Talent: 1. Psionic ability. 2. Magickal ability.
Werecain: (slang: ’cain, furboy) Altered human capable of changing to a furred animal form at will. Note: There are several different subsets, including Lupercal and magewolfen. Normal humans and even psionic outsiders are generally incapable of distinguishing between different subsets of ’cain.
extras
meet the author
LILITH SAINTCROW was born in New Mexico and bounced around the world as an Air Force brat. She currently lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her husband, two children, and a houseful of cats. Find out more about Lilith Saintcrow at www.lilithsaintcrow.com.
supplementary materials
Excerpt from “A Face for Death”
Hegemony Psionic Academy Textbook,
Specialized Studies
By Fallon Hoffman
Sirius Publishing, Paradisse
In classical antiquity, the psychopomp was merely any god relating to death or the dead. The term narrowed with the advent of the Awakening and narrowed even further after the Parapsychic Act was signed into law. The psychopomp—defined as the god or being a Necromance sees during the resurrection phase of the accreditation Trial—is thus an ancient concept.
Necromances are unique among psions because of the Trial. Borrowed from shamanic techniques born in the mists of pre-Awakening history, the Trial is nothing more than a specific initiation, a guided death and rebirth for which every Necromance is carefully prepared through over a decade and a half of schooling and practice in other magickal and psionic techniques.
There is no such thing as a non-practicing or non-accredited Necromance. The nature of a Necromance’s peculiar talent demands training, lest Death swallow the unpracticed whole. In pre-Awakening times, those gifted with this most unreliable talent usually ended up in mental hospitals or prisons, screaming of things no normal could see.
During the Awakening, it became much more dangerous and common to slip over the border into what any EKG will label the “blue mesh,” that particular pattern of brainwaves produced when a Necromance triggers the talent and creates a doorway through which a spirit can be pulled to answer questions. Many nascent Necromances were lost to the pull and chill of Death, their hearts stopping from sheer shock. Unprepared by any schooling, meditation training, or Magi recall techniques, the Necromance faced death defenseless as a normal human—or even more so.
The solution—a psychological mechanism of putting a face on Death—was stumbled upon in the very early days of the Awakening. Unfortunately, we have no record of the brave soul who first made the connection between the psychopomp and a managed trip into Death, instead of the less-reliable techniques such as soul-stripping or the charge-and-release method. Whoever she is (for Necromances, like sedayeen, are overwhelmingly female), she deserves canonization on par with Adrien Ferrimen.
The reason the psychopomp is so necessary is deceptively simple. Death is the oldest, largest human fear. To create a screen of rationality between the limited human mind and the cosmic law of ending, the defense mechanism of a face and personality makes the inhuman bearable and even human itself. A psychopomp is no more than a graceful fiction that allows a human mind to grasp the Unending. It is the simplest and most basic form of godmaking, hardwired into the human neural net. It is much easier to believe in a god’s intercession than in a random mix of genetics and talent allowing what our culture still sadly views as a violation of the natural order—bringing the dead back, however briefly.
A psychopomp is unutterably personal, coded into the deepest levels of the Necromance’s psyche. Gods are mostly elective nowadays, except for those rare occasions when they choose to meddle in human affairs. But to plumb the depths of mankind’s oldest fear and greatest mystery, a human mind needs a key to unlock those depths and a shield to use against them. That key needs to be strong enough, and rooted deep enough in the mind, to stand repeated use.
The psychopomp serves both functions, key and shield. First, it gives the psyche a much-needed handle on the concept of Death. Intellectually, the human mind knows death is inevitable, that it visits every single one of us. Convincing the rest of the human animal, not to mention the animal brain, is impossible. Death is disproved by every breath the living creature takes, by every beat of a living heart. The psychopomp allows empirical evidence of the living body and of the non-space of Death to coexist by providing a framework, however fragile, to fix both concepts in.
