The Devil s Right Hand

  He ordered in a clicking tongue that sounded like Old Manchu. I frowned at the shiny plasilica tabletop, tapping my right-hand fingernails with little insectile ticking sounds. The problem boiled and bubbled away under the conscious surface of my mind, sooner or later I’d hit the answer. Half of any problem, especially for a psion, is simply trusting intuition to do its work.

  Of course, sometimes intuition only kicks in too god-damn late and you figure everything out as you’re neck-deep in quicksand. I winced inwardly at the thought.

  The Asiano bowed slightly and hurried away, her slippers hushing over the slick linoleum. Japhrimel’s glowing eyes met mine. “The Prince can trust you, Dante. You are honorable. I, however, have bargained with him in the past. I am known to be somewhat . . . unruly.”

  Lucifer can trust me? I thought my eyebrows couldn’t get any higher. “You? Unruly?”

  “I won my freedom, did I not? And I am Fallen. That means I am dangerous.”

  “Why? What’s the big deal? You won’t tell me anything about the Fallen, and you complain when I try to research it on my own. Why are you suddenly so dangerous to Lucifer?” Just one little shred of information, Japh. It won’t kill you.

  “Why do you think he destroyed the original Fallen? They were a direct threat to his supremacy on earth. It was only a matter of time before a Fallen and his hedaira conceived an Androgyne. Then . . . who knows?”

  Oh. I swallowed dryly. Lucifer controlled reproduction in Hell, and the Androgynes were the only demons capable of reproducing. Santino’s creation of Eve had been a blow to Lucifer’s power, one he couldn’t cover up or simply ignore. Hence Lucifer’s throwing me into the snakepit the first time.

  The waitress came back with heavy real-china teacups, poured us both fragrant jasmine tea with shaking hands. She set the pot down and retreated in a hurry, her bowl-cut black hair shining under the fluorescent lights.

  “Why didn’t Lucifer kill us both when you . . . Fell?” I didn’t expect him to answer.

  He surprised me once again. “I suspect he thought he might have further use for us. In any case, I know better than to try to breed.” Japhrimel’s eyes dropped to the tabletop.

  The steam rising from my teacup took on angular, twisting shapes. I cleared my throat. There had only been one time in my life that I’d even contemplated having children, and that time was long past. Still. . . . “What if I wanted to breed?”

  I felt his eyes on me, but I looked at my teacup. Silence stretched between us.

  “Never mind,” I said hurriedly. “Look, let’s just focus on one problem at a time. We should get everyone out of that damn hotel and into a safer place. Then we can start figuring out which demon’s here in New Prague and what he’s likely to be planning.”

  “Do you want children, Dante?”

  He could turn on a red credit’s thin edge. No more sarcasm. Instead, his tone was quiet and level. Of all the varied shades of his voice, I liked this one best. I stared at my teacup, willing the lump in my throat to go away.

  “No,” I said finally. “I have enough trouble trying to deal with you.”

  That made him laugh, a sound that chattered the teacups against the table. I stole a quick glance at him; looked back down at the table. I knew every line and curve of his face, almost every inch of his skin. It wasn’t enough—I wanted to know what was going on behind those glowing green eyes, under that perfect poreless golden skin, behind that face that wasn’t as gorgeous as Lucifer’s but somehow enough for me, beautiful the way a katana’s deadly curve was beautiful.

  I wanted inside. I wanted to crawl inside his head and know for sure that he wouldn’t abandon me.

  “Japhrimel.” My voice cut through his laughter. “What gave you the brilliant idea to bargain for a demon’s Power again?”

  He sighed, shaking his head. His hair was almost longer than mine now, falling over his eyes in a soft shelf. “I wanted it for one simple reason. To protect you, Dante. A hedaira is only as safe as her A’nankhimel can make her.” It had the quality of a proverb, recited more than once.

  Way to seize the moment, Japh. “I thought you said there weren’t many demons who could threaten you, even Fallen.”

  “After we are done killing for the Prince, he may find us expendable.” Japhrimel’s tone had turned chill. “If that happens, I want every iota of Power I can possibly gather. I will not give you up. Not to Lucifer, not to your own folly—and not to your precious Death either. Therefore, I saw a chance and took it. It was not premeditated.”

