Peeling away. Fingers in my hair, stroking gently, spinning out the silky strands. A low humming sound of Power sinking into my skin, swirling and dyeing the air green; diamond-black flames twisted over me, working down toward my bones. Shadows began to form, coalescing against the bright white light. “Am I blind?”
“No. Let me work.”
Now that the furious pain was gone I could think again. “My emerald—”
“Still there. Still alive with your god’s presence. Be quiet now.”
The strength ran out of my arms and legs. I felt something hard under me, Japhrimel’s arms around me. A tickling touch over my face, down my throat, over my breasts, flowering down my body. A different type of tension stirred in me, my hips jerked forward. I heard a low moan—my own.
What, I’m a sexwitch now? The thought was panicked and dark, laden with uncomfortable hysteria—not at all like my usual self. Power had never evoked a sexual response in me.
Never.
It ran out my toes, a crackling tide of burning leaving me molten and shaken. I blinked several times, something fine and dusty falling from my eyelashes. Closed my eyes, still blind. Let my head tip back like a heavy fruit on my limp stem of a neck.
I still had eyelashes? Had someone said a hover laden with reactive? I’d been too busy trying to get Japhrimel out of the way to think about anything else.
Reaction fire. What was it with these people chasing me and the reaction fire?
Is it any consolation that they are not “people”? Japhrimel’s voice, deep and amused, sounded in my memory.
Had a demon tried to smash me with a hover? It didn’t seem like them, I somehow got the sense that demons liked to do their work a little more up-close. When you’ve got eternity to play in, bloodsport needs to be personal; anything else is just too boring. Or so I think, having studied what I can of demons.
Something else is going on here. Lucifer winds me up and sets me in motion—but he also takes the chance and makes sure I’m separated from Japhrimel. Someone sends an imp after me—but any Greater Flight demon would guess I would be almost capable of taking care of an imp. It was just to keep me running. And a hoverload of reactive—if it won’t kill Japhrimel, it might not kill me, but it will slow us both down. So someone needs time to do something.
But demons had all the time in the world. Lucifer only contracted me for seven years. The smart thing to do was lie low and wait until I was no longer the Right Hand. Seven years was an eyeblink for a demon.
Someone was trying to throw me off the track. Someone wanted me to chase my own tail.
Or someone was using me for another purpose, bait or distraction.
Lucifer? An escaped demon? Who?
All of the above?
I opened my eyes. Saw darkness. Blinked, saw glowing green eyes. A familiar face.
“Japhrimel,” I breathed. My body felt made out of lead, my mouth strangely numb.
His fingertips stroked my forehead. “Dante,” he breathed back. “Did you think to protect me?”
“As a matter . . . of fact, I did.” I blinked again. “Someone’s trying . . . to delay . . . us. Or . . . use. . . .”
“Now this is revealed unto you?” He stroked my forehead again, bent to press a kiss onto my cheek. “Think no more on it. Sleep, and heal.”
I fell into darkness, still trying to think through the soup my brain had become.
26
The next time I woke, it was to find myself in a small, cheap room in Freetown New Prague. Thick curtains were pulled tightly over blind windows. Day or night? I didn’t know.
I rolled up, pushing aside the softness of Japhrimel’s wing. Examined my hands. Thin tendrils of hair fell forward, brushed my cheeks. It was too long, past my shoulders, as if I’d chopped it months instead of a few days ago. Hair? I’d been in the middle of a reaction fire, I shouldn’t have any hair left.
I shouldn’t have any skin left. Not to mention bones, muscles, or blood.
My hands looked like mine. My shoulder looked like mine, with the scarring decoration of Japhrimel’s mark. Even my legs were familiar, down to the velvet hollows behind my knees. Even my feet were mine.
I made it up to stand, unsteady. Japhrimel lay on his back, motionless, one arm flung over his eyes, his wings a soft darkness, one draping off the bed, the other curled close to his side where I had pushed it. The blankets were pushed down to his hips—he didn’t like anything covering his wings when he lay next to me. He was warm enough I didn’t mind.
