Oddly enough, that made a lump rise in my throat. "You win, Gabe," I said. "You win."
I turned around and headed for the door.
"Nice to be working with you," Eddie burbled through his soup.
We made it out onto the hushed street. The noodle shop's neon-lit windows threw a warm red glow out onto the drying pavement. The demon still said nothing.
My arm didn't hurt anymore.
I could feel the demon's eyes on me. Wouldn't you know, he wasn't bothering looking at where he was going; he was busy looking at me, stepping over a drift of wet newspaper without even looking.
"What?" I finally asked, my eyes on the pavement under my feet. I kicked a Sodaflo can out of the way. "I can feel you wanting to say something, so spit it out."
We walked for maybe half a block until he spoke. "You're distressed," he said quietly. "I hurt your arm. My apologies."
"We could have gotten a lot more out of Abra if you hadn't threatened her," I pointed out.
"I did not want you injured."
"Because it'll foul up your own carefully laid plans," I flared. "Fine."
He was quiet for another half minute, during which we crossed Pole Street. I looked both ways this time. The old feeling of being on a hunt, adrenaline and sour boredom and fierce determination, was beginning to come back.
"You are the most infuriating human I have ever met," he said.
"I thought you didn't often leave Hell." I was so out of sorts that my neck was starting to tingle.
"Why must even an apology be a battle, with you?"
"I thought demons didn't apologize."
"You are testing my patience, Dante."
"Go back to Hell, then."
"If I were human, would you be so cruel to me?"
"If you were human you wouldn't have shown up at my house and dragged me to Hell with a gun pointed at my head and gotten me involved in this mess." I stamped against the pavement, my boots echoing. Get over it, Danny. You're losing your focus. What is wrong with you?
Nothing's wrong with me. It wasn't quite true. I thought I had made my peace with Doreen's death, but the ghosts of the past were standing up, shaking out their dusty clothes, and emerging into my life again. I didn't want to face any more memories of pain and terror and death—I had too many already.
And if the memories of Doreen were coming back, why not the other memories I thought I'd locked up and buried for good? Let's make it a party for Danny Valentine, let's get out all the old terrors and shake her to and fro, how about that?
"How would you have preferred it, then?" he asked.
"I would have preferred to be left alone," I snapped at him. "I thought you were going to apologize."
"I already did. If you weren't so determined to hate me, perhaps you would have noticed."
"You arrogant—" I was again paying no attention to where we were going, so the slight scuffle in the alley made me stop midstride and whirl. Metal sang as my sword cleared the sheath. A good fight was just what the doctor ordered. My lips peeled back from my teeth. Come on out, I thought, dropping into guard position, my blade suddenly aflame with blue light. Even the thought of the paperwork it would take to clear up the mess wasn't enough to deter me from stepping forward, unconsciously putting the demon behind me as if to protect him, the blue glow of my sword suddenly reflecting on eyes and teeth and glints of metal.
The demon turned, too, an oddly graceful movement, peering into the alley. He held up a hand, and sudden light scored the darkness, making my eyes water.
Shit, he's destroyed my night vision, dammit—I flicked my sword up into the blind guard, readying myself for a strike. Here on Pole Street, it wasn't likely to be a minigang like on the subway. Here it was likely to be a full-fledged pack of street wolves, and even though I had a sword and a Necromance's tat, it could get really ugly, really quickly.
Then again, ugly was just fine with me. The flood of copper adrenaline was almost as good as riding a slicboard, my breath hissing out through my teeth.
Unfortunately, the demon's little light-ball showed six dark shapes fleeing down the alley, one with a metal glint in his hands. Switchblade or gun, didn't matter. I stood there as the demon calmly flicked his wrist, bringing the white-hot glowing sphere back to rest obediently in his palm. Another flick of his wrist and the light was gone, making me blink my dazzled eyes. Power hummed through the air, the smell of ozone and rain mixing with the sharper smell of garbage, and fear. And over it all, the smoky smell of demon.
