Dante Valentine

  I hated the Mob like I hated Chill. It wouldn’t have hurt any of them to tell us where Santino had gone, it wasn’t like we were trying to bring down the Mob as a whole.

  We’d squeezed every Mob connection in town and made ourselves a few enemies and finally had to admit defeat. The ancient law of omerta still reigned even in this technological age. Santino had vanished.

  More pictures.

  Pictures of victims.

  The first one was the worst because the first one was Doreen lying under the photographer’s glare, her legs twisted obscenely aside, her slashed throat an awful gaping smile. Her chest cracked open, her abdominal cavity exposed, her right thigh skinned all the way down to the bone and a chunk of the femur excised by a portable lasecutter. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, but it was still…

  I looked up at the ceiling. Tears pricked behind my eyes.

  Someday someone’s going to find out what a soft touch you are, Danny, Reena’s voice echoed through years. I hadn’t thought of her in a while, no more than I would think of any other deep awful ache. Someone had once accused me of being unfeeling. It wasn’t true—I felt it all the way down to the bone. I just didn’t see any need to advertise it.

  The doorbell rang, chiming through the silent house. I was halfway to my feet before Jaf reached the hallway. I sank back down on the couch, listening. The pizza delivery boy’s voice was a piping tenor—must be the kid with the wheelbike, I thought. The murmur of the demon’s voice replying, and a shocked exclamation from the tenor. Maybe Jaf tipped him, I thought, and forced a shaky smile. I already could smell cheese and cooked crust. Yum.

  The door closed, and a hot stillness took over the house. The demon was checking my house shields. It was faintly rude—he didn’t trust me to have my own house guarded?—but then I set my jaw and turned Doreen’s picture over.

  Santino hadn’t had time to do his usual work-up on Doreen, but there were other pictures, familiar from the case. He had taken different things from each—blood, different organs—but always the femur, or a piece of it. As serial killers went, he was weird only in that he took more numerous trophies than others.

  That had been back when the police could afford my services. I still did a turn every now and again, mostly on cases Gabe was working.

  I owed Gabe. More important, she was my friend.

  He was a demon, I thought. It all makes sense now. Why didn’t he taste like a demon? I wasn’t THAT inexperienced… and why hasn’t Lucifer tracked him down before now?

  I looked up. Jaf stood at the entrance to the living room. My tapestry was shifting madly now, woven strands moving in and out, Horus shimmering, Anubis calm and still, Isis’s arms beckoning. “Why hasn’t Lucifer tracked him down before now?” I asked. “Fifty years is a long time.”

  “Not for us,” he said. “It might as well have been yesterday.”

  “Because only humans were being carved up.” I felt my eyes narrow. “Right?”

  He shrugged. The coat moved on him like a second skin. “We don’t watch every serial killer and criminal in your world,” he said. “We have other ways to spend our time. Our business is with those who want to evolve.”

  “Get some plates for the pizza, please.” I rubbed at my forehead, delicately, with my fingertips. Looked back down at the file.

  A teenage girl’s eviscerated body peered up at me. Her mouth was open, a rictus of terror. They’d called him the Saint City Slasher in the holovids, lingering over each gory detail, theorizing why he took the femurs, plaguing the cops for information.

  I reached for the phone again. Dialed.

  It rang seven times, then picked up. “Mrph. Gaar. Huck.” Sounded like a monkey with horrible bronchitis.

  “Hello, Eddie,” I said. “Is Gabe there?”

  “Murk. Guff. Ack.”

  I took that to mean “yes.” There was the sound of sliding cloth, then Gabriele’s breathless voice. “This had… better be good.”

  “You got some time tonight for me, Spook?” I asked.

  More sliding sounds. A thump. Eddie’s cheated growl. “Danny? What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a lead,” I said. “On the Slasher case.”

  Silence crackled through the phone line. Then Gabe sighed. “Midnight, my place?” She didn’t sound angry. “You know I don’t have time for a wild-goose chase, Danny.”

  “This isn’t a wild-goose chase.” My jaw ached, I was almost grinding my teeth.

  “You have new evidence?” Gabe’s voice changed from “friend” to “cop” in under a heartbeat.