Psychopomps also function as a defense against the concept of death itself. Necromances, when interviewed, speak of “Death’s love”—not the worship of Thanatos but an affirmation of Death as part of a cosmic order and the Necromance as a necessary part of that order, helping to keep the scales balanced. The idea of balance is intrinsically linked to any god dealing with Death, proof again of the psyche’s grasping for reason in the face of the eternal.
Necromances speak, often at great length, about the emotional connection to their psychopomp. This is necessary, otherwise the fear reflex might crush even the most finely honed sorcerous Will. Indeed, the outpouring of emotion lavished on death-gods by Necromances is only matched by the propitiatory offerings made in temples by normals in hopes of Death passing them by. The idea that Death can be reasoned or bargained with haunts humanity with hope.
The psychological cost of trips to the other side of Death’s doorway shows itself in several ways, from the Necromance’s common need for adrenaline boosts to the compensatory neuroses detailed in Chapter 12. Were it not for the useful concept of a god as guardian, gatekeeper, eternal Other, and protector, Necromances might still be going mad at puberty, which is when the talent commonly manifests itself. . .
FILE HFS-IW-104496B
INTERNAL
Classification Level 4
Hegemony Federal Service File
Internal Watch
104496B
CLASSIFIED
EYES ONLY
Subject: Dante Valentine (birth name: ******* *** *********) HD# ***-**-**** **
Last Known Location: Santiago City, North Merica, Hegemony
Detail: Subject is thirty-two years old, brown and brown, height 1.64 meters, slim build, weight variable. Subject is accredited Necromance (Amadeus Academy graduate #47138SAZ) and bounty hunter. Some illegal activity suspected, mostly in industrial espionage/illicit bounties. Psych profile normal despite childhood trauma (see HFS-IW-*******) and high probability of deconstruction under severe stress. (See HFS-IW/P-*******) Compensatory reflexes within normal range, with significant exceptions as detailed in psych profile.
Incident Date/Time/Duration: **/*/**** / Beginning approximately 1300 / 10 days (tentative)
Incident Prime Location: Nuevo Rio, Sudro Merica, Hegemony
Secondary Location(s): Inapplicable / Classified
Incident: Class 5 interaction with dimensional rift. Class 3 and suspected Class 5 interaction with nonhuman (sp: demonic) forces.
Abstract: Several sources claim subject has been ‘transformed’ by Class 5 nonhuman being (demon, level 1). Possible interference with sealed Hegemony Directive 2048-E (Project Eden) due to prior contact with FS source Prometheus (HSF-IW-002399Z) in the course of source’s collection of viable samples for Project Eden. Project Eden met, of course, with a premature end after initial success. Two sources (codename: Vickers and Preacher) link subject to failure of Project Eden. However, neither source is considered reliable.
Detail: Subject exhibits radically altered genetic profile and has received large sums of hard credit from unidentifiable source. Sources claim a level 1 demon (codename: Starstrike) carried out genetic reshaping on subject in return for unspecified services relating to the interruption of Project Eden. However, the prime mover of Project Eden (codename: Veritas) has insisted subject be kept only under light surveillance. Given the training and background of subject, analysis agrees. Chance of unacceptable information dispersal if surveillance moves above ‘light’ is calculated at an unacceptab
le 80% (+/- 2).
The incident in question centers around destruction caused to roughly 40 percent of Nuevo Rio’s buildings, presumably by Starstrike in reprisal for an unidentified interaction between Prometheus and subject. The incident definition has expanded to include the destruction of Project Eden’s laboratory and refuge (cross-ref, HFS-IW-*******) and the services of Veritas in tying off Project Eden.
Casualties in Nuevo Rio were kept to a minimum (critical loss estimated at less than 4 percent). Incident was declared a federal disaster zone, sealed and repaired within 83.6 hours, emergency funding dispersed under sealed Hegemony Directive 0003-A.
