbbing like a bad tooth implant.
I rubbed the knobbed end of a baculum as I watched the clinic. Small movements in the shadows warned me I wasn't the only one watching the place. I settled against the brick wall, feeling the bite of hunger under my ribs. The temptation to dig in my bag and fish out the book was almost overwhelming, but strictly controlled. I had no time for research now, I was on a hunt that would only get faster.
They're not going to open for a while. Go get some breakfast, Dante.
Not while there was someone else watching. Whoever-it-was was well hidden, blending into the landscape. The brick was rough and cold against my hair as I leaned even deeper into the wall, buttoned down tightly, almost invisible.
Selene was right. There were demons in Saint City, and things were getting unpredictable. The familiar mood of the cold pulsing heart of the city's Power well had changed a bit, spiced and spiked with the musksmell of demons. I've noticed it before-when a demon or two moves in, the whole city starts to smell.
Demons are, after all, credited with teaching humanity how to build cities. Yet another thing we can thank them for.
Go over it again, Dante.
Eddie had been working on something, and a biotech company was involved. He was murdered-and Gabe either wouldn't quit digging or knew something dangerous about what he was working on. So she was executed. The little bottles of granular stuff and the papers with Skinlin notations were either a decoy-or they were what he'd been killed for. And someone who had no trouble getting inside her shields had been willing to spend the time and effort to tear apart Gabe's house and go to the trouble of cleaning up psychic traces.
That made whatever I was carrying a hot property. Not to mention the file-had Gabe lifted it from the Saint City PD before it could be copied? Or were there more copies in a police station somewhere?
I had a few contacts on the police force from the days when I would take a turn doing apparitions to assist homicide investigations. Digging in the police department seemed the next logical choice after I found out whatever was at this clinic.
A quiet place to go through Eddie's file and the book Selene had given me would help. Two mysteries: what had killed my last two friends, and where the hell was Japhrimel? He'd seemed pretty insistent on not letting me out of his sight, and if I could be used to force him into joining Eve's rebellion-and now that Lucifer had made it clear I was living on borrowed time-it made no sense for him to leave me alone with McKinley.
Not to mention the added mystery of this treasure and the Key, whatever they were.
Footsteps. Someone approaching.
I faded even deeper into shadow. Listened, taking deep smooth breaths. Smelled a pleasant mix-the violets and white mallow of a sedayeen and the spiced honey of a Shaman.
My right hand closed around my swordhilt. I tensed. They came into view, two women, neither carrying edged metal. Which usually means helpless. It always irks me to see a Shaman or Necromance without combat training-what good is being legally allowed and encouraged to carry weapons if you don't take advantage of it?
The irritation quickly turned to full-flowered anger as I noticed the skittering in the shadows of the alleys opposite me. I caught a glint of metal and heard the soft, definite snick of a projectile assault rifle's safety being eased off.
I was already moving.
Reverse grip on swordhilt, tear the blade up, wet gray stink of intestines slithering loose. I kicked the fifth one, a snapping side kick that smashed his ribs on one side and sent him hurtling back. The momentum of the kick brought me around in a neat half-turn, sword singing up and making a chiming noise as I blocked the downsweep of the mercenary with the machete.
They had good, corporate-laid shields. Some Magi had been paid to lay a concealment on them so their blaring normal minds wouldn't broadcast their presence to psionic victims. That alone told me they were up to no good-if they'd just been surveillance teams, they wouldn't have had both concealments and enough projectile-weaponry to start a new riot in the Tank District.
The fight was short, sharp, and vicious, ending with me flicking smoking human blood off my sword, Power flaring to clean the steel before it flickered back into its sheath.
I grabbed the last one left alive-the merc whose ribs I'd shattered-and hauled him up, bone grinding in the mess of his chest.
He was maybe thirty, sweating under his streaky gray camopaint, in standard merc assassin gear-a rig like mine, black microfiber jumpsuit, various clinking weaponry. His body shuddered, eyes glazing, my rings popped a shower of golden sparks as I shook him.
"Don't you dare die on me," I snarled. "Who sent you? Give me a name and I'll ease your passing."
I heard a low choked sound from the mouth of the alley-the sedayeen.
I ignored it, shook the man again as he mumbled. "So help me Anubis, if you don't tell me now I'll rip the knowledge out of your soul once you've passed the Bridge."
I couldn't, of course-I could only have someone question him as I held an apparition, as long as that person was trained in the protocol of questioning the dead. You can get misleading answers if you don't phrase the questions right.
Just like with demons.
I couldn't rip the knowledge free of his soul-but he was normal. He probably didn't know that. I felt less guilty than I should have for even threatening it.
"P-P-Po-" The man choked on blood as he tried to scream. I shook him again, his six-foot frame like a doll's in my slim golden hands. My fingers tensed, driving my claws into his shoulders.
A hand closed over my shoulder, and I almost slashed before I realized it was the sedayeen. A familiar deep smooth sense of restful Power slid down my skin, clearing my head and washing away some of the cold fury.