  “Of a sort,” I said. “Nothing that will stand up in court.”

  “Doesn’t follow the rules of paranormal evidence?” She sounded sharp now, sharp and frustrated.

  “Come on, Gabe. Don’t ride my ass.”

  The demon paced into the room, carrying the pizza box and two plates. I nodded at him. He stopped dead, watching me.

  “Fine.” Click of a lighter, long inhale. She must really be pissed. “Come over at midnight. You alone?”

  “No,” I said. I owed her the truth. “I’ve got company.”

  “Living, or dead?”

  “Neither.”

  She took this in. “All right, keep your little secret. Jesus. Fine. Come over around midnight, bring your new thing. We’ll take a look at it. Now leave me alone.”

  “See you soon, Spocarelli.”

  “Fuck you, Dante.” Now she was laughing. I heard Eddie growl another question, and the phone slammed back into the cradle.

  I hung up and looked across at the tapestry. Horus shifted, Isis’s arm raised, palm-out. The great goddess held the ankh to Her chest, protectively. I saw Anubis’s head make a swift downward movement.

  As if catching prey.

  Well, the gods were with me, at least.

  “We’ve got an appointment in two hours with a friend of mine,” I told the demon. “Let’s go over the file together beforehand, so we’re prepared.” Never mind that I’m going to ditch your immortal ass as soon as possible. I had to fight back the urge to giggle again. “Bring the pizza over, share some space.” I patted the couch.

  He paused for just the briefest moment before pacing across the room, settling next to me on the couch. I laid the file aside and flipped the pizza box open. Half pepperoni, half vegetarian—I took a slice of either, plopped it on my plate. “Help yourself, Jaf.” I prodded him, and he took a single slice of pepperoni. Looked at me. “Haven’t you ever had pizza before?”

  He shook his head, dark hair sleek and slicked-back. His face was blank, like a robotic mask. A muscle twitched in his smooth cheek. Had I somehow violated some complicated demon etiquette?

  I folded the vegetarian slice in half, set the open pizza box on the floor, and took a huge bite. Melted cheese, crust, garlic sauce, and chunks of what used to be vegetable matter. “Mmmh,” I said, helpfully. The demon took a bite. He chewed, meditatively, swallowed, then took another bite.

  I swallowed, tore into another chunk. Licked my fingers clean. Hot grease and cheese. The food made me a little more solid, gave me some ballast. I had three slices in me before I started to slow down and really taste it. I alternated between chunks of pizza and long gulps of less-scorching coffee. The demon copied me, and between us, we polished off the whole gigantic pizza. He ate three-quarters of it.

  “You must have been hungry,” I said, finally, licking my fingers clean for the last time. “Damn. That was good.”

  He shrugged. “Unhealthy,” he said, but his green eyes shone. “But yes, very good.”

  “How long has it been for you?” I asked. “I mean, you don’t seem like you get out much, you know.”

  Another shrug. “Mortal years don’t mean that much,” he said, effectively stopping the conversation. I squashed a flare of irritation. Served me right, for getting personal with a demon.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “How about you tell me why Santino doesn’t smell like a demon?”

  “He do
es,” Jaf replied. “Just not the kind that’s allowed out of Hell. Santino’s a scavenger, and a plague, one of the Lower Flight of Hell. But he served the Prince well, and was rewarded for it.” Jaf popped the last bit of crust in his mouth, his eyes half-lidding. “That reward allowed him to eventually escape the Prince’s strictures and come to this world, with the Egg.”

  “So what’s in the Egg?” I might as well ask him now, I thought, I might not get a chance to later.

  “The Prince told you it’s none of your concern,” Jaf said, staring blankly at the pizza box. “Is there more?”

  “What, three-quarters of a gigantor pie isn’t enough for you?” I stared at him. “Why would breaking the Egg be bad?”

  “I’ve rarely had human food,” the demon said, and hunched his shoulders, sinking into the couch. “Vardimal must not be allowed to break the Egg. The repercussions would be exceedingly unpleasant.”

  I blew out a dissatisfied snort. “Like what?” I asked. “Hellfire, brimstone, plagues, what?”

