Dante Valentine

“You’ll see,” was the calm reply. He brushed past me, heading for the mouth of the alley. “Let me move the dumpster, and we’ll call a cab.”

  “Now you’ll call a cab, where before you had to drag me through the subway?” I chucked my blade free of its sheath, checked the metal. Still bright. Still sharp.

  “It was necessary. Leaving Hell is not the same as entering it, especially for a human. I had to find an entrance you would survive, but falling back into mortality is not so hard.” He stopped, his back to me. “Not so very hard at all.” The light was dim—I’ve been in Hell all afternoon, I thought, and felt an insane giggle bubble up inside me and die away. Why do I always want to laugh at times like this? I wondered. All my life, the insane urge to giggle had popped up at the worst times.

  “Great,” I muttered, shoving the blade back home. “All right, let’s go.”

  He shoved one of the dumpsters aside as easily as I might have moved a footstool. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without keeling over.

  Neon ran over the wet street. Thirty-third and Pole was right in the middle of the Tank District. I wondered if it was a demon joke—but then, there was likely to be a lot of sex and psychoactives floating in the air here. It was probably easier to open a door between here and Hell around that kind of energy charge.

  We splashed through puddles, the demon occasionally falling back to take my elbow and steer me around a corner. He seemed content to just walk silently, and I hurt too much to engage in small talk. I’d ditch him soon enough.

  He hailed a cab at the corner of Thirtieth and Vine, and I fell into the seat gratefully. I gave my address to the driver—a bespectacled, mournful Polish man who hissed a charm against the evil eye when he saw my tattooed cheek. He jangled the antique rosary hanging from his faredeck and addressed all his replies to the demon; he couldn’t see that the demon was more of a threat than little old human me.

  Story of my life. Guy didn’t mind the demon, but would have thrown me out of the cab if he could.

  CHAPTER 8

  Go ahead and make yourself at home,” I said as I locked the door. “There’s beer in the fridge. And wine, if you like that. I’ve got to take a shower.”

  He nodded. “I should speak of Vardimal,” he said. “To familiarize you with—”

  “Later,” I told him. My shoulder twinged. “Hey.”

  He turned back to me.

  “What did he do to me?” I lifted the sword a little, pointing at my left shoulder with the hilt. “Huh?”

  “The Prince of Hell has granted you a familiar, Necromance,” Japhrimel said formally, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked a little like a priest in his long black high-collared coat. I wondered where he hid the guns. I’d never heard of a demon with guns before. I should have studied harder, I suppose. But how the hell was I supposed to know that a demon would show up at my front door? I’m a bloody Necromance, not a Magi!

  “A fam—” My brain started to work again. “Oh, no. I’m not a Magi. I don’t want—”

  “Too late,” he informed me. “Go take your shower, I’ll keep watch.”

  “Keep watch? Nobody knows I’m working for—” I put my back against the door. How did I get into this? I wondered—not for the last time, I might add.

  “Your entry into Hell may have been remarked,” the demon said. “I’ll make coffee.”

  I shook my head and brushed past him, heading for the stairs. “Gods above and below,” I muttered, “what did I do to deserve this?”

  “You have a reputation for being honorable,” the demon supplied helpfully. “And your talents as a Necromance are well-known.”

  I waved a hand over my shoulder at him. “Fine, fine. Just try not to set anything on fire, okay? Be careful with my house.”

  “As my Mistress wishes,” he said. It would have been hard for him to sound more ironic.

  I climbed the stairs, my legs aching. Even my teeth hurt. An hour into this job and I’m already wishing I was on vacation. I had to laugh, trailing my fingers along the painted wall. My sword seemed far heavier than it should be. Halfway up the stairs, under the altar niche, was a stash of three water bottles, and I snagged one. I fumbled in my bag for a salt tablet, took it. Dried sweatsalt crackled on my skin. I probably smelled like I’d been stuck in an oven. It was a miracle I hadn’t been hit with heatstroke.

  I drained the water bottle, dropped my sword on my bed, put my bag inside the bathroom door, and started stripping down. I paused halfway to turn the shower on, and examined my left shoulder in the mirror.

