Dante Valentine

  Zaj dropped back into his chair, still staring at me. I didn’t like the look on his broad face. Neither did I like the increasing sense of motion threading through the other demons present. Their faces ran like ink on wet paper, because I couldn’t make my eyes focus on one of them—too busy trying to watch them all.

  You’d think this sort of thing would seem almost normal to me by now. Dark hilarity welled up in my throat, was shoved down with hysterical strength.

  “You think she can wield the Knife.” This demon, halfway down the table, was dressed all in fluttering red, long sleeves and a minstrel’s dreamy face marred by the thin crimson lines of what looked like tribal tattoos swirling across his cheeks. His eyes were scarlet drops with black teardrops painted over them, I stared at the sharpness of his white teeth against golden skin and scarlet markings. He looked oddly familiar.

  I am not thinking clearly. I am not even close to thinking clearly.

  Increasing heat mounted through the lines of the scar on my left shoulder. I touched the Knife, buzzing in its hilt strapped to my rig, and the demons went still, each pair of lambent eyes fixed on me.

  Maybe taking it out of my bag hadn’t been such a great idea, after all. On the other hand, if any of them came at me…

  Another demon, with a veil of gold tissue over its head and the shadow of something under it I had no desire to see, let out a slow hiss, like an adder swelling with poison. “I applaud our leader for her show of strength.” Its voice loaded the sibilants with toxic strength. “What precisely are we discussing?”

  “Rebellion, and the death of the Prince of Hell.” This, from the crimson-painted demon. Its voice was strangely sexless, a high clear tone like glass under moonlight. “That is what we are speaking of, is it not?”

  With a whole bunch of you guys for backup, it might even be possible. My entire body was a block of numb ice. My stomach filled with uneasy, unsteady loathing.

  I hoped my eyes weren’t the size of plates. “Sounds great.” I spoke before Eve could, my mouth bolting the way it always does. “I’m all for it. When do we start?”

  “You see?” Eve whirled away from the wall, her hair swinging in a heavy pale wave of ropes. “A hedaira does not fear him. Why should we of the Greater Flight fear him, when we have the means to make the Eldest behave—or at least remain neutral? If we are allied with the holder of the Knife of Sorrow, we have the upper hand.”

  “None have ever successfully challenged the Prince.” A demon with fat yellow tentacled dreadlocks leaned slightly aside in his chair, his fingertips drumming the tabletop in one smooth arc. He had eight fingers on his right hand, and I stared at the muscle working in his slim forearm. “Still, we have come this far. It is logical for us to pursue our course.” He paused, his fingers drumming down again, eight beats marking off time. “After all, he will not forgive us. Are we resigned to death?”

  “He will suspect our intentions, and send someone to collect the Knife.” This from a tall, thin demon whose face was hidden under the hood of a gray cloak, the material shifting oddly as it twitched.

  Eve’s eyes met mine. “He did. But we had our own viper in the heart of that mission. Any other demon he sends will meet a harsh fate.”

  “Our own viper?” Zaj’s eyebrow didn’t lift, but he sounded skeptical. “This little thing?”

  I could not look away from Eve’s face. My heart thudded thinly, and I was suddenly aware of sweat prickling under my arms and at the small of my back. It took a lot of effort to make me sweat, a half-hour of hard sparring at least—or a room full of demons.

  Go figure.

  “She has been far more successful than any of you, has she not? And as long as we hold the allegiance of this Necromance, we hold the allegiance of her Fallen. If you do not respect her might, I should hope you are not stupid enough to disregard his.” Eve’s voice was very soft. “We do have your allegiance, do we not, Dante?”

  Silence. Every eye in the place on me. McKinley shuffled slightly, near the door. I wondered if the coppery smell of fear riding the air was from him—or from me.

  It came from that black place in me, the thing I didn’t want to remember. The rush and crackle of flame filled my veins, a lioness’s head lifting behind my eyes, Her face full of bloody light.

  The world turned over, ramming me back into myself with a concussive internal blast. I almost staggered, caught myself. Air scorched my lungs as I let out the breath I’d been holding, returning to my skin with a rush of certainty. “You told me you wanted me to set myself up against the Prince of Hell. Here I am. That son of a bitch has messed with me for the last time.”

