A Taint in the Blood

by S. M. Stirling

  Monica nodded with a dreamy smile. “We were both laughing while she chased me—well, I was laughing and then squealing when she got a good swat in somewhere tender—and then she’d catch me and really lay into me until I sobbed and yelled for mercy and then she jumped on me and we really got down to stuff. Then more feeding, and . . . I can’t think of when I’ve had a better time, even with the carpet burns.”

  What was it that Robbie Burns said? Ellen thought. “Oh that we had the gifte gi’ us/Tae see ourselves as others see us.” That does sort of sound like fun, apart from the no-limits terror at the back of your mind. Except I think Monica was originally a straight vanilla type and would have screamed with horror at the thought of that sort of playing . . . even without the really weird blood-drinking Shadowspawn could-kill-you-anytime part.

  “Ummm, yeah, that sounds enjoyable,” she said aloud.

  “Oh, yes. And afterwards I was lying there thinking I can’t feel my legs anymore and the Doña said, I can always rely on you, Monica. What do you think of it, Peter?” Monica asked brightly. “Isn’t the sting it gives nice?”

  The slight blond man was looking fragile today. “Ah, it’s certainly less uncomfortable than the riding crop,” he said politely, and Jose rolled his eyes.

  “Lame, totally lame,” Kai muttered, on a rising note, getting up and tossing down her book of cartoons. “What a bunch of playacting—”

  Dale Shadowblade glanced up in irritation and made a gesture. Kai stopped in mid-syllable and froze, her eyes going wide. A low keening sound came from beneath her clenched teeth. Then she toppled slowly backward, head and shoulders into the pool and then the rest of her slowly sliding after. The Shadowspawn laughed. Jose and Peter jumped to their feet, looked at each other, and then leapt into the pool after her. Between them they manhandled the slim, limp form to the stone; she lay facedown with water trickling out of her mouth.

  “Doña?” Ellen asked.

  Adrienne looked over, smiled, and raised a brow at the man. He shrugged and glanced; Kai’s body bucked and heaved, and she gave a whoop and coughed up more of the water. The two lucies helped her to her deck chair, and she lay quietly for a few minutes. Then she blinked, scrubbed her face, and reached for the manga. It dropped through her fingers and Ellen instinctively picked it up and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said in a small, hoarse voice.

  Adrienne raised her voice slightly. “It’s really time to start getting ready for the birthday party,” she said. “We wouldn’t want anything to go wrong!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A bronze bell rang through the night. The crowd walked towards the Japanese garden in chattering clumps, beneath the colorful paper lanterns. Tonight everyone was in Japanese costume; Adrian felt at ease in the hakama outfit, and it was certainly comfortable and—much more important—suited for quick action.

  Plus night-walking like this I can go impalpable at any time. Convenient, if you don’t mind being naked while people are trying to kill you.

  These last nights and days were the longest consecutive period he’d ever been out-of-body. He was finding it subtly disturbing.

  Or possibly seductive is a better word.

  There was a wild freedom to it that made him understand why Mhabrogast treated existence as a dream that could be shaped by wishing it so.

  In the days of the first Empire of Shadows the speakers of the lingua demonica must have been mostly postcorporeals. For them, existence was a long fantasy of blood and lust and power.

  He licked the last of Cheba’s blood off his lips with a slight grimace. She hadn’t fought him this time, either. He was very glad that he’d be away or dead tonight.

  “I feel as if I were in a performance of The Mikado, Wilbur,” his father murmured, gesturing with his fan.

  “Such a stuffy death,” Adrian replied with a smile.

  “I’d better circulate. My company is still slightly radioactive with Hajime’s people and seeing us much together would do you no good.”

  They walked through the gateway; it was a little eerie to see the same place he’d come as the smilodon thronged with a laughing, chatting crowd in kimonos. The darker, restrained colors of male garb mixed with the golds and scarlets and indigos of the women. Hajime’s was an exception to the men’s soberness, a deep red with gold accents.

  Even more colorful were the decorated fukusa cloths that covered the gifts on a long table; one caught his eye, embroidered on silk satin, lined with soft crepe silk. Forests of pine tossed beneath clouds; water fell down a mountainside to a river as if it were falling from the sky and was rippled to shore. A Chinese man played the koto among a meadow of camellias, beneath a blossoming plum tree and flying cranes.