  Pressed into the skin was a sigil I’d never seen before, not one of the Nine Canons I knew. I was no demonologist, so I didn’t know what it meant, exactly. But when I touched it—the glyph shifting uneasily, ropy scar like a burn twisting under my fingertips—I hissed in a sharp breath, closing my eyes against a wave of heat.

  I saw my kitchen as if through a sheet of wavering glass, the familiar objects twisted and shimmering with unearthly light. He was looking at my stove—

  I found myself on my knees, gasping. I’ve read about this, I thought, oddly comforted. I’ve read about seeing through a familiar’s eyes. Breathe, Danny. Breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Been doing it all your life. Just breathe. The tiled floor bit into my knees, my forehead rested against the edge of my bathtub. Steam filled the air. Gods, I thought. So that’s what they’re talking about when they say… oh, man. Heavy shit, dude. Can’t take the scene; gotta bail.

  I’d just been given a demon familiar. Magi everywhere would be salivating—it was the high pursuit of every Magi, to achieve a working relationship with one of the denizens of Hell. I’d never done much in that arena—I had more than enough work to keep me busy inside my own specialty. But occult practitioners are a curious bunch—some of us like to fiddle around with everything when time permits. And a lot of the standard Magi training techniques were shared with other occult disciplines—Shamans, Journeymen, Witches, Ceremonials, Skinlin… and Necromances. After all, Magi had been the ones pursuing occult disciplines since before the Awakening and the Parapsychic Act. So I’d been given something most Magi worked for years to achieve—and I didn’t want it. It only complicated an already fucked-up situation.

  The steam shifted, blowing this way and that. I looked up to see the water running in the shower. I was wasting hot water.

  That got me moving. I stripped off the rest of my clothes with trembling fingers and stepped into the shower, loosing my hair with a sigh. I’ve been dyeing my hair black for years, to fit in with Necromance codes, but sometimes I wondered if I should streak it with some purple or something. Or cut the damn mess off. When I was young and in the Hall, every girl’s hair was trimmed boy-short except for the sexwitches. I suppose growing it out when I reached the Academy was another way of proving I was no longer required to follow any rules other than the professional ones. Purple streaks would look nice on me.

  I’d been mousy blonde at the Hall. Dyeing your hair to fit in with the antiquated dress codes rubbed me the wrong way, but part of being an accredited Necromance was presenting a united front to the world. We were all supposed to look similar, to be instantly recognizable, dark-haired and pale with emeralds on our cheeks and accreditation tats if possible, carrying our swords like Shamans carried their staves.

  Once I retire I’ll let it grow out blonde, maybe, I thought, and then the shock of unreality hit me again. I slumped against the tiled wall, my teeth chattering.

  I traced a glyph for Strength on the tiles with a trembling finger. It flushed red for a moment—I was dangerously close to shock. And if I went into shock, what would the demon do?

  I finished washing up and got out, dried off, and padded into my bedroom, carrying my bag. I was dressed in a few minutes, moving automatically, sticking my feet back into my favorite pair of boots. The mark on my shoulder wasn’t hurting now—it just ached a little, a flare of Power staining through my shielding and marking me like a demon to Sight. Bla
ck diamond spangles whirled through the trademark glitters of a Necromance’s aura, and I could see the mark on my shoulder, a spot of pulsing darkness.

  Great. This will make work so much easier, I thought, and sighed. I needed food. My stomach was rumbling, probably because I’d puked everything out in a backstreet alley. I yawned, scratched under my wet hair, and scooped up my sword, dumping my salt-crusted clothes in the hamper.

  Then I paced over to my file cabinet, passing my hand over the locked drawer. The locks—both electronic and magickal—clicked open, and I dug until I found what I needed. I didn’t give myself any time to think about it.

  The red file. I held it in a trembling hand for a moment and then slammed the drawer shut. Scooped up my bag from the bed and stood for a moment, my knees shaking slightly, my head down, gasping like a racehorse run too hard.