  “And your Fallen?” Eve persisted, but she looked pleased. A slight cruel smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and my face felt so numb I couldn’t tell if I was copying the expression—or if she’d stolen it from my face.

  “He’s with me.” My throat was dry, but the words were soft, husky, laden with promise.

  “You are certain?”

  Don’t ask me that. I’m pretty certain, but he’s pulled fast ones on me before. I searched her face, finding only the taint of demon overlaying her skin with a high gloss, covered with the dark hood of my own guilt at not being able to save her from Lucifer in the first place. There were so many I had failed to save—Lewis, Doreen, Jace, Eddie, Gabe… the list stretched on. My arms and legs were frozen, my face a stiff mask.

  All that remained was to say the words. “I’m sure,” I husked. “What do you have in mind?”

  She opened her mouth, but my scar turned molten, sending a soft wave of Power down my skin. I shivered, my right hand empty without a swordhilt. A susurrus ran through the assembled demons.

  The sun turned into a bloody eye, low in the sky. Paradisse glimmered, slim plasteel towers each vetted by an aesthetic committee before the first hoverload of dirt was lifted. They pierced the gathering twilight, shimmers resolving near their tops, lights blurring along each graceful arch.

  “Ah.” Eve lowered herself into the iron chair at the head of the table, its high spiked back spearing the air. The demons all turned still as statues, waiting.

  Usually when demons are this still, they’re conserving their energy, compressing the elasticity of their bodies so they can unleash that spooky blurring speed of theirs when the time comes. This was a different immobility, almost tranquil except for the razor-edge of nervousness under it, like hounds scenting blood and waiting tensely for the leash to slip.

  Crimson painted the windows, and if I hadn’t been so nervous and just plain exhausted I might have enjoyed the once-in-a-lifetime view of Paradisse stretching out beneath us, the buildings beginning their nightly dance of illumination, streams of hovertraffic winking with reactive paint, the towers also beginning to let loose scarves of synth-perfume that glittered crystalline as the lowering sun shone through them. Walking in Paradisse is an olfactory experience as well as visual.

  I should have been having the time of my life.

  Darkness gathered along the floor, and I felt the quivering that ran through the building. It felt like a padded hammer tapping at my left shoulder, and I let out a small sound between my lips. Every demon in the room turned his gaze to me, except Eve, who settled down languorous into the chair.

  “It begins,” she murmured. “Semma?”

  A demon at the far end of the table—the one with a long shock of blue hair woven with glittering gold charms that tinkled as he moved—rose and padded to the hoverlift door. I heard the lift machinery beginning, the whine of hover transport and a swoosh of displaced air. I didn’t look, staring down the table and off to the left, where the windows framed a cityscape just falling under night’s cloak.

  Steady now, Dante. I edged along the table, passing behind demons so still they might have been statues, and finally paused, almost to Eve’s chair. To get there I had to pass the mottled demon, and I didn’t want to. The mood of the room turned dark, Power spilling against my nervestrings like warm oil, a sizzling
bath.

  The lift arrived, and the doors opened with a soft chime. Silence, three soft steps I knew as well as my own heartbeat, and he came into the room.

  Dear gods. Thank you. He’s out of Hell. The scar on my shoulder turned live, singing against my skin, a burst of Power working its way down through flesh and racing through my bones.

  Another silence, this one managing to convey shock and growing apprehension. He tipped a room full of scary-ass demons into fear just by walking in.

  Japhrimel. My Fallen.

  My very own demon. I am so happy to see you right now, Japh.

  I let my eyes swing over to him. He’d come alone, and stood in front of the hoverlift doors, his eyes burning green under winged dark eyebrows. His hair was longer, too; he hadn’t cut it. It fell in his eyes and shadowed the first shock: the gauntness of his face.

  He looked starved, perfect skin drawn tight over bones that revealed demon architecture as surely as my own. There were hollows under his cheekbones, and dark smudges under his eyes, just as piercing and laserlike as Lucifer’s, but just a shade less inherently awful.

  It was still too close for comfort. Little whispering fingers chuckled nasty things inside my head, taunting me. McKinley let out a sigh that didn’t bother to conceal his relief.