"As I said," he said quietly, "you appear to need a caretaker. Were you unaware of being followed? And did you think to protect me?"
His face resolved as my pupils expanded, green eyes glowing and half-lidded, his mouth curled up faintly at the corners. Laughing at the poor stupid human.
"I don't need to be taken care of, especially when it's only a grunge-smelling pack of Pole Street wolves. I need to get this over with so I can go back to my life, pay my mortgage, and retire." I resheathed my sword, the blue glow draining from the blade as unspent adrenaline wound my nerves up like a slic set on high. "I'm going home to get some sleep."
He nodded.
I set off down Pole Street, vaguely wishing there had been a fight. The demon's disdain was infuriating, even though I shouldn't have cared. It took me about a block to realize I'd been rude. "Hey," I said, looking up at the demon, who paced beside me silent as a shark.
"Yes?" Wary. But he looked puzzled, too, as if I had just done something extraordinary.
"Thanks for the apology," I gave him, grudgingly. "And I tend to take point to protect whoever I'm with. It's not a comment on your ability. I'm sure you're able to take care of yourself."
Did he stumble slightly, or was it just my imagination? He didn't say a word.
CHAPTER 19
"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. Skidding to a stop just as he rose out of the dark, the little black bag 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, blood exploding outward, copper stink.
«Danny!» Doreen's despairing scream.
"Get out!" I screamed, but she was coming back, hands glowing blue-white, still trying to heal.
Trying to reach me, to heal me, the link between us resonating with my pain and her burning hands—
Made it to my feet, screaming at her to get the fuck out, and Santino's claws whooshing again as he tore into me, one claw sticking on a rib, my sword ringing as I slashed at him, too slow, he was something inhuman, something inhuman—
"Dante. Wake up." A smooth, dark, old voice. "Wake up."
I sat bolt upright, screaming, my fingers hooked into claws, scrambled back until my shoulders hit the wall, sobbing breaths hitching in through my mouth because my nose was full. My back burned, the three whip scars full of heat, the burn scar on my left ass cheek twinging, and the scars across my belly and up my right side pulsing with awful fiery remembered numb pain.
Japhrimel's hand dropped back down to his side. "You were dreaming." His hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been sleeping, too. His eyes glowed, casting dim shadows under his nose and cheekbones and lower lip. "I heard you scream…"
My left shoulder ached most of all, a deep desperate pain. I gasped. Blinked at him. The sheet had come free; I clutched it to my chest, trying to control my jagging breath. My rings spat green-gold swirls of light. I rubbed at my left shoulder with a fistful of sheet, my silk nightgown wadded up at my hip. The phantom pain drained away, each wound giving a final vicious sear, promising a return. The whip scars went first, and the clawmarks on my left side lingered until I took another sobbing breath in through my mouth and reminded myself that I was not bleeding.
Not anymore.
&
nbsp; I reached for the box of tissues on my nightstand, blew my nose. It was my only admission of the tears, having to wad up the tissue and toss it in the general direction of the bathroom. My heart rate dropped to something like normal, and I found my voice. "You heard me?" I sounded husky, not like my usual self. Frightened.
"Of course I heard you. You bear my mark." He pointed to my left shoulder. He was still wearing that long black coat. He must not have much of a dry-cleaning bill, I thought, and a traitorous giggle almost escaped me.
"You're still wearing that coat."
"I usually do. What were you dreaming about?"
"S-S-Santino. When he k-killed D-Doreen…" I rubbed at my shoulder. "Why does it hurt?"
I sounded childlike.
"How did he kill her?" he asked.
I shrugged. "He kills psionics. We thought he was a serial killer, he eviscerates—"
Japhrimel stiffened. "He bleeds psychics? Not just ordinary humans?"
I nodded, pushed strands of my hair back over my shoulders. "He took trophies. Internal organs… he took the femur, or parts of it. It was his trademark… We couldn't figure out what his victims had in common, until I did a reconstruct of a crime scene and we found out all of his victims were psis. Then we went back through… gods …" I took a deep breath. "He sent each one flowers. Flowers!"