  When I could breathe properly again, I stamped down the stairs, pausing halfway to touch the Anubis statue set in the little shrine tucked in the niche. I’d need to light a candle to him if I survived this.

  I found the demon in my kitchen, contemplating my coffeemaker with a look of abstract horror. It was the closest to a human expression he seemed capable of, with his straight saturnine face. “What?” I asked.

  “You drink freeze-dried?” he asked, as if he just found out I’d been sacrificing babies to Yahweh.

  “I’m not exactly rich, Mr. Creepy,” I informed him. “Why don’t you just materialize some Kona fresh-ground if you’re such a snob?”

  “Would you like me to, Mistress?” There was the faintest suggestion of a sneer in his voice. He was still wearing the long black coat. I took a closer look at him. Long nose, winged cheekbones, strong chin… he wasn’t spectacular like Lucifer, or horrific like the thing in the hall. I shivered reflexively. He looked normal, and that was even more terrifying, once you really thought about it.

  “Just call me Danny,” I mumbled, and stamped over to the freezer, pulling it open. I yanked the canister out. “Here’s the real coffee. I only get this out for friends, so be grateful.”

  “You would call me a friend?” He sounded amazed now. It was a lot less like talking to a robot. I was grateful for that.

  “Not really,” I said. “But I do appreciate you holding me up out of my own puke. I understand you’re just doing what Lucifer tells you and something tells me you don’t like me much, so we’ll have to come to some kind of agreement.” I tossed the canister at him, and he plucked it out of the air with one swift movement. “You’re pretty good,” I admitted. “I’d hate to have to spar with you.”

  He inclined his head slightly, his ink-black hair falling back from his forehead. “My thanks for the compliment. I’ll make coffee.”

  “Good. I’m going to go think about this,” I said, turning my back on him. He looked like a piece of baroque furniture in my sleek, high-tech kitchen. I almost wanted to wait to see if he could figure out the coffeemaker, but I wasn’t that curious. Besides, demons have been fooling with technology for hundreds of years. They’re good at it. Unfortunately for humans, demons don’t like sharing their technology, which is rumored to be spotless and perfect. It occurred to me now that the demons probably were doing now what the Nichtvren had done before the Parapsychic Act—using proxies to control certain biotech or straight-tech corporations. Cloned blood had been a Nichtvren-funded advance; lots of immortal bloodsuckers had grown very rich by being the stockholders and silent partners in several businesses. I guess when you’re faced with eternity, you kind of have to start playing with money to assure yourself a safe nest.

  I carried the file into the living room and collapsed on the couch. My entire body shook, waves of tremors from my crown to my soles. I balanced the file on my stomach, flung my arm over my eyes, and breathed out, my lips slackening. Training took over, brainwaves shifting. I dropped quickly into trance, finding the place inside myself that no genemap or scan would ever show, and was gone almost immediately.

  CHAPTER 9

  Blue crystal walls rose up around me. The Hall was immense, stretching up to dark, starry infinity, plunging down below into the abyss. I walked over the bridge, my footfalls resounding against the stone. My feet were bare—I felt grit on the stone surface, the chill of wet rock, the press of my long hair against my neck. Here, I always wore the white robe of the god’s chosen, belted with silver, the mark on my cheek burning. The emerald flamed, a cocoon of brightness, kept me from being knocked off the bridge and into endless wells of the dark. The living did not come here—except for those like me.

  Necromances.

  On the other side of the bridge the dog waited, sleek and black; His high pointed ears focused forward, sitting back on His haunches. I touched my heart and then my forehead with my right hand, a salute. “Anubis,” I said in the not-dream, and my lips shaped the other sound that was the god’s personal name, that-which-could-not-be-spoken, resonating through me.

  I am the bell, but the god puts His hand upon me and makes me sing.

  I breathed out, the warmth of His comfort descending on me. Here in this refuge I was safe even from Lucifer—demons did not tread in Death. At least, I’d never seen one here.

  Sometimes, especially after a long stint of working one apparition after another, I wanted to stay. Almost needed to stay. No other Necromance could enter my Hall, even those that could speak to Anubis as their psychopomp. Here I was blessedly alone, except for the dead and the god.