  “Perhaps. Or annihilation for your kind,” he replied. “We like humans. We want them to live—at least, most of us do. Some of us aren’t so sure.”

  “Great.” I toed the empty pizza box. “So what side are you on?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t take sides. The Prince points and says that he wants a death, I kill. No philosophy for me.”

  “So you’re on the Prince’s side.” I wiggled my toes inside my boots, then rocked up to my feet. “You’re hungry, huh? That wasn’t enough?”

  “No.” His mouth twisted down on one side.

  I scooped up the pizza box and my empty coffee cup. “Okay. Let me see what else I’ve got. What else do you know about Santino?”

  He spread his hands, indicating helplessness. “I can give you his Name, written in our language. Other than that, not much.”

  “Then what good are you?” Frustration gave my voice an unaccustomed sharp edge. It’s usually better to speak softly while a Necromance. Some of us tend to affect a whispery tone after a while. I took a deep breath. “Look, you show up at my door, threaten me, beat up six street punks, drag me through Hell, and finish off the job by eating most of the pizza. The least you can do is give me a little help tracking down this demon-who-isn’t.”

  “I can give you his Name, and can track him within a certain distance. Besides, I am to keep you alive,” Japhrimel said. “You might find me useful, after all.”

  “Lucifer said you had a personal stake in this.” I balanced the pizza box in one hand. “Well?”

  He said nothing. His eyelids dropped a millimeter or so more over burning green eyes. Lucifer’s eyes were lighter, I thought, and shivered. Lighter but more awful.

  “You aren’t going to tell me anything,” I said, finally. “You’re just going to try to manipulate me from place to place without telling me anything.”

  Nothing, again. His face might have been carved out of some golden stone and burnished to a matte perfection. It was like having a statue of a priest sitting on my couch.

  That’s the last time I try to be nice to a demon, I thought, said it out loud. “That’s the last time I try to be nice to a demon.” I turned on my heel and stalked away, carrying the empty pizza box. Fucking demons, I thought, rip me away from a nice afternoon spent doing divination and watching the soaps. Now I’ve got a demon to catch and another goddamn demon sitting on my couch and Doreen…

  I folded the pizza box in half, barely noticing. Then I jammed it in the disposer and closed the lid, pressed the black button. “Fucking demons,” I muttered. “Push you from square to square, never tell you a goddamn thing. You can take this job and shove it up your infernal—”

  Dante. A touch like a breath of cool crystal against my cheek.

  I whirled.

  The world spun and wavered like a candle flame. I looked down at my hand on the counter, my fingers long and pale, red molecule-drip polish on my nails glimmering under the full-spectrum lights. Necromances can’t handle high-end fluorescents on a daily basis.

  I could have sworn I heard Doreen’s voice, felt her usual touch on my cheek, her fingernails brushing down toward my jaw.

  My house is shielded to a fare-thee-well; it would take the psychic equivalent of a thermonuclear explosion to get inside.

  A demon could do it, I thought. I blinked.

  My sword was in the other room. The living room. I’d left my blade with a demon.

  I sprinted down the hall and skidded on the hardwood, turning the sharp corner and bolting into the living room. My sword was where I’d left it, leaning against the couch. The demon sat still with his hands upturned on his knees, his eyes half-closed, a sheet of white paper in one golden hand.

  I scooped my sword up and turned on the balls of my feet, metal ringing free from the sheath. Green sparks flashed—my rings were active again, spitting in the charged air. I dropped below conscious thought and scanned.

  Nothing. Nothing there.

  I heard it, I know I heard Doreen’s voice. I know I did. I let out a short choppy breath. I’d heard her voice.

  My sword rang, very softly, in the silence. The metal was blessed and rune-spelled, I’d spent months pouring Power into it, shaping it into a psychic weapon as much as a physical one, sleeping with it, carrying it everywhere until it was like an extension of my arm. Now it spoke, a chiming song of bloodlust and fear filling the steel, pushing outward in ripples to touch the defenses on my house, making them shiver slightly.

  My left shoulder twinged sharply. I glared at the demon, who still hadn’t moved.

