Saint City Sinners Page 11

  “I do not like to see you in such pain. What will you do first?”

  I contemplated the question, trying to find a comfortable way to lie with my rig on. It didn’t happen. I took in another deep breath of his smell, male and spice and demon musk, felt my heartbeat slow just a little. “Japh, let me up. I’ve got a plasgun trying to burrow into my hip and a projectile gun looking for my spleen the hard way. Okay?”

  “Perhaps I like holding you. We have had little closeness, of late.”

  We may not have a whole lot in the foreseeable future, either. “If you’d quit hiding things from me and pushing me around, maybe we’d have more.” I didn’t have time to get into a spat with him. I really didn’t.

  “I am not your enemy.” He stroked my hair, his fingers slipping between the silky strands.

  My reply startled me. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.” Then I felt like an idiot; I sounded like a spoiled brat.

  “If you like.” He laughed, as if genuinely amused. That only irritated me more. The fresh frustration was tonic, pushing aside the numb blackness of shock and grieving horror.

  I bit his shoulder, sinking my teeth in, and he sucked in a breath. But his arms didn’t loosen, and his body tensed in a way I was all too familiar with.

  Well, now. Don’t I feel silly. The taste of musk and night and demon filled my mouth, as intimate as a kiss, the material of his coat slick and pulsing with Power against my lips. It reminded me of just how long it had been since I’d had him, felt the blessed relief of not having to think, trusting him with my body. I tried to pull away from him again, achieved nothing.

  Dammit, quit treating me like a kid! “Japhrimel—”

  His voice cut across mine, soft and inflexible. “Not just yet, Dante. I am not yet convinced you are quite in control of your temper.”

  It was too much. One thing after another, from Sarajevo to Saint City, so much death and destruction piled on top of an already-strained mind. How much more could I stand without breaking?

  I’ll show you temper, you supercilious son of a bitch. I pulled back, inhaled, and held my breath, my eyes squeezed shut. Fifteen seconds. Thirty.

  The blackness behind my eyelids exploded with pinwheels and bursts of color, far more vivid than real life. The blue glow of Death rose too, the place inside me where the god lived opening like a flower. For the first time, I didn’t want to escape into that glow, kept myself away by a sheer effort of will, lungs crying out, pulse throbbing in my ears and throat and the rising tide of desire along my skin swamped by the sudden urgent need for oxygen.

  Even demons need to breathe, don’t they? A second thought, I’m acting like a kid. Well, he treats me like one, I might as well. I’ve reverted to a spoiled three-year-old.

  The fact that I understood I was acting like an idiot couldn’t stop me, for once.

  Japhrimel’s arms loosened. He shook me, hard but just short of hurting, my hair rasping against the pillow. Pent-up air rushed out, I breathed again. Opened my eyes to find him watching me.

  The arc of his cheekbone took me by surprise, as it always did. The sculpture of his lips, now pulled tight and thin into a straight line, his eyebrows drawn together, a faint line between them. His eyes were incandescent, silken green. For a moment, he looked like Lucifer. The resemblance was so sudden and striking my heart slammed into my throat and demon adrenaline jolted my entire body, leaving me gratefully alive and thinking clearly for the first time since passing through Gabe’s front gate that day.

  “Do not,” he said quietly, in a voice like the Prince of Hell’s, “ever do that