Damage done to diplomatic relations with Veritas has been contained. Information dispersal to subject (classified as slight) is considered acceptable, in light of overriding factors such as Starstrike’s suspected interference and Veritas’s claim of ownership of subject (pursuant to sealed Hegemony Directive 2048-F, ownership of human genetic material transformed by Class 5 nonhuman interference). Subject has been confirmed unsuitable for advancement of Project Eden.
Suggested Action: Continued light surveillance of subject. Consideration of recruitment of subject for high-level wetworking has been advanced several times, despite analysis of subject’s psych profile providing high chance of deconstruction and high unsuitability for impersonal motivations for such activity.
Notes: Project Eden may be considered a limited success. Necessity of keeping diplomatic relations open with Veritas dictated a less-than-satisfactory endgame in relation to ownership of Project Eden’s greatest success (codename: Omega). Monitoring of Omega is almost impossible due to dimensional interference. Reclaiming Omega is of prime importance to the FS despite low chance of success.
Claims of Starstrike’s demise are being investigated by Internal Watch, Division 5. (See HFS-IW-*******) Various methods have brought no conclusive proof. Chance of survival is calculated at 53 percent (+/- 40).
introducing
If you enjoyed THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND
look out for
SAINT CITY SINNERS
Book 4 of the Dante Valentine series
by Lilith Saintcrow
Cairo Giza has endured for a very long time, but it was only after the Awakening that the pyramids began to acquire distinctive etheric smears again. Colored balls of light bobbed and wove around them even during the daytime, playing with the streams of hover traffic that carefully didn’t pass over the pyramids themselves, instead separating as if around islands in a stream. Hover circuitry is buffered like every critical component nowadays, but enough Power can blow anything electric just like a focused EMP pulse. There was a college of Ceremonials responsible for using and draining the pyramids’ charge, responsible also for the Temple built equidistant from the stone triangles and the Sphinx, whose ruined face gazed from her recumbent body with more wisdom long forgotten than the human race could ever lay claim to accumulating.
Power hummed in the air around me as I stepped from the glare of the desert sun into the shadowed gloom of the Temple’s portico. Static crackled, sand falling out of my clothes and whisked away by the containment field. I grimaced. We’d been on the ground less than half an hour and already I was tired of the dust.
One tired, busted-down half-demon Necromance, sore from Lucifer’s last kick even though Japhrimel had repaired the damage done and flushed me with enough Power to make my skin tingle. And one Fallen given back the power of a demon pacing behind me, his step oddly silent on the stone floor. The mark on my left shoulder—his mark—pulsed again, a warm velvet flush coating my body. My rings swirled with steady light.
My bag bumped against my hip and my bootheels clicked on stone, echoing in the vast shadowed chamber. The great doors rose up before us, massive slabs of granite lasecarved with hieroglyphs of a way of life vanished thousands of years ago. I inhaled deeply, smelling the deep familiar spice of kyphii and feeling my nape begin to prickle. My sword, thrust through a loop in my weapons rig, seemed to thrum slightly even through the indigo lacquered scabbard.
A blade that can bite the Devil, I thought, and a cool finger of dread traced up my spine.
I stopped, half-turned on my heel to look up at Japhrimel, who paused. His hands clasped behind his back as usual, he regarded me with bright green eyes glowing through the dimness. His ink-dark hair lay against his forehead in a soft wave, and his lean golden saturnine face was closed and distant as usual. He had been very quiet in the last hour.
I didn’t blame him. There was precious little to say now. And in any case, I didn’t want to break the fragile truce between us.
One dark eyebrow quirked slightly, a question I found I could read. It was a relief to see there something about him I could still understand.
“Will you wait for me here?” My voice bounced back from stone, husky and half-ruined, still freighted with the promise of demon seduction. I sounded like a vidsex operator, dammit, and the hoarseness didn’t help. “Please?”
His expression changed from distance to wariness, then the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.”
The words ran along stone, mouthing the air softly.
I bit my lower lip. The idea that I’d misjudged him was uncomfortable, to say the least. “Japhrimel?”
