Dante Valentine

  “Fuck.” Jace yawned, stretched. He stripped wheat-gold hair back from his face, yanked his shirt down, and shrugged into his assassin’s rig. Oiled, supple leather; guns, knives—my own hands moved automatically. My right hand throbbed uneasily until I shook it out, joints cracking and popping. I ducked my head through the strap of my black canvas bag and had to stop, taking another deep breath, settling the strap diagonally across my body.

  Maybe it was another bounty. I hoped it was another bounty. A big one, a complex one, one that would keep me occupied with the next thing to be done, and the next, and the next.

  It didn’t matter. I jerked my coat from its hook, shrugged into it. My two main knives rode in their sheaths; the guns easy and loose in my rig, and my rings popped a few more golden sparks. Familiar excitement mixed with dread deep in my belly, tainted the air I blew out between my teeth.

  “Did she say anything else?” Jace rubbed his face, yawning again. His aura rippled, the spiky darkness of a Shaman prickling the air. My own cloak of energy responded, singing an almost-audible answer. “I mean, do I need to bring the rifle?”

  “No.” I plunged my fingers in my bag and checked for extra ammo clips, the plasgun didn’t need them but the projectile weapons did. Sunlight glowed under the edges of my bedroom blinds; I felt logy and slow, as I usually did during the day. “Just your staff. If she needed your rifle she wouldn’t have dialed, she’d have shown up personally.”

  “Good point.” How did the man sound so casually amused, especially after drinking three quarters of a bottle of Chivas Red? I could still smell the sourness of his body and Power metabolizing the alcohol, running through the depressant, converting the sugars. “Fuck. I think I’m still drunk, Danny.”

  “Good.” I stuffed another two ammo clips into my bag. It pays to be prepared. “That’ll keep you relaxed. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Late-afternoon sun made Jace’s hair glow like a furnace. I blinked, rubbing at my eyes, and slid out of the cab while Jace finished paying the bespectacled cabby. The man had taken a fifty-credit tip to get us to the Saint City South station in record time. My stomach was still churning. Thank the gods part-demons didn’t throw up often.

  Or at least, I didn’t, and I was the only one I knew of. It made sweeping generalizations a whole lot easier. I’ve never been a fan of sweeping generalizations, but I’m all in favor of efficiency.

  Jace clambered out, stood next to me as the cab lifted off and zipped into the traffic lanes, its underside glowing with hovercells and reactive paint. I took a deep breath of the stink that passed for air in Saint City, full of the effluvia of dying cells, the cloying smell of decay—my nose wanted to wrinkle. I let out a short whistle, my rings swirling with steady light.

  “Would you look at that.” Jace scratched at his hairline with blunt fingers. He tapped his staff once, sharply, on the sidewalk pavement, making a sound like two antique billiard balls smacking together.

  Gabriele Spocarelli was waiting for us. She stood on the steps of the police station, a short woman, slim and graceful as a ballai dancer, her sleek dark hair cut in a short bob that framed her classically pretty face. There was a faint shadow of crow’s-feet at the edges of her dark eyes, and her air of serene precision had deepened—if that was possible. A cigarette hung from the corner of her chiseled mouth, unlit.

  Yep. She’s not happy. If she’d lit the cigarette it would have been different. But unlit cigarette plus strained, tense shoulders and an aura singing with blue-violet under its Necromance sparkles all added up to a very unhappy Gabriele.

  Her emerald flashed a greeting. The tattoo on her left cheek shifted slightly, inked lines running on her pale skin. My left cheek burned, the emerald flickering in response, sending an electric zing all the way down to my neckbones. Power shifted, stained the air with electricity.

  I approached cautiously, my right hand starting to ache. It was a normal ache, so I ignored it. She watched us both come up the steps, unmoving, her aura flushed a deep purple-red like a bruise.

  Nope. Gabe was not amused.

  “Well,” Jace said from behind me. “Still as pretty as ever, Spooky. How’s Eddie?”