  “Lin Bu,” Ellen murmured to him, seemingly casual. “A Soong-era nature poet; he used to call the plum-blossoms his wife and the cranes his children. The pines and camellias are supposed to signify longevity. That’s Edo-period work.”

  Adrian/Wilbur nodded. His hand brushed hers, and he felt her take what he held.

  Now we’re totally committed, he thought. She can’t escape detection for long now. And there’s only one reason for a normal human to have that tucked into their clothing, and no way she could have gotten it except from someone like me. Plus my supposed renfields have quietly decamped . . . You’re back in the war, Adrian, and playing for higher stakes than mere life and death this time.

  A gong rang, and the guests grouped themselves along the long low-slung tables, with cushions to sit cross-legged on. Servants appeared, bringing sake—in square wooden boxes, the ultra-traditional form that had started out as rice-measures, each of six fluid ounces. They rested in little dishes and were filled to overflowing, for abundance and hospitality.

  Adrian was on the other side of the table from Hajime, and three places down; Adrienne was on his other side, in the place of honor. That would be awkward, but he was close enough, and as a bonus he could hear the conversation.

  “Ah, Yonetsuru Daiginjo sake,” Hajime said. “I grew up drinking this! Though now I’m older than even the average in Yamagata. Oshoushina! ” he added, in the dialect word for thanks.

  “Sasukune!” Adrienne replied in the same local variant of Japanese, topping him neatly with you’re welcome.

  “Kampai!”

  He laughed and lifted the box carefully to drink from one corner, smacking his lips.

  “Flowery and fruity and just a bit rough,” he said with satisfaction. “Enough to stand up to this masu, though I’m glad you haven’t gone too far and used cedarwood ones. Bottoms up!”

  “I liked the look of this dark oxblood red lacquer,” she said, when they’d each drained theirs. “Do have a little more.”

  She poured for him and his wife and returned to her own.

  “Ah, longevity,” Hajime said, studying the ideogram in the bottom of the masu. “Very pretty calligraphy, too.”

  Adrian sipped; it was good, if you liked warm rice wine, which he did. The problem would be to drink enough to lull suspicion but not enough to fuddle himself. This sort of party would make restraint rather conspicuous.

  At least the others aren’t even trying to hold back, he thought; Adrienne was emptying hers as well—more or less obligatory, for good manners’ sake.

  Eat, Adrian, eat. Relax your stomach muscles . . . deep breath . . . the aetheric body needs oxygen too.

  Shiizakana came next, the appetizers that went with the sake. Asazukiri Tofu, presented on a bamboo plate with a slice of Yuzu fruit, and on the side citrus-infused salt, plum-infused salt, and soy.

  “Ah!” his immediate neighbor said, a Tōkairin retainer. “Really fresh, not that glue paste you get in the stores.”

  It was good, the bland-sweet-bitter tastes flowing through his mouth . . . and it would help sop up the alcohol. A pity that there was no rice, but that would come towards the end of the meal, if they followed the ancient pattern. The second dish to arrive was Gindara no Saikyo Yaki, grilled blac
k cod marinated in Saikyo Miso sauce. The black cod was moist, but not turned into fish jelly; the Saikyo Miso taste was delicate, just short of being too salty.

  If I’m going to die, at least it won’t be with overcooked cod in my stomach, he thought.

  Though, as he was night-walking, the contents would just fall to the ground if he disintegrated in Final Death. That made him grin; at least he could count on making a disgusting mess at his sister’s party, even if he failed.

  He looked over to Ellen; she was at the lucies’ table, behind the principals but not too far, talking easily to the others—the striking dark-haired woman, the slight blond man and a Latino who looked like he’d stepped from a motorcycle ad but who wore the hakama with surprising ease. One of them made a joke, waving something in his chopsticks.

  The sight line isn’t good enough while everyone’s seated, Adrian decided grimly. And Hajime’s between Harvey and Adrienne.

  The head table wasn’t sheltered by the roof of the shrine—Harvey’s shooting position above the cave would clear it. But not by enough; he hadn’t allowed for the fact that the seating was so low, cushions on tatami-mats on the ground instead of chairs.