  The cipher of the god’s presence in the form of a dog pressed closer. I stroked His head. Silently, I felt Him take the crushing weight of the problem and consider it. Blue crystal walls and floors sang a tone that washed through me, pushing away fear and pain as they always did. The souls of the dead rushed past, crystal draperies fluttering and sliding past the edge into the well of souls, impelled down the great expanse of the ballroom of infinity, I curled my fingers in the dog’s fur and felt a jolt of warmth slide up my arm.

  My left shoulder twinged. The dog looked up, sleek black head inquiring; then nodded, gravely. I found myself laughing. It was all absurd. The demon’s mark did not rob me of my ability to walk in Death. I was under the protection of my patron, the Lord of the Dead, what did I have to fear?

  Nothing.

  I sat straight up, bright metal peeking out between hilt and scabbard. The demon looked down at me, his green eyes subdued now. The file started to slide off my stomach.

  I grabbed for the red file, propping the sword to the side, using the floor to brace the end of the scabbard so I could slide the metal back in. It took me a few moments to get situated, but Jaf waited patiently, then handed me a cup of steaming coffee. “Were you dreaming, or Journeying?” he asked.

  “Neither.” The contact with the psychopomp is private; other Necromances don’t talk or write about it easily—and never to strangers or other psis. I would most definitely not tell this demon about it. I accepted the coffee cup, sniffed delicately at it. Good and strong. He’d even added a little bit of creamer, which is how I like my coffee. “Thanks.”

  He shrugged, folded his hands around the mug he’d chosen. It was the blue one, an interesting choice. Most people chose the white one, a few chose the red geometric TanDurf mug. Only one other person I’d allowed in my house had chosen the blue Baustoh mug.

  Maybe the gods were trying to tell me something.

  I yawned, scrubbed at my eyes, reached over and hooked up the phone. I’m one of the few people left without a vidshell. I don’t want anyone seeing my face unless it’s in person. Call me a Ludder, but I distrusted vidshells. And in the privacy of my home, if I wanted to answer the phone naked it was nobody’s business but mine.

  I keyed in the number. The electronic voice came on, I punched in a few buttons, the program checked my balance and informed me the pizza would be at the door in twenty minutes. I hung up, yawning again. “Pizza’s on its way,” I said. “You can eat human food, right?”

  “I can,” he agreed. “You’re hungry?”
r />   I nodded, took a sip of coffee. It burned my tongue, I made a face, settled the file in my lap. The tapestry hung on my west wall fluttered uneasily, Horus’s eyes shifting back and forth. “I lost lunch and breakfast back in that alley, and I need food or I start talking to dead people.” I shivered. “Without meaning to,” I added. “Anyway, I hope you like pepperoni. Make yourself at home while I take a look at this.”

  He backed away without looking, dropped down in a chair next to a stack of Necromance textbooks holding up a potted euphorbia. Then he just sat, his eyes narrowed, holding the coffee under his nose but not drinking it, watching me.

  I opened the file.

  Seconds ticked by. I really didn’t have the courage to look down yet.

  I sipped at my coffee again, slurping, taking in air to cool it. Then I looked down at the file. There was the grainy police laseprint that made my stomach flipflop—Santino getting out of a car, his long icy-pale hair pulled back and exposing his pointed ears, the vertical black teardrops over his eyes holes of darkness. I shut my eyes.

  “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 shook memory away.

  Last seen in Santiago City, Hegemony, it said, and gave a date five years back. That’s the day Doreen died, I thought, taking another slurp of coffee to cover up my sudden flinch. He could be anywhere in the world by now. He had been using the name Modeus Santino, rich and elusive owner of Andro BioMed… we’d thought he was cosmetically modified; the rich got altered to look like whatever they wanted nowadays. After the murder investigation, we found out Andro BioMed was a front for another corporation. But the paper trail stopped cold, since the parent corporation had filed Andro under the Mob corporate laws, effectively rendering itself anonymous.