  “Monroe.” She tilted her head slightly, the only mark of respect she’d give him. Neither she nor Eddie had forgiven Jace his treachery, his connection to the demon who had killed Doreen and damn near killed me as well—but they were civil for my sake. I’d only presided over one short, strained meeting six months ago, where we hashed out that nobody was going to kill anyone else and all accounts balanced. Jace hadn’t known that the head of the Mob Family he’d run from was Vardimal Santino, and just this once, we agreed, the circumstances were extraordinary enough that Jace could get a pass.

  Well, Gabe and I had agreed. Eddie simply glowered and quit threatening to kill him. We were all a lot happier when just Gabe and I met at Fa Choy’s once a week.

  Gabe’s eyes cut away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. “Sends his greetings. You made good time.”

  I shrugged. “What good are ill-gotten gains if you can’t use ’em?” The sunlight blurred as my pupils reacted, squeezing down to pinpricks. That was one thing about having excellent demon vision—bright lights were more painful than ever. “What’s up? I assume you didn’t call me out here to stand around chatting.”

  “Fuck you too.” She tore the unlit cigarette out of her mouth and tossed it into the trash-laden gutter, maybe for effect, maybe because she was too upset to remember she hadn’t lit it. If it was a gesture, it was a grand one; my mouth curled up in an unwonted smile, my cheek burning as the tattoo settled again. “Come on up.”

  We followed her up the steps and into the police station. Old blue linoleum flecked with little sparkles squeaked underfoot. Fluorescents buzzed—they didn’t have the budget for full-spectrum lights in the halls where normals worked, and I shuddered at the thought of working under that soulless light day after day. I followed at Gabe’s iron-straight back and felt my hands shake slightly with the urge to touch a knifehilt, caress the smooth butt of a gun. It wasn’t like her to be rude. It doubly wasn’t like her to call and demand my presence. We met once a week, when I wasn’t out chasing bad guys, had dinner, carefully didn’t talk about Nuevo Rio or demons. Instead, we traded stories about bounties, bullshitted, and kept a careful distance that was as welcome as it was teeth-grindingly annoying. But I couldn’t complain. The distance was there because of me.

  Because of what I’d become.

  My back prickled slightly, uneasy; fine hairs rising on my nape and the coppery tang of demon adrenaline in my mouth. I could feel it trembling on the edges of my awareness, the scorching smell of fate like the kick of hard liquor against the back of my throat.

  Just like a bounty.

  Up on the third floor, the Spook Squad hung out. They weren’t chained in the basement like in the old days—no, now the parapsychic arm of law enforcement had corner offices, a good budget, and decent equipment at last. Computer decks hummed on desks buried under drifts of paperwork, full-spectrum lamps sat on every desk. I saw a Shaman with a staff made of twisted ironwood prop his boots on his desk, leaning back in his chair, his aura swirling red-orange; three Ceremonials clustered at the watercooler, laughing about something. All three of them wore sidearms—police-issue plasguns—and long black synthwool coats, their accreditation tattoos shifting on their cheeks. The air resonated with Power, my rings sparked again. Heads turned as I followed Gabe.

  They weren’t stupid and head-dead like normals. Even if they couldn’t name what it was, they could see the twisting black-diamond patterns staining my aura like geometric flames.

  Part-demon. Unique, even among psions. I could have done without the honor.

  We reached Gabe’s cubicle, and she dropped into her cushioned ergonomic chair. She pointed at the two folding chairs on the other side of her desk. “Take a load off.” Her mouth turned into a hard line. The expression didn’t do anything for h
er pretty face, but it would take a lot more than that to make Gabe look ugly. “You want some coffee?”

  I shook my head. My braid tapped against my back. “Jace?”

  “Chango, I need a beer.” He shook his head, leaning his staff against the cubicle wall. The bones tied to the raffia twine crowning the length of oak clacked uneasily. “But no. What the hell’s goin’ on, Spooky?”

  “I’ve got a case.” Her voice was pitched low and fierce. “I need you, Danny.”

  Now I wasn’t just uneasy. I was heading into full-blown alarmed. “What for?” I was curious too. It wasn’t like her to pussyfoot.

  She pushed the file toward me. There were only one or two clear spots, the rest of the desk taken up with paperwork, a nice custom Pentath computer deck, an inlaid-wood box that probably held a mismatched double set of tarot cards (Gabe was secondarily talented as a tarot witch), an in-box buried under more paper, and two dusty, full bottles of brandy perched precariously near the edge. “Take a look.”