A slice of light showed from a white-tiled bathroom. I bolted for it and scrambled inside, blinking against the sudden assault of light. Found the mirror, stood trembling in front of it, my fingers curling around the lip of the porcelain sink.
The same face, a ghost of my human looks bleeding through the lovely golden features. My mouth pulled down at the corners as I examined myself, dark eyes moving over now-familiar arches and curves. For the first time, I felt relieved to see the marks of what Japhrimel had made me in the mirror.
My accreditation tat showed sharp and strong against the golden skin of my left cheek. The emerald glittered, spitting a dart of light. My hair wasn’t as long as it had been—but it wasn’t a chopped-short mess either. It brushed my shoulders in silky disarray.
And so much simpler than going to a salon, the voice of merry unreason caroled inside my head.
I closed my eyes, my fingernails driving against the porcelain with a small screeching sound. Tried to concentrate.
It didn’t work, so I dropped down on my knees. Rested my forehead against the porcelain.
It took a few breaths, but it finally came. My jagged gasping smoothed out, I drew in a few more deep circular breaths and dropped below conscious thought, into the space where a pulse other than my heart thrummed.
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 emerald flamed, feeding a bright cocoon, kept me from being knocked off the bridge and into the well of souls. The living did not come here—except for those like me.
Necromance.
On the other side of the bridge the sleek black dog sat back on his haunches, waiting, his high pointed ears focused forward. I touched my heart and my forehead with my right hand, a salute I would give to no other god, demon, or human. Only Death ruled me. Anubis. My lips shaped the other sound that was the god’s personal name; That Which Cannot Be Spoken resonating through me.
What would you have of me, my Lord? A thread of meaning slid through my words, laid in the receptive air of the hall like a glittering silver strand. I am Your child.
He cocked His slim head, warmth flowing through the not-air. A thin vibrating elastic stretched between us, my emerald sparking as my rings did, a shower of sparks. Each spark a jewel, each jewel a tear on the cheek of infinity.
The god spoke again.
The meanings of His word burned through me, each stripping away a layer. So many layers, so many different things to fight through, each opening like a flower to the god.
The geas burned at me, the fire of His touch and some other fire that moved through him combining. I had something to do—something the god would not show me yet.
Would I do what the god asked? When the time came, would I submit to His will and do what He asked of me?
I bowed, my palms together; a deep obeisance reaching into the very heart of me. My long stubborn life unreeled under His touch. How could I resist Him?
I am Your child, I whispered.
The god’s approval was like sunshine on my back. Then He spoke again, the Word that expressed me in all its complexity, and I had to go back. I was not even allowed fully over the bridge, to touch the god and feel the weight of living taken from me for one glorious moment. Instead, the god closed me away from Death gently, allowing me to
see the well of souls, the bridge, the blue crystal walls—and the shape of Death shifting like ink on wet paper as He raised one slim paw—a hand, laden with dark jewels. No, it was a woman’s hand, with a wristlet of bright metal that ran with green fire.
Wait. The god of Death had never changed for me; a psychopomp was coded into the deepest levels of a Necromance and didn’t change. Ever. No Necromance’s psychopomp had ever changed. At a Necromance’s Trial, she suffers the initiation of the mystery of Death and the psychopomp appears. Unlike other disciplines, Necromances have to be accredited, have to pass a Trial and face the ultimate abandonment of control in the face of that most final of mysteries, the passage into the clear rational light of What Comes Next.
I could not even ask a question. My god’s voice rang in the blue crystal hall as He spoke one more word, this one sadder than the last, so sad I found myself fleeing the terrible burning sorrow, blindly lunging back toward my body and the familiar pain of living.
* * *
I surfaced, my forehead against chill, slick porcelain. Japhrimel’s hands circled my wrists, he pulled me into the shelter of his arms. I collapsed against him, gratefully. He pressed a kiss onto my forehead. Said nothing.