Japhrimel nodded. His eyes were so bright they cast little green sparkles against his cheekbones. He settled on the edge of my bed. "I see."
"I figured out he was the Saint City Slasher by going through some security tapes on one of the victims' buildings. By that time Gabe was on the case. I think… I think it was my being on the case that made Santino fixate on Doreen. He's-s-sent those f-f-flowers… Gabe agreed with me that Doreen was a target, and we out-thought him… gods, it must have just made him more angry…" I relaxed, muscle by muscle. Took deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth…
Moving Doreen from safehouse to safehouse, one step ahead of the killer; living out of our suitcases, me lying awake every night with my hand curled around my swordhilt, listening, my entire world narrowing to keeping Reena alive one more day…
Japhrimel touched my shoulder with two fingers, warmth spreading through my cold bones. Gooseflesh prickled at my skin. "That's a nice trick," I managed around the lump in my throat.
He shrugged. "We are creatures of fire."
The way his eyes were burning, I believed it.
I shut my eyes. That was a mistake, because Santino's face hung in the darkness behind my lids. I stared at the face, the black teardrops over the eyes, the high-pointed ears, long nose, sharp teeth—
I thought he had rich-boy cosmetic augments to make himself look like a Nichtvren, I thought he was psionic and overrode me while I was losing consciousness, even though the cops couldn't find any sign of a memory wipe, I thought he was just a sick twisted human psionic…
"Dante. Come back." His fingers were still on my shoulder, bare skin scorching against mine.
My eyes flew open. He leaned across my tangled bed, his fingers almost melded to my shoulder. My other shoulder—the one that bore his mark—twinged sharply. "Why does it hurt?" I asked, tipping my chin down to point at my shoulder.
He shrugged. "I am your familiar. I suspect it's one of the Prince's jokes."
What the hell is that supposed to mean? "What are you talking about?"
"How much do you know of the bond between Magi and familiar?"
My heart rate calmed down. Sweat dried on my skin. I tasted copper adrenaline and blood—I'd bitten my lip. "I told you, not much. Just that some Magi get familiars, it's the great quest for every Magi… mostly imp-class demons, just little guys. Barely enough to light a candle."
"It's my duty to obey you. It's your duty to feed me." He didn't sound like it was any big deal.
"You know where the kitchen is." I took in a deep breath. "Thanks for… for waking me up. I haven't had a bad nightmare like that in… in a couple of years." The lie came out smoothly. The nightmare returned almost every night, punctually, unless I was exhausted. I had plenty of nightmares, from Rigger Hall, from some of the jobs I'd been on, from any number of horrible things I'd witnessed or had done to me. But the replaying of Santino's last assault had top billing for the last few years.
It was my heaviest regret, not being strong enough or fast enough when it counted.
He was quiet, and still. "I don't need human food," he said.
I touched my bleeding lip. My sword lay on my other side, safe in its sheath. "So what are you talking about? Power?"
"Blood. Sex. Fire." His fingers fell away from my shoulder. "Imps can feed on alcohol and drug intoxication, but I wouldn't recommend that. You need your wits about you."
"Anubis et'her ha," I breathed. "You're not serious. Why tell me this now?"
"There hasn't been a better time." He settled back, the bed creaking underneath him. "I think you would be most comfortable with blood instead of sex."
"You've got that right," I muttered, my head still ringing with the dream. That chilling little giggle, while he took what he wanted, his satisfied wet little sounds while he—
A new and terrible thought occurred to me. We had assumed Santino took trophies. What if he was… eating the parts he took? I shivered, opening my eyes as wide as I could.
"How badly did he hurt you?" he asked. "Santino. Vardimal."
I shut my eyes again. "He eviscerated me," I whispered. "If Doreen hadn't… she had her hands on me when he slit her throat. He didn't have enough time to do his entire ritual on her… he just bled her dry and cut out part of her femur… she had her hands on me… she used her last breath to heal me."