"Let him go." A clear, soft, sweet, young voice. "I can tell you who sent them. They're Tanner Family goons." Blood bubbled on the man's lips. His eyes widened frantically. I saw gold-touched stubble on his cheeks, a crooked front toot
h, the fine fan of his eyebrows. He'd just taken a job, after all. He was just a mercenary.
What am I doing?
I let out a short guttural sound and freed my right hand, hooking my fingers; my claws extended as I made a quick sharp almost-backhand movement. Blood gushed free, but I'd already pushed him away. The arterial spray missed me, and in any case, he was bleeding so badly internally it wasn't like he had much blood pressure left.
I tore away from under the sedayeen's touch. Had I not noticed her approach or had she slipped under my magscan because she was a healer, and harmless? Sedayeen are incapable of harming anyone without horrific feedback, they are the swanhilds of the psionic world, helpless pacifists without the natural advantage of poisonous flesh 'hilds have. Sedayeen survived by attaching themselves to the more powerful in the paranormal or psionic world, and they were valuable enough to their protectors to avoid the near-extinction sexwitches had suffered in the chaos just after the Awakening.
She was dressed in a faded PhenFighters T-shirt and a pair of jeans, Silmari sandals on her small feet. Short spiked brown hair stood up from her well-modeled head, and a wide pair of muddy brown eyes met mine. She had a triangular face like most healers, a sharp chin and a cupid's-bow of a mouth. Her accreditation tat was the characteristic ankh of the sedayeen, this one with an additional short bar through the vertical line and a small pair of wings. She wore a hemp choker with turquoise beads, and looked only about sixteen or so. But then, sedayeen age well. It probably meant she was around thirty.
The Shaman, a taller woman with her blonde hair braided back in rows, stood at the mouth of the alley with her oak staff raised. Yellow ribbons knotted around the top of the staff fluttered as a slight morning breeze played with them. Her eyes were a fantastic shade of amber, probably genespliced. Her tat shifted uneasily on her left cheek, the spurred and clawed triquetra of a Billebonge-trained Shaman. She stood a little too tensely to be completely untrained for combat, her hand on the staff was steady and placed just so. I wondered why she had no sword. Shamans with combat training usually like steel.
Tanner Family. Why would the Mob want to kill a healer and a Shaman now? After filling a Skinlin and a Necromance with holes. Is it a Mob war on psions? I shook my right hand out, my claws retracting slowly. My breath came in harsh gasps, not because of effort.
I was gasping because I didn't want to stop. I wanted to kill. The seduction of bloodlust whispered under conscious thought, tempting me. It would be so easy.
They were, after all, only human.
Stop it, Danny. You're human too. You're too close to the edge. This is too personal, and you're going over the line. Calm down. The cold on my left arm retreated before the heat of bloodlust as I struggled to control myself.
"Annette Cameron," I husked. "I'm looking for Annette Cameron." Please, Anubis. Give me a little help here. I don't think I'm quite safe right now. Rage receded slowly, leaving behind a slow smoky feeling of strain.
I'm deconstructing. This is bad. Too much stress and too little rest, my psyche was beginning to fray at the edges. The worst thing was, I wasn't sure I cared.
The sedayeen nodded. Her eyes were a little wide, I think I was too much for even a sedayeen's calm at the moment. "That's Cam." She pointed at the Shaman. "I'm Mercy. Come inside."
"Do you know who I am?" I managed around the lump in my throat. My shoulder was still numb, but underneath the numbness a deep broad pain began to surface.
"You're Dante Valentine." The yellow-haired Shaman's hands shook only slightly, the ribbons atop her staff fluttering. "Eddie described you. He said that if anything ever happened to him, you were someone we could trust."
I'd forgotten what it was like to be around sedayeen. Inside the clinic-dark because the windows were boarded up and Mercy didn't turn the lights on-the sense of peace was palpable, stroking and calming even the most jagged of auras. The smell of violets wafted through the air; one of the peculiarities of psion noses is that violet scent doesn't shut off in our nasal receptors like in everyone else's. We're maybe the only humans who can smell violets for a long time.
Call us lucky.
The waiting room had chairs and a children's corner. The sight of brightly-colored plasticine made my heart leap into my throat. I tasted bile and looked away, shoving my sword into the loop on my rig. I didn't trust myself with edged metal right now. The reception desk didn't have an AI deck, I would bet they had a psion there to get an initial read on the patients during open hours. A good idea when dealing with Chillfreaks and human refuse in a free clinic. A maintenance 'bot retreated as we came in, its red LED blinking. The air was dyed blue with calm, freighted with the smell of flowers and mallow. Mercy led me back through a pair of swinging doors and into a maze of examining rooms, offices, and private labs.