The shudders eased. Warmth rushed back into my fingers and toes. “Something’s wrong,” I said into his shoulder. “None of this makes any sense.”
“It rarely does in the beginning stages. This game is deeper than I thought.”
“Great,” I managed. “Why don’t I find that at all comforting?”
A low laugh. He kissed my forehead again. “Am I forgiven yet?”
I shrugged, feeling the slippery weight of hair against my shoulders again. Tipped my head back so I could see his expression. “We’ve got to work on our communication.”
“Is that a yes, or a no?” How could a voice so flat sound so amused? He watched my face as if the Nine Canons were written there, his eyes bright and depthless with their demon glow.
Why does he even ask me that? I’m still here, aren’t I? “Forgiven for what? Yes, sure. Now can I get dressed, or did my clothes burn off me?” I tried not to notice the way my heart leapt as his wrist brushed my skin, as he watched me with the intensity he seemed to have only for me.
A faint smile touched his lips, and I swallowed dryly. I knew that look. “Your clothes are beyond repair, but I managed to save your sword. And your bag.”
I eased away from him. He stroked my shoulders, let me go. “Guns?” I need firepower, the more the better. No time for games, Japh. Though I have to admit it’s tempting.
“Of course.” He nodded. Thin tall demon, green eyes glowing in the face I knew. I reached up, traced his cheekbone with one fingertip, my black-lacquered nail brushing his skin. Winged eyebrows, a straight mouth, his jaw set but not clenched. “You do not have to protect me,” he murmured finally.
I tried to stop myself, but I sighed anyway, rolling my eyes. My hair slid against my shoulders, a caress as gentle as his hands. “It wasn’t exactly like I was thinking, Japhrimel. I saw what the reactive paint did to that imp. If anything happened to you I’d. . . .”
“You would what?” If I thought his look was searching before, it was scorching now. I half expected his eyes to turn into industrial lasers.
He had been ash, after Rio. Cinnamon-smelling ash in a funeral urn, left either as a cruel joke or a hint by Lucifer. I had thought him dead, destroyed his urn as a penance; I had faced the idea of a world without him. The empty yawning abyss of that world wasn’t anything I even wanted to even think about ever again. “I thought you were dead once. Once was enough. Now can I get dressed? We’ve got a demon to hunt, and I think I’m beginning to have an idea.”
“May all the hosts of Hell protect me from your ideas, hedaira.” But he smiled. Not the smile of invitation, but the warm smile I liked almost as much, wry amusement and irony combining.
I levered myself to my feet, glanced down as he rose, his boots scraping against the small white pebbly tiles. “Clothes, Japhrimel. And get the others together.”
“What if I like you better unclothed?” A slight quirk of his eyebrow. I folded my arms over my breasts, hoping I wasn’t blushing.
An uncomfortable heat rose in my cheeks. “You can give me my sword, too.”
He laughed, dropping his chin in a nod that managed to convey the impression of a respectful bow. I was actually a little disappointed when he took me at my word and went to find me some clothes.
27
He not only brought me clothes—a new Trade Bargains microfiber shirt and jeans, socks, underwear, and my sword—he also had a new rig for me, supple oiled leather that might have been custom-made. New projectile guns (9 mm; anything less is useless when you’re facing a determined foe) and a new plasgun, a reliable SW Remington in the 40-watt range. Some bounty hunters use 60-watt, but the chance of blowing up your own hand if a core overheats is exponentially higher with a 60. Give me a good 40 any day—what you lose in power you more than make up for in reliability.
Along with the guns were a new set of knives, even a thin fine polyphase-aluminaceramic stiletto to slip into my boot. The main-gauches were beautiful blue steel, sharpened to a razor edge and with a strange dappling in the metal. I tested the action of each knife and was impressed despite myself. It was nice that Japhrimel understood good gear. Of course, one couldn’t expect any less from the Devil’s assassin. The curtains rustled slightly, I glanced nervously at them and shrugged myself into the rig. I wanted to find something to tie my hair back, too.