"Blood. Why blood? And a human bone…" he asked, very softly, as if to himself.
"You tell me," I said. "What does he need to murder psionics for? Does it have anything to do with the Egg?"
"It is useless to him," Japhrimel said quietly.
"What happens if he breaks it? Apocalypse, right?"
"Of a sort." Japhrimel folded his hands. The mark on my left shoulder gave another deep twinge. "The Egg holds a piece of… of the Prince's power. Decoded on Earth instead of in Hell, it could… upset the order of things. It is a violation of the way things should be."
"Okay." I took a deep breath. This was almost interesting enough to make me forget my heart was still hammering from a nightmare. Was this Egg a Talisman? The way he was talking about it, it seemed likely. "I guess I understand the magickal theory behind that, if it's heavy-duty demon stuff. But what's in it? Why does he want it? If word gets out that it's been stolen, what will—"
Japhrimel's teeth showed in one of those murderous, slow grins he seemed so fond of. "It will mean that the Prince is not strong enough to rule Hell. Demons will test his strength as they have not done for millennia. A Rebellion might succeed… and Vardimal might become the new Prince of Hell."
I chewed on this for a moment. He wasn't precisely answering the question, but his answer opened up so many other questions I decided to let the first one go for now. "So that's why Lucifer can't have anyone know that someone's stolen the Egg," I said. "Funny—I thought you guys were in Hell because you rebelled in the first place."
My attempt at levity failed miserably. He didn't even look like he got the joke. Then again, not many psis studied classical literature and the pre-Awakening Christos Bible Text, which had been discredited and gone out of use in the great backlash against the Evangelicals of Gilead.
"I have heard that story," he answered slowly. His eyelids lowered over his glowing eyes as he glanced down. "Human gods do not trouble us overmuch. It is only that humans were frightened of us, and mistook us for gods. There was a rebellion—the Fallen defied Lucifer's will, and died on earth because of the love they bore for the brides… but that is not something we speak of."
I absorbed this. If I was a Magi I'd be peppering him with questions, trying to get him to say more, but I was too tired.
Si
lence thundered through the dark bedroom. The mark on my shoulder ached, pounding. I was finally beginning to believe that I was awake. The scars went back to sleep until the next nightmare; maybe I could sleep, too. Maybe.
"If he manages to destroy this Egg," I thought out loud, "does that mean you'll be free?"
"Of course not." He dropped his eyes, studied the bed. Little green shadows danced on my blanket, showing me his gaze moving in an aimless pattern from my knee to my hand to the edge of the bed, back to my knee. "Should Vardimal's rebellion fail, I will be left as your familiar, perhaps. Then after your death—which might be swift, since the Prince is not one for slow punishment—I will be punished, for as long as the Prince's reign is secure. If by some stroke of chance Vardimal succeeds, I will be executed—after your death as well. If the Prince wins, I wait another eternity for a chance at my freedom—if another chance is granted me at all."
"You just can't win, can you." I didn't want to sound snide. I swallowed dryly. It seemed like I couldn't win either, since both scenarios involved my sudden demise, too.
"No," he said. "I can't."
"So you really have a lot invested in this."
"It would appear so."
Another long, uncomfortable silence. The world was hushed outside, in the deepest part of night before the flush of false dawn. I didn't feel sleepy, though I knew I should be trying to catch some shut-eye before the morning transport. Once I left the house tomorrow, I'd be on the hunt. I didn't sleep much while hunting.
"You must be pretty hungry," I said finally. "This mark hurts like a bitch."
"My apologies."
It took more courage than I thought I had to extend my hand, flipping my palm up and making a fist. My wrist was exposed, pale in the dimness of my bedroom. The nightlight in the hall shone in through the door, a cool blue glow. "Here," I said. "Blood, right? You need me to cut myself, or…"
He shrugged. "Many thanks for the offer, Dante, but… no."
"You're hungry. I don't want a weak demon. I want a kickass demon who can help me deal with Santino."
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