  The second shock was the threads of paleness in Japh’s hair, silvery gray strands in the rough dark silk. I took all this in with a glance, met his eyes again. A burning prickle started in the scar, like a limb waking up. Like my entire body, a swift pulse slamming through me and shouting his name even as remembered screams boiled up, as the Devil chuckled and whispered in my ear.

  Oh, gods. There was a lump in my throat. It was my heart. I am so glad to see you. You have no idea.

  Eve spoke first. “Welcome, Kinslayer.” The softness and conciliation had dropped from her voice. It was almost as sheerly, nakedly powerful as Lucifer’s. The only thing saving me from flinching was the mounting discomfort as the scar turned hot on my shoulder, molten liquid spreading out from it in intricate pathways.

  Japhrimel’s eyes didn’t leave mine.

  He didn’t even acknowledge Eve’s opening salvo. Instead, he spoke to me, as if we had just met on the street. “You are well?” Just the three words, but the air cringed away from them.

  He was furious. His rage circled the room lazily, gathering itself, and the bottom of my stomach dropped out. I had never seen this in him before. I’d seen him calm and I’d seen him lethal, I had seen him languid and I’d seen him tense with danger, but I had never seen him look so much like he was going to start killing and he wasn’t particularly picky about who he began with.

  My shirt fluttered a little, though the air was still. His aura crackled, and the other demons shifted uneasily in their chairs, darting bright nervous glances at Eve.

  Who looked completely unaffected. She tilted her head slightly, as if giving me permission to respond.

  “Never better,” I lied, my mouth moving independently of my brain again. I closed it with an effort—the words you look like hell were just dying to come out.

  And right after them, why do I get the feeling you’re not happy to see me?

  Japhrimel studied me for a long few moments. Immovable, a sword of darkness against the glow of Paradisse leaking through the plasilica behind him. The sun died, sinking below the earth’s rim, and the city suddenly blazed.

  “Make your offer,” he said finally, tossing the words like a challenge. His eyes didn’t leave mine, and his hands tensed slightly at his sides. Fudoshin hummed inside his sheath, a single low tone of dissatisfaction. The Knife’s hum slid up another notch, rattling my bones.

  Before I could ask him what the hell he meant, Eve spoke in the harsh, consonant-laden language of demons, a long string of rolling words that tore the tattered air even further. The mood of the room was beginning to tip again, the fine hairs on my nape rising. It felt like a riot was going to break out, or a thunderstorm.

  It also felt like I was standing right in its path. Normally I’d have been looking for a wall to put my back to.

  There’s no easy way out of this one. Little invisible tremors twitched through my muscles. Fine time to start coming down with the shakes, Valentine. Focus!

  Japhrimel spoke briefly, pointedly keeping his eyes locked with mine. Eve responded, her tone softening—if anything can ever be soft in the language of Lucifer’s children. Even her voice couldn’t make the hard sounds any prettier, and Japhrimel’s short reply shivered the plasilica windows in their mounts.

  “Let’s ask her, shall we?” Eve spoke Merican, but the shadow of demon language lay behind it. I shivered. “Who do you prefer, Dante? Him, or me?”

  Prefer? Both of you are pretty goddamn scary right now. I peeled myself away from the chair, my legs suddenly weak and shaking. Some kind of letdown from all the adrenaline I’d been soaking in, at the worst possible time, as Japh’s mark on my shoulder pulsed, burning away the veil of numbness.

  I took two steps back from the table. The demon Zaj tensed, and so did McKinley, twin movements I could feel like a storm-front against a sensitive membrane. “Japh. We’re all on the same side here, and Eve—”

  “I did not come here for her.” He answered so quickly the words bit off the tail of my sentence. “The Prince has pronounced doom on every Ifrijiin in this room.” His eyes still didn’t flicker away from mine. “You are all under sentence of death, for treason to the throne of Hell. I am here to execute that sentence.”

  The way he said it, it sounded like a done deal.

  What? The reality of what he’d just said hit me square in the chest. Hey. Wait a second. When did this happen?

  Betrayal, sharp and pointed, hit me just afterward. Sure, Danny. Let me go into Hell and get the Knife. You idiot. He probably went to have another little tête-à-tête with Lucifer, and you let him! You fell for it!