  The surge of murderous rage that twisted at his pseudo-gut was so intense that a few of the other Shadowspawn immediately looked his way. He smiled at them and lifted the wooden masu again.

  “Kampai!”

  Wakatake Onikoroshi this time, a bit sweeter; and after all, gusts of murderous passion weren’t all that uncommon among his breed. A deft servant refilled it, and he cursed her mentally with a smile still on his lips.

  This is taking too long! I have to get Harvey a clear shot at her!

  The next dish arrived: Akiyasai no Tempura, deep-fried seasonal vegetables in a light crisp batter, with green-tea-infused salt, and Japanese plum-infused salt too.

  “Umejio!” his neighbor said with relish. “Really, I’m surprised. The Brézé has outdone herself! These are Japanese plums in the infusion, I’m sure.”

  “If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right,” Adrian agreed.

  His aetheric body was producing a slight sheen of sweat on the forehead. He took a stick of the asparagus; it was meltingly tender yet with a faint hint of crispness, and half-sweet against the salt savor of the plum; it went well with the peppers and maitake mushrooms as well.

  Hajime and his wife and Adrienne and Michiko were all laughing together, looking disgustingly contented. He gritted his teeth; there was nothing quite as annoying as someone else carefree and happy when you were trying to throw yourself into combat mode. Dmitri was there too . . . and night-walking, for some reason.

  “Kampai!” Adrienne called to the guests. “Bottoms up!”

  Damn you! Adrian thought. Food! Bring me food, or I’ll have to make my escape in python form because wiggling on my belly like a snake will be all I can do!

  The rustling silk of the servant’s kimono rescued him; this time it was rough earthenware plates with Maitake to Yuba no Usudaki, mushrooms wrapped in Yuba tofu with special soy, and then diced horse mackerel with green onions to make a tartare in a lettuce cup. The oil in the fish would insulate his stomach.

  And damn evolutionary kludges! He wasn’t even really here, but his hindbrain insisted on treating his aetheric form as if it were his birth-body.

  More food: sashimi of Scabbard Fish, char-grilled young conger eel, deep-fried breaded fillet of Berkshire pork with katsu sauce, baby sweetfish steamed in an earthenware donabe pot with rice . . .

  Rice at last! Adrian thought, and wielded his chopsticks; he let the Power pick an instant and poured the sake from his wooden box into the pot as well, getting it out of sight.

  . . . shiitake mushrooms with burdock root, buttery Monkfish livers, free-range chicken broiled in Hoba leaves, a rice soup of red sea bream, Hirame halibut, crab and shrimp, stewed together . . .

  I’ve got to stop going with the flow, Adrian thought desperately. This place is too goddamned soothing. I can feel the Wreakings making me feel all social and disinclined to make a fuss. I’ve got to make something happen . . . something that uses the way she’s set it up!

  Mhabrogast spilled through his mind. Sense the possibilities, push here . . .

  It was surprisingly easy; the Wreakings Adrienne had soaked into the field to dampen aggression and soothe suspicious, isolate Shadowspawn natures worked in the same direction. So did his link with Ellen; he could feel it resonating as he pushed delicate lines and needles into the Wreakings sourced from her blood and pain, and he could see her shiver suddenly as if a cold touch had skimmed across her shoulder blades. Their eyes met for an instant as the yuzu-citrus-flavored sherbet was set before each guest in a champagne flute.

  Now!

  “A few words, Tōkairin-sama!” he called. So Adrienne has to get up and give a reply.

  The man in the scarlet kimono looked over, surprised. Another push, and smiles spread down the table and to the rest; a scatter of applause grew into clapping and calls of: Speech! Speech!

  “This is my hundredth and tenth birthday,” the silver-haired man said as he stood. “I am nearly eleventy-one today—”

  No! Adrian thought.

  Hypersensitive, the tendrils of the Power felt the oncoming wave of violence.

  No! Not yet! Not until she replies!

  Suddenly Adrienne was standing, or half-standing. She crouched on her feet and threw an arm around Hajime.

  “Lord Hajime! I sense an attack! Your life is in danger! Dimitri, transform!”