  I stole another glance at his face. He looked over my shoulder, his eyes moving in a smooth arc. His right hand, resting on the table, had curled into a fist.

  “Oh.” I certainly couldn’t argue with my own continued survival. “Well. That was a good idea, then, I guess.”

  He said nothing, but his eyes met mine. It was just a flash, but I could have sworn he looked grateful.

  The woman arrived with the food—beef and noodles for me, a plate of something that looked like egg rolls for Japhrimel, who thanked her courteously. I scooped up a pair of plasilica chopsticks and set to with a will.

  He didn’t touch his food.

  I looked over his shoulder, through the windows at the street. Marked traffic. Uneasiness returned like a precognition, swirling around me. I finished a mouthful of noodles, took a sip of tea. “So what do you think is going on? You have any ideas about these demons? Anything that might be useful?”

  He moved finally, spreading his hands against the tabletop. “Enough to begin hunting, and enough to understand there is another game being played here.”

  I caught a bit of beef with my chopsticks. It was a relief to be able to eat with my right hand again. And it was nice to be in a Freetown, where you could be reasonably sure the meat wasn’t protein substitute. Substitute is a good thing, but it leaves me still hungry, as if I haven’t eaten real food. “What kind of game? Lucifer seemed to blame me for not knowing he was asking for me, too. What was that all about?”

  “You were vulnerable. He could have broken you, Dante.” Japhrimel paused. “He still might.”

  It was time for a subject change; not only was he not answering the question I asked, but he was telling me something I already knew. I lifted up my left hand, the wristcuff glittering in a stray reflection of light from the street outside as I took another slurping mouthful of noodles. “Mind telling me what this is?”

  He shrugged, his eyes dropping back down to his plate. I didn’t think he was going to eat any of the eggrolls—after all, he didn’t need human food—but I was wrong. He picked one up, bit into it. “A demon artifact,” he said after he finished chewing. If I hadn’t thought him incapable of nervousness, I would have thought he was actually stalling.

  I waited, but that seemed all he would say. “Meaning what? What does it do?”

  His tone was quiet. “I don’t know what it will do for you.”

  Or to you. The unspoken codicil hung in the air.

  I looked down at my soup. It was the damnedest thing. I’d have sworn I was hungry. Ravenous. But all of a sudden I’d lost my appetite. A chill prickled down my back. “Do you have a datpilot code for any of the others?” My eyes flicked over the front window, tracking a stray dart of light; it was a reflection off an airbike’s polished surface. I looked back at Japhrimel, uneasiness turning my stomach over.

  He didn’t look surprised. “You wish to contact them?”

  “I want to tell them to get out of there now. I don’t like this. My neck’s prickling.”

  Japhrimel reached under the table, for all the world as if digging in a pocket. If I didn’t know what his coat was made of, I would have believed the pretense. He extracted a sleek black datphone from under the table, pressed a button, and lifted it to his ear.

  I looked back over his shoulder. The unease crystallized as I heard him murmur in what sounded like Franje. A true linguistic wonder, my Fallen.

  I slid out of the booth, gaining my
feet in one smooth movement. My thumb clicked the sword free of the sheath’s embrace. I heard a gasp from a normal behind the counter, ignored it.

  Japhrimel looked up, his hair falling over his eyes. “Dante?”

  “Are they getting out?”

  “Of course. I respect your instincts. I suppose this means we won’t finish lunch?” Damn him, he was back to sounding amused.

  “I’ll pay.” I meant it, too; but he rose from the booth like a dark wave, tossing a few New Credit notes down. Of course, money means less than nothing to a demon, he never seemed to need it but it appeared whenever there was any question.

  “My pleasure. What do you sense?”

  “I’m not sure. Not yet.” But I will be soon. The precognition rose through dark water, aiming for me . . . and passed by, circling. If I could just relax, the vision would come to me. Precog isn’t my strongest talent; it’s only spotty at best. But when it comes it’s something to be reckoned with, for all that it usually comes too late.