As soon as I suited up and had a look at my slightly-charred but still-whole messenger bag I started to feel much better. Then Japhrimel flicked his wrist, and Jace’s necklace dangled from his hand. “This I saved also. I have repaired some small damage to it, but it seems largely unharmed. It is . . . fine work, really.”
I dropped down on the bed, all the strength running out of my legs. “Oh.” My voice was a wounded little whisper. I looked up at him. “Japhrimel—”
He carefully bent over, his fingers gentle and delicate, slid his hands under my hair to fix the clasp and settle the necklace in its familiar arc below my collarbones. He even frowned slightly while he did so, a look of utter concentration that sent an oblique pang through me. His hair fell in his eyes, and his expression reminded me of a boy at his first Academy dance, pinning a corsage on his date. “I do not think,” he said, his fingers lingering on my cheek, “that I understand you well enough. My apologies.”
My heart hurt. It was an actual, physical, piercing pain. “Japh . . . it’s okay. Really, it is. I . . . thank you.” Thank you. That’s the best I can come up with, two silly stupid little words. Goddammit, Danny, why can’t you ever say what you mean? I caught his hands, held on as he looked down at me. “I’m sorry I can’t be . . . nicer.” Nicer? I’m sorry I seem to be utterly incapable of anything but raving bitchiness. You’re better than I deserve. I love you.
“You are exactly as you should be, hedaira. I would not change you.” He squeezed my hands, gently, and let go, pacing across the room and picking up a familiar slender shape.
“I wouldn’t change you either.” The words burst out of me, and the moment of silent communication as his eyes met mine was worth anything I owned.
He presented me with my sword as properly as Jado might have, the hilt toward my hand and a slight respectful bow tilting him toward me. I accepted the slender weight and immediately felt like myself again. “It is the strangest thing, but your sword seemed unaffected by the fire.”
“Jado gave it to me.” Did he give me a blade that can kill a demon? I certainly hope so, I might need one soon. “Japh, the reaction fire. How did you—”
“My kind are creatures of fire,” he reminded me. “No flame can hurt me, even a flame humans unlock from atoms. Steel, wood, lead, fire—none of these things will harm me in the slightest.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
I wish I’d known. “Fine time to tell me.” A sharp guilt
I hadn’t even been aware of eased. I finally felt like we understood each other. I didn’t like fighting him, I wasn’t any good at it.
“I have told you I will not bother you with trifles; I considered that a trifle.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I thought it would alarm you to speak of it. If it will ease your mind to know such a thing, I will tell you.”
If he had jumped up on the dresser and announced his intention to become a half-credit unregistered sexwitch trolling the sinks of Old Delhi, I would have been a little less surprised. “Good enough.” I popped my sword free, looked at four inches of bright metal. Japhrimel was right—the sword was unaffected. I could see no weakening in its blue glow, no unsteadiness that would warn me the steel had become reaction-brittle. I probed delicately at it with a finger of Power, encountered exactly the right amount of resistance.
“I wonder who you really are,” I said, not knowing if I was talking to my sword, my Fallen lover, or the demon we were chasing.
Or to myself.
The old Dante would have fought to escape from Japhrimel, would have tried over and over to push him away, would never have forgiven him one omission, one misleading statement. Would never have listened to his explanation, never mind that it was a good one. Dante Valentine, the best friend in the world—as long as you don’t betray her. I had cut people completely out of my life for less.
Then again, I had forgiven Jace. Any lie he told me, every omission he made, had eventually not mattered when weighed against his determination to protect me. Or against the debt I owed him for his quiet, stubborn, careful love of a grief-crazed part-demon Necromance—and his love for the damaged, brittle woman I’d been. I had forgiven him, even though I’d sworn I never would.
Was I getting soft? Or just growing up?
And the strangest thing of all: if it hadn’t been for Japhrimel, I wouldn’t have learned to forgive anyone, least of all myself. A demon, teaching me about forgiveness. How was that for bizarre?