  It was the last straw, the last betrayal. A small, quiet part of me was asking why I was jumping to conclusions, but the rest of me shouted that little voice of doubt down. How many times would Japh have to pull a mickey on me before I got the idea?

  I was justified in thinking he’d turn on me. How could I not be?

  Sentence of death. That meant he wanted to kill Eve.

  Not while I’m breathing, bucko. “Japhrimel.” My right hand closed around Fudoshin’s hilt. The blade left the scabbard with a short singing note, and I settled into second guard, a movement so habitual and natural it seemed easier than standing upright and feeling the shaking work its way into my bones. Light ran like oil over honed steel, blue flame waking along its sharp sweet curve, and I tossed the words at him. “You can start with me.”

  Are you kidding, Dante? You know how fast he is. You don’t have a chance.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. And if nothing mattered, everything was permissible.

  Everything was possible. So it was glancingly possible that I might hit him if he came at Eve.

  Reality made one last stab at my consciousness. Sekhmet sa’es, Danny. You at least could have drawn a gun.

  Eve’s laughter rattled the table, blew through the assembled demons like a hard wind through a field of wheat. “You see, Kinslayer? Come for me, and she will do what she must. If I am a traitor, so is she. Will you kill your own leman?”

  That brought his eyes to her for the first time, and I felt faintly ridiculous, standing there dressed in air-dried wrinkles with drawn steel and nobody paying any goddamn attention to the fact.

  “It matters little,” Japhrimel returned equably. “Neither you, nor Death, nor even the Prince may have her, and I have time to teach her manners. Which is none of your concern. Yield and return to your nest, Androgyne, and you may yet be forgiven.”

  I sensed Eve’s chin lifting. When she spoke, it was the soft finality of a declaration of war. “Come and take me, if you dare.”

  The trembling air was riven again, demon Power spiking and tearing. A low glassy growl started
.

  I knew that sound. Hellhounds. Oh, gods. This was rapidly getting out of hand—if it had ever been manageable in the first place. The growling was coming from right behind me, and McKinley let out a short low curse he must have picked up in Putchkin Near Asia.

  “Game,” Zaj said. He rose slowly, his chair scraping, and I was suddenly conscious he was far too close to me. “And set.”

  Japhrimel actually smiled. It was one of those slow murderous grins I’d seen him use during the hunt for Santino, only it was dialed up to ten instead of two on the scary scale.

  The urge to dive for cover collided with the need to back up, both fighting with the sudden desire to turn around and see what was behind me.

  Right behind me, breathing heat into my hair. My mouth went dry, and the strength left my legs in a liquid rush. Only the locking of my muscles kept me standing, the scar suddenly blazing with spiked iron wire, driving into my flesh. Burrowing in.

  Japhrimel’s right hand came out from behind his back. Gold glittered in his palm.

  It was a wide round golden medallion, demon runes scored deeply into its soft surface and writhing madly, beginning to burn with clear crimson radiance. Chairs scraped as the assembled demons scrambled to their feet, a collective growl raising itself, plasilica cracking as the windows finally gave up under the onslaught.

  “Game. Set.” Japhrimel’s tone did not alter. “Match.”

  His hand came forward with a sweet economy of motion, and he tossed the gold medallion toward the table. An extension of the motion brought him into an effortless lunge, and I threw myself down and past Zaj, colliding with the iron chair bruising-hard, tipping it over and going down in a tangle of arms and legs with Eve as Japh met the hellhound with a sound like freight transports crashing together.

  The beast was low and sinuous, heat smoking off its glassy obsidian pelt, its eyes a flaming carnivorous orange. It wasn’t like the other hellhounds I’d seen, those smooth basalt creatures with fiery snouts. This one had a longer, pointed muzzle with viciously curved teeth made of volcanic glass, and wings with sharp daggered feathers half-spread as Japhrimel struck it down, gunfire blooming in the sudden screaming chaos. He had both silvery guns out, and twisted in midair, somehow landing lightly as a cat on the table as I made it to my feet, McKinley’s hand sinking into the skein of my hair and doing more than anything else to pull me up. The agent’s fingers slid free as he yelled, the noise swallowing whatever he wanted to say.