The Shaman-Cameron-kept giving me nervous little sidelong glances. I didn't blame her. I knew what my aura looked like-the trademark glitterlamp sparkles of a Necromance threaded with black diamond demon flames, the mark on my shoulder pulsing and staining through my shifting defenses and cloaks of energy. I tore through the psychic ether like the sound of a slicboard through a Ludder convention, not as loud as Japhrimel but unable to hide with little effort like some other psions could. I looked, in short, like trouble.
It was truth in advertising. I felt like trouble now. "What was Eddie working on?" I asked, as Mercy touched a scanlock to the right of a smooth plasteel door. She actually flinched. Great, I even scare sedayeen. "Gabe didn't tell me."
"It's not what he was working on," the healer replied. "It's what he found, what he finished." The door fwooshed aside, white full-spectrum bulbs popping into life. The light speared my eyes before they adjusted, I found myself looking into a stripped-down, empty lab. "This is where he was working."
This isn't where he died. The lab he was in had different tiles on the floor.
Then I saw the counter under growlights. Blooming under the hot radiance of the lamps, their roots safe in hydropon bubbles, were Eddie's datura plants, blossoming and healthy. Each one of them had frilly double-trumpet flowers, purple and white. Datura, used for binding spells and painblockers, if I remembered right; it used to be called crazyweed or jimsweed. Poisonous, and illegal for anyone but a registered Skinlin or sedayeen to propagate.
"Datura," I whispered. "What the hell did Eddie find?" The door whooshed closed behind us, and I turned to face the Shaman and the sedayeen. The mark on my shoulder sent a tingle down my arm, a welcome relief from numb coldness. I restrained the urge to reach under my shirt and rub the ropes of scarring that made Japhrimel's name branded into my skin.
"Cam? You want to tell her?"
The Shaman shook her head, but she answered. She stank of a raw edge of fear under her spiked scent of magick, something I understood. I'd be afraid too if I was her. "I was working with Eddie. So was Mercy. We were looking for an alkaloid-based painblocker for Pico-PhizePharm." She took a deep breath, then met my gaze squarely. She had deep dark circles under her amber eyes. "What we found was a goddamn fail-safe cure for Chill."
Chapter 20
My jaw didn't drop, but it was close. "There is no cure for Chill." I sounded like the air had been punched out of me, again. I was getting to sound like that a lot lately.
Clormen-13 was instantly addictive, it was the nastiest drug on the market. The Hegemony police were constantly fighting a losing war, not only against Chill but against the violence that flowed in its wake. Chillfreaks will do literally anything for another hit, and the way the drug lowers inhibitions and stirs psychoses is bad news. Chillfreaks are like dusters; they don't feel pain or exhaustion. All they feel in the last stages of Chill addiction is the need.
Unlike hash, Chill is addictive for psions; it supposedly gives a high greater than jacking in and riding a Greater Work of magick. The only problem is, it eats away at a psion's shields and control of Power, consuming from the inside. A psion gone Chillfreak is lethal if you aren't careful, not only for the a
bsolute lack of any inhibition but also because they can explode on a psionic level, the magickal equivalent of walking thermonuclear bombs.
The large broad leaves of the plants stirred innocently. They looked healthy for having been dug up recently.
Eddie was-had been-one hell of a Skinlin. "No cure;" I repeated slowly. "That's why it's so profit-oh. Oh." That's why it was so fucking profitable, once you got someone hooked you could take them for everything they had and all they could steal. There was no cure for Chill, the detox process killed almost as surely as addiction did. A cure for Chill would be worth a lot of money-and would cut into the Mob's profit margin worldwide.
My heart gave a gigantic slamming leap. "Who knew? Who?" My voice stirred the plant leaves, rattled the beakers and equipment, made the tiles groan sharply.
"Nobody from Pico-Phize knew yet. Or at least, we didn't think they did. Massadie-our contact might have stolen a sample. Eddie had five." Mercy crossed her arms over her shallow breasts. Now that we were under fullspectrum lights, I saw the shadows of sleeplessness teasing under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. I didn't blame her a bit. Sedayeen aren't frightened of much-they have a sort of genetic disposition to an almost-maniacal calm, bolstered by their training. But even a healer would lose a little sleep over this kind of thing.
And let's not forget she was faced with a patently murderous part-demon. It was probably a wonder she wasn't running screaming in the street.
"He left four at the house," I said numbly. Sekhmet sa'es. Holy fuck. A cure for fucking Chill. Mercy made a restless movement maybe my voice disturbed her. I licked my dry lips. "Sekhmet sa'es, do you have any idea… a cure. A cure for Chill."
"Eddie found out that when he treated the datura alkaloids with a new technique, he got something that looked a little bit like Chill. So he ran some tests, refined it; couldn't believe what he had and brought it to me. We… there was no shortage of volunteers. We chose three. They walked out of here free of addiction. We subjected them to every marker and psiwave test. They were clean." Mercy took a deep breath. "Eddie… he did what he had to do. He moved out of his house and into a shitty apartment on Fiske. He came in and mainlined a packet of Clormen-13. Then we locked him in an observation room until he started to suffer withdrawal. We gave him a hypo of the datura cure."
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