  The first dark, rain-heavy clouds slid over the sun. Shadow crawled over the street, hoverwhine rising and settling in my back teeth, the vision of something about to happen jittering under my skin. I didn’t need to look down at the wristcuff to know it was glowing green. Me and the fashionable accessories. My skin crawled at the thought that Lucifer had given this to me and I had blindly put it on.

  I met Japhrimel’s eyes for a long moment. It was a relief that I still could, despite their radioactive green. “Out on the street, Japh. Move low and silent.” I thought about it for a second. “And kill anyone who moves on us,” I added judiciously.

  “Of course.” He sounded calm enough, but the mark on my shoulder flared again, velvet smoothing down my skin as another wave of demon-fed Power pulsed through the air between us.

  I really wish I could decide if I like that.

  A few desultory spatters of rain pawed at the crowd as we made our way slowly down the sidewalk, heading on a winding course back to the hotel through the Stare Mesto’s narrow, ancient streets. I wanted to give the others plenty of time to get the hell out of there, I didn’t want any of them catching blowback from a strike aimed at me.

  That was mostly why I work alone. I don’t want anyone else paying for my fuckups. Hell, I don’t even want to pay for my fuckups.

  Too bad that’s part of living.

  I would have liked a long, leisurely brooding lunch over some beef soup, but that wasn’t meant to be. We were halfway back to the hotel when I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, the hair raising on the back of my naked neck, something wrong I couldn’t quite figure out until I glanced up instinctively, checking the hovertraffic.

  And the big, oddly silent silver hover bearing down on us.

  Well, isn’t that creative. Smash us with a hover.

  Then I thought of something else—the imp, screaming as it turned into a bubbling streak on the greasy slide of reactive paint. What would the thick glowing layer of reactive on the bottom of a hover do to Japh?

  My heart thudded into my throat, lodged there. I glanced back at Japhrimel, who was looking up with an amused expression on his face, opening his mouth to speak just as I gathered myself and leapt, my boots connecting solidly to kick him back, sending him flying as a plascannon bolt smashed into the hover and the soundless white flare of reaction fire exploded against my eyelids.

  The burning tore through my entire body. I hoped I’d thrown Japhrimel clear enough that the reactive wouldn’t affect him.

  25

  Gray. Everything gray. Shot through with veins of white flame.

  The burning. Everywhere, burning. Creeping fire. Every inch of skin, inside my eyelids, the sensitive canals of my ears burning, burning, my mouth burning. Teeth turned to molten chips. Burning.

  Screaming. A raw agonized voice I barely recognized, breaking on a high note of suffering.

  My own.

  Cheek on fire. Emerald. My emerald. But no blue fire, no hovering of Death.

  Wasn’t I dead? At last?

  “Hold that.” Quiet, a male voice I didn’t recognize, breaking through my agonized cry. “Goddammit, hold it, she’s not dead. Don’t know where she is, but she isn’t dead yet.”

  Power, flaring out of my control. Sound of smashing plasglass. No blue glow. Only a ragged chant, nailing me in my body, a voice I didn’t recognize.

  Funny, every other time I’d been this hurt I’d gone into Death and begged the god to take me.

  How hurt was I?

  It hurt. It hurt. It tore along every nerve, worked inward, creeping up my arms and legs like the slow icy crawl of Death. But something fought it—my left arm, braceleted and shoulder-torn in agony, sending out waves of fiery cold, fighting with the other pain for control of me. Back and forth, tearing at me until I screamed, thrashing.

  Caught. Held, my arms and legs stretched as I convulsed again.

  “Stop.” Japhrimel’s voice was ragged. “Give me another unit.”

  A splash against my skin. A collective gasp. “More. As your gods love you, if you do not wish my wrath, more.”

  Chanting, a Necromance’s chant; I didn’t recognize the voice behind it. But I wasn’t dead. No blue fire, no god of Death. Nothing but the ragged breathless male voice chanting, and the agony, tearing at my skin, working inward, collecting in every joint and rending tender tissues. Motion, spiked air dragging against my nerves, I was being taken somewhere. Or was the world just spinning away underneath me?

  Flesh moving on my bones, literally crawling. Crawling as the chant melded with Power to knit together shattered and burned skin and muscle. Warmth, then, forced down my throat. Someone massaging my neck. Making me swallow. It burned all the way down, fire exploding out from the inside now as well as burrowing into my skin from the outside.