  “Are you expecting a battle?” he asked, finally.

  A single drop of sweat rolled down my spine, soaked into the waistband of my jeans. I tried to look everywhere at once.

  I heard it. I know I did.

  I sheathed my sword, backed up toward my altar, scooped up my bag, and slid it over my head. I needed my knives, would have to go upstairs.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I told him. “Someone’s playing games with me, and I don’t like it. I hate being played with.”

  “I am not playing,” he told me. He sounded robotic again.

  “You wouldn’t tell me if you were,” I pointed out, and backed out of the room. Looks like I’ll be ditching him right about now, I thought. Christ, I’m going to have to leave a demon in my house. This really sucks.

  I made it up the stairs and had my knives on in less than twenty seconds. Then, carrying my sword, I padded to my bedroom window. The chestnut tree that shaded my window had a convenient branch I could drop from.

  I had the window open and my foot out when Jaf’s hand closed around the back of my neck. “Going somewhere?” he asked in my ear. His fingers were hard, and too hot to be human.

  Oh, no, I thought.

  CHAPTER 10

  I wanted to walk to Gabe’s, and the demon had no preference either way. So we walked. The rain had stopped, and the pavement gleamed wet. At least it wasn’t darkmoon—that would have been bad all the way around. I get cranky around darkmoon, even with the Espo patch to interrupt my menstrual cycle and keep me from bleeding while I’m on a bounty or just can’t be bothered.

  I stole glances at the demon as we walked down Trivisidiro Street. Gabe’s house was in a bad part of town, but she still had the high stone walls that her great-great-something-or-another had put up. The real defenses were Gabe’s shields and Eddie’s rage. Not even a Chill junkie would intrude on a house held by a Skinlin and a Necromance. Skinlin were mostly concerned with growing things, the modern equivalent of kitchen witches; most of them worked for biotech firms getting plants to give up cures for ever-mutating diseases and splicing together plant DNA with magick or complicated procedures. Skinlin are as rare as sedayeen but not as rare as Necromances; most psions are Shamans. Another hot debate between the Ceremonials and Magi and genetic scientists: Why were Necromances and sedayeen so rare?

  The only real drawback to Skinlin is that they are berserkers in
a fight; a dirtwitch in a rage is like a Chillfreak—they don’t stop even when wounded. And Eddie was fast and mean even for a dirtwitch.

  The demon said nothing, just paced alongside me with even unhurried strides. It was uncomfortably like walking next to a big wild animal.

  Not that I’d ever seen a big wild animal, but still.

  I lasted until the corner of Trivisidiro and Fifteenth. “Look,” I said, “don’t hold it against me. You can’t blame me for being cautious. You’re just here to yank my chain and take this Egg thing back to Lucifer, leaving me in the dust and probably facing down Santino alone to boot. Why shouldn’t I be careful?”

  He said nothing. Laser-bright eyes glittered under straight eyebrows. His golden cheeks were hairless and perfect—demons didn’t need to shave. Or did they? Nobody knew. It wasn’t the sort of question you asked them.

  “Hello?” I snapped my fingers. “Anyone in there?”

  He still said nothing.

  I sighed, and looked down at my feet, obediently stepping one after another on the cracked pavement. We had to wait for the light here, Trivisidiro was a major artery for streetside hover and pedicab traffic. “All right,” I finally admitted, while we waited for the light. “I’m sorry. There. You happy?”

  “You chatter too much,” he said.

  “Fuck you too,” was my graceless and reflexive reply. The light changed, and I didn’t look, just stepped off the curb, already planning how to ditch him after Gabe’s house.

  My left shoulder gave one hot flare of agony. His hand closed around my arm and jerked me back as a warm rush of air blasted up the street. The telltale whine of hovercells crested, and a sleek silver passenger hover jetted past, going well over the speed limit, a sonic wash of antipolice shielding making me cringe.

  I should have sensed that, I thought.

  I ended up breathless and stunned, staring after the car. Sooner or later a cop cruiser would lock onto it and the driver would end up with a ticket, but right now my skin tingled and roughened with gooseflesh. The demon’s fingers unloosed from my arm, one by one.