  I sighed, scooped up the file. “You’re a real lady of mystery, aren’t you.” Flipped it open, the smooth manila giving under my black-painted nails. My back wasn’t crawling with gooseflesh—for some reason my new demon body didn’t have the reflex—but the sensation of prickling on my skin still remained, a human sensation I would have been glad for if it hadn’t been so creepy. To feel goosebumps rising under your skin but unable to press through to the surface is weird, like a phantom limb complete with ghost pain and a reflexive shudder.

  They were homicide lasephotos. Of course—Gabe was a Necromance. What else?

  The first photo was of a man. Or I assumed it was a man, once I took a closer look at the shape. “Anubis,” I breathed, as the shapes snapped into a horrible picture behind my eyes. The worst part wasn’t the loops of intestine or the pool of blood. The worst part was one outflung hand, unwounded, the fingers clutching air. The arm was a mess of meat flayed off the glaring-white bone.

  Gods above, that’s gruesome. “Gods above. When was this?”

  “Four months ago. Keep going.”

  Jace shifted slightly, his chair squeaking. He knew better than to ask. I’d give him the file when I was good and done.

  I flipped through a coroner’s report, a standard parapsych incident report, the homicide report, neatly laseprinted. No real leads, nothing of much interest except the savagery. Finally, I looked up at Gabe. “Well?”

  She pushed another file across her desk. With a sinking heart I handed the first one to Jace and took the second; Gabe’s eyes were dead level and gave nothing away. “This one’s about eight weeks old.”

  Jace whistled out through his teeth, a long low note. “Damn.” From someone who had seen the type of carnage Jace Monroe had, it was almost a compliment.

  I flipped open the second file. “Fuck.” My voice held disgust and just a trace of something stronger—maybe fear. Paper stirred uneasily on her desk, stroked into motion by the tension in the air.

  This one was even worse, if it were possible. The body lay, exposed and raw, spread-eagled on what appeared to be a cement floor. “Look past the body.” Gabe’s tone was soft, respectful of the corpse on the two-dimensional glossy paper.

  It was hard, but I did. I saw the blurred edges of a chalk diagram, right at the very margin of the photo. I flipped to the next one—the photographer had pulled back, and I could see the chalk lines clearly. It was a double circle, inscribed with fluid spiky runes that twisted from one form to another even as I watched. Even through the lasephoto they seemed to hum with malignant force. They weren’t symbols I knew.

  That’s not from the Nine Canons, I thought, and my skin seemed to roughen with gooseflesh again. I was secondarily talented as a runewitch, and the runes that made up the acceptable and studied branches of rune magick were mostly instantly-recognizable to me. Most psions have a good working knowledge of the Canons, since runes have been used since before the Awakening, when psionic and magickal power began to be a lot more reliable and a lot stronger in certain talented humans. A rune used for so many years, for so many psions, is a good shortcut when you need a quick and dirty spell effect. Not to mention the Major Works of magick that required perfect performance of drawing, defining, naming, and charging runes.

  I reached up with my aching right hand and touched my left shoulder, massaging at the constant cold ache of the demon glyph through my shirt. “Looks like Ceremonial work, the double circle and runes.” My eyes moved over the picture. A pile of something wrinkled lay off to one side. “Is that what I think…” Don’t. Don’t tell me it is.

  “The fucker flayed her.” Gabe pushed another file at me. My gorge rose, I squeezed it back down. I don’t throw up, I reminded myself. I hate throwing up.

  I was grateful that thirty years of that habit was hard to break. I scanned the remainder of the second file and handed it to Jace. Then I took the third one.

  “This one was last night,” Gabe said tightly. “Brace yourself, Danny.”

  I opened the file and felt all the blood drain from my face.

  Gabe watched me, dry-eyed and fierce. Her tension stirred the dust in her office, made it swirl in graceful patterns in the climate-controlled air. This keyed-up, with the sharp powerful scent of Power on her, she smelled like pepper and musk. It wasn’t so bad, not like the usual human stink. I’d toyed with the idea of becoming a Tester to keep my hand in, since I could now smell Power and psionic talent instead of just seeing and feeling it with human senses. That sort of work wouldn’t give me an adrenaline jag and keep me from thinking, so the application papers still lay on top of my laseprinter, half-finished.