His eyes rested on my face. All attention, focused on me. He didn’t touch me—but he might as well have, his aura closing around mine, the black-diamond flames that proclaimed him as demon to anyone with Sight. It was a caress no less intimate for being nonphysical; he was doing that more and more lately. I wondered if it was because he wanted to keep track of me, or because he wanted to touch me.
I shook my head, deciding the question was useless. He probably wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway.
Was it wrong, not to hold it against him?
I heard Lucas’s voice again. Take what you can get. Good advice? Honorable? Or just practical?
Tiens, the Nichtvren who was yet another Hellesvront agent, would meet us after dark. Lucas was with Vann and McKinley; Leander had rented space in a boarding house and was recruiting. The Necromance bounty hunter seemed very easy with the idea of two nonhuman Hellesvront agents, but I’d caught him going pale whenever Lucas got too close. It was a relief to see he had some sense.
Then again, even I was frightened of Lucas, never mind that I was his client and he’d taken on Lucifer and two hellhounds for me. The man that Death had turned his back on was a professional, and a good asset . . . but still. He was unpredictable, impossible to kill, and magick just seemed to shunt itself away from him—and there were stories of just what he’d done to psions who played rough with him, or hired him and tried to welsh. It doesn’t take long to figure out so many stories must have a grain of truth to them.
“Yes?” Japhrimel prompted me. I looked up from the stone floor with a start. I’d been wandering.
I never used to do that.
“Nothing.” I turned away from him, my boots making precise little clicks on the floor as I headed for the doors. “I’ll be out in a little while.”
“Take your time.” He stood straight and tall, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes burning green holes in the smoky cool darkness; I could almost feel the weight of his gaze on my back. I shook my head, reached up to touch the doors. “I will wait.”
The mark on my shoulder flared again, heat sliding down my skin like warm oil. The sense of being caressed by a sheet of demon-fueled Power returned.
He was Fallen-no-more. I would have wondered what that made me, now, but he hadn’t even told me what I was in the first place. Hedaira, a human woman given a share of a demon’s strength. Japhrimel kept telling me I would find out in time, when he told me anything at all, that was.
With Lucifer looking to kill me and Eve to save, I just might die with everything still a mystery.
I spread my hands—narrow, golden, the black molecule-drip polish slightly chipped on my left thumbnail—against the rough granite,
pushed. The doors, hung on maghinges, whooshed open very quietly. More kyphii smoke billowed out, fighting briefly with the burning cinnamon musk of demon lying over me.
I looked up. The hall was large, all space architecturally focused on the throned Horus at the end, Isis’s tall form behind him, Her hand lifted in blessing over Her son. The doors slid to a stop, and I bowed, my right hand touching my heart and then my forehead in a salute.
I paced forward into the house of the gods. The doors slid together behind me, closing him out. Here was perhaps the only place I could truly be alone, the only place Japhrimel would not intrude.
Unfortunately, leaving him outside the doors meant leaving my protection too. I didn’t think any demon would try to attack me inside a temple, but I was just nervous enough to take a deep breath and welcome the next flush of Power spreading from the mark down my skin like warm oil.
Another deep breath. Panic beat under my breastbone. I told myself it was silly. Japhrimel was right outside the door, and the god had always answered me before.
But ever since the night my god had called me out of slumber and laid on me a geas I couldn’t remember, He had been silent. And losing that compass left me adrift in a way I’d never been before.
Cairo Giza had been Islum territory in the Merican era, but Islum had choked on its own blood during the Seventy Days War—along with the Protestant Christers and the Judics, not to mention the Evangelicals of Gilead. In a world controlled by the Hegemony and Putchkin, with psions in every corner, the conditions that had given rise to the Religions of Submission had fallen away. After a brief reflowering of fundamentalist Islum during the collapse of the use of petroleo, it became just another small sect—like the Novo Christers—and the old gods and state religions had risen again.