  Damn, Adrian thought with grim resignation. Merde. Name of a black dog. My plan has met their plan and the inevitable fuckup has begun. Now to improvise faster . . .

  Aloud: “Amss-aui-ock!”

  Change flowed through him, effortless, the unbearable complexity of human thought slipping away into the simple focus of the sabertooth’s incarnate purpose.

  Kill.

  The guests on either side of him tumbled away, yelling, as the great beast crouched on the discarded tumble of Adrian’s kimono. He felt Hajime decide not to go impalpable—and felt the push behind it, the sudden taste of his sister’s Power, like a razor across the tongue. He screamed and leapt.

  Power hummed through the air, twisted at the fabric of existence as dozens of Shadowspawn minds reacted with instinctive fear and rage to the sudden shocking threat. World-lines writhed and tangled.

  Hajime snarled and whipped out the curved tanto-dagger that had been hidden in his sash. Then the lined face turned towards the smilodon went rubbery with shock—physical shock, a rippling idiot’s grin as the massive high-velocity .338 sniper round punched into his skull behind the left ear and blasted out most of the front of his head. Almost in the same instant the dying mind lost control of its pseudo-body; to Shadowspawn senses there was a silent scream, as the personality and the others it Carried within dissolved into entropy. A brief glimmer, as if seen from the corner of the eye, and the scarlet kimono and the knife fell to the ground amid the harsh unpleasant smell of stomach contents.

  She was holding him, the remote human portion of his mind knew. Holding him in palpable form.

  The rest of him was outstretched paws with claws like giant fish-hooks, mouth open a hundred and eighty degrees to bare the ivory daggers for the killing strike.

  Adrienne leapt backward herself. That put her in view of the waiting marksman . . . but just then another form erupted upwards, in the shape of a Ruwenzori gorilla, a giant silverback male. One of its great black hairy-spider hands happened to throw a plate into the air. At precisely the angle needed to deflect the bullet that would have smashed her spine. Fragments of it hummed through the air, and he jinked aside as he landed.

  The gorilla threw itself forward and came down with both bent, immensely powerful legs between his shoulder blades. Five hundred pounds of bone and muscle hammered the sabertooth’s belly to the ground, and the gorilla’s bunched fists hit him in the back of the head with all the strength of the tree-thick
arms. A fang splintered agonizingly on the rock pavement as his head was driven downwards.

  “Alive!” he heard his sister snap. “Alive, Dmitri!”

  I am not afraid, Ellen knew, as the ceremonial dinner dissolved in chaos. I may be about to die, but I’m not afraid. For the first time in months.

  Peter was down on one knee, looking around . . . curiously. Jose had grabbed Monica and thrown her to the floor, pitching his body over hers protectively and swearing in English and Spanish.

  Ellen’s head turned, to where Adrienne sprawled backward a yard away from two great battling animal forms.

  “Alive!” she heard the Shadowspawn woman say. “Alive, Dmitri!”

  Ellen pulled the lead foil tube out of her obi, took a deep breath and whipped it down on Adrienne’s half-bare sandaled foot with all the strength of a forehand smash. The Shadowspawn doubled over with a—literally—inhuman screech as the hypodermic within slammed through bone and tendon, pumping its load of silver-solution and radioactive waste into her tissues.

  “Hey, bitch, I’m not your bitch anymore!” Ellen shrieked, in an abandonment of rage. “And fuck your fancy lingerie and stupid sadistic head games! ”

  Adrienne’s head came down, her teeth bared in a killing lunge. The flask of hot Honjōzō-shu sake in Ellen’s other hand splashed out and took her full in the eyes; she went over backward in a flailing heap, the barest instant before another of the heavy .338 bullets cracked through the space her head had occupied.

  Adrian-smilodon’s forepaws gripped the flagstones and flung him upward despite the weight on his back, the taste of blood and pain in his mouth, the whirling in his head. He turned as it left him in a blur almost as fast as the double strike of his talons; flesh and hair ripped as one scored across the gorilla’s belly. It screamed and rolled backwards, wrenched a board loose from the table and took stance—kendo modified for the giant ape’s form. Behind it Adrienne shrieked in mingled pain and rage herself, sprattling in the confining silk lengths of her kimono.