  It can’t be. I turned to the coroner’s report. There it was in black and white, the name of the victim who had been dismembered in the middle of a circle, bones and gristle and muscle torn into unrecognizable shapes, a murder of exceeding savagery all the more chilling because it was done to a psion like me. However shattered and wrecked the body was, there was just enough of her face for me to recognize.

  Christabel Moorcock.

  A Necromance.

  Like me.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sekhmet sa’es,” I breathed, looking down at the photographs. “This is…”

  “Does it look familiar, Danny? You’re way into scholarship these days, can’t drag your nose out of books when you’re not out trying to kill yourself with bounties. Does it look like anything you’ve read about? Seen before?” Gabe’s eyebrows drew together, her mouth tight. She pulled out another cigarette and tucked it behind her ear, the slight smell of dry synth hash mixing with the aroma of the citronel shampoo she used.

  I stared at the picture, my eyes heavy and grainy. “No. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve been studying demons, old legends, Magi stuff. When I’m not working bounties.” Tore my eyes away from the pitiless image. “But that’s not why you called me down here.”

  Gabe’s voice was heavy. “We’ve got Christabel down in the morgue. I need you to bring her out so I can question her.”

  Jace went completely still beside me. On any other day I might have found that funny. Or touching.

  I swallowed bitterness. Rubbed at my left shoulder as if trying to scrub the scar away with my shirt. “Gabe…” I sounded like I’d been punched breathless.

  There wasn’t much on earth that could hurt me these days, not since Japh had changed me. Changed, genespliced, molded into something new—but my heart was still human. It pounded under a tough, flexible cage of ribs, my pulse thready in my wrists and throat. Pounding so hard I felt a little faint.

  “I know it’s hard for you,” Gabe continued. “Since… since Rio. Please, Danny. I can’t do it, I’ve tried, there’s just… not enough body. Or some kind of wall, some barrier. I can’t do it. You can. Please.”

  I stared at the photo. I hadn’t gone into Death for ten months.

  Not since Nuevo Rio, hunched on a wide, white blazing-stone plaza running with sunlight, sobbing as I prayed. I r
emembered cinnamon smoke drifting in the air, as the demon’s body in my arms crumbled bit by bit.

  That was a memory I usually kept to torment myself during long, slow daylight while I tried to sleep. I shoved it away, shut my eyes, opened them again. Shapes jumbled in front of me, my vision blurring. My god still accepted my offerings, but I had not gone into His halls.

  Sekhmet sa’es, Danny, call it what it is. My heart pounded thinly, my eyes unfocused. You’re afraid that if you go into Death, Japhrimel might be waiting for you.

  “Danny?” The concern in Jace’s voice was also equally amusing and touching. Did he think I was going to pass out? Start to scream?

  Was I? I felt close. Damn close.

  I blinked. I was staring at the photo. Gabe was sweating now, tendrils of her sleek dark hair sticking to her forehead. The temperature in the room had gone up at least ten degrees. The climate control would kick on soon and blow frigid air through the vents. Power blurred out from my skin, Power and heat and a smoky fragrance of demon. Tierce Japhrimel had smelled like amber musk and burning cinnamon; I smelled like fresh cinnamon and a lighter musk. Demon lite, half the Power, all the nasty attitude, the humorous voice that accompanied bad news rang out inside my head.

  I felt my chest constrict as the vision rose in front of me—ash drifting up from white marble, a hot breeze lifting smudges and scatters of it. Ash and the single, restrained curve of a black urn, left as a final cruel joke.

  My right hand twisted into a claw.

  I owed her too much to easily walk away from. Gabe was old-school. She’d gone with me into hell and nearly been eviscerated on the way. She hadn’t ever uttered a word of anger at my rudeness or my distance or about the fact that she’d almost died because of my hellbent need for revenge on Santino. Or about the fact that I held her at arm’s length, refusing to talk about Rio or demons or anything else of any real importance that lay in the air between us, charged and ready to leap free.