  “More,” Japhrimel said again. His tone had smoothed out. He no longer sounded ready to kill. That was good, I felt queerly unable to move, couldn’t talk to calm him down.

  Rich wet scent of rain. Was I outside? No, the air was too still. Another storm approaching?

  There always is. A deep voice worked its way up through my racked brain. The voice of my instincts, quiet and sure.

  “She’ll live.” The colorless voice that had been chanting, slow and slurred now. Tired, with a weariness that drew down to the bone.

  “Help him, Tiens. McKinley?” Japhrimel’s voice, chill and hurtful, impossible to disobey. He’d never spoken like that to me, and I was grateful.

  “Here.” McKinley’s voice, soft and respectful.

  “Question the humans. Get even the smallest piece of information. Do not fail me.”

  “Of course not.” McKinley’s low voice. I struggled, thrashing weakly, a hand closed around my wrist. Sharp inhale.

  My body convulsed, a small weak sound torn from my lips.

  “The Magi. What does he have?”

  “He says it’s close. That’s all.” Bella’s voice, quivering. She sounds so young. Did I ever sound that young? What is she doing involved with this?

  “Not enough. Go back to work.”

  “He needs sleep, he’s exhausted. The countermeasures are—”

  “Take what you need, but beware. Time is of the essence. Go.” Dismissive. Again, a tone he’d never used on me.

  Footsteps retreating. “Gods.” I heard my voice crack, hoarse and shattered. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Gods. What happened?”

  “First time I’ve ever seen a woman take on a hover,” Lucas said, his voice wheezing and terrible with amusement. “It was loaded with reactive. Lovely. We’re going to have the Freetowners crawling up our ass.”

  “The damage was contained,” Japhrimel snarled. “What more do they want?”

  Lucas was silent. Probably wise of him.

  “More blood,” Japhrimel said, his voice stony. Light pierced my eyes. It hurt.

  I whimpered.

  “Easy, hedaira.” Something stroking my burning forehead. Ice-cold finge
rs, painful but also strangely comforting. Thank the gods, his voice was softer now, no trace of that chill hurtfulness. He sounded like himself again. “Let me work. You will not be scarred.”

  “The hover—reactive—Japhrimel—”

  “Just because it affects an imp does not mean it will affect me. Now lie still.”

  “Japh—” I struggled with my unwieldy body. The reactive—the vision of the imp bubbling and screaming into a grease stain on the reactive rose again. “Japhrimel—”

  “I am well enough. Ease yourself.”

  Relief. I collapsed, hearing a slight whistling sound as I let my breath out. “I’m not hurt,” I managed, despite the awful burning sensation. It was no longer blind white agony, only a hard, sharp weight against my nerves. Like the touch of sun on already-burned skin. Or the awful creeping rash of slagfever. “The others?”

  “Safe. They left the hotel in time. I must admit your instincts are finer than mine.” A warm wave of Power, something else splashing against my skin and sinking in. Something gelid and spicy like demon blood. “You are hurt, Dante, but not badly. Lie still.”

  Another voice. Tiens. Was it night now, the Nichtvren up and about? “The human’s locked in a room.”

  “Feed him, keep him close. He is not a prisoner.” Japhrimel sounded chilly again, used to command. Why had I never heard this tone from him before? “Tell him he has my thanks.”

  “Is she—”

  “She will live, Tiens. Do as I say.” Thin razor-edge under the command. Japh might be calmer but he was still on a lasetrigger.

  Tiens apparently didn’t consider it a big deal. “Of course, m’sieu. More blood?”

  “No. I have enough. Get out.”

  Blood? That means Japhrimel’s feeding. He never wanted to feed on blood in front of me, he preferred to visit slaughterhouses or feed on sex. I didn’t think I’d be up for any bedgames for a little while. “Japhrimel?” I sounded delirious, wondered why. Is he all right? The reactive . . . he sounds all right. I hope he’s okay.

  “Be still, now. Let me work.” Power, pulsing along my abused nerves. Coating them with honey. A crackling sound, then a chill as something peeled away from my flesh. Air hitting damp skin, cold and full of knives but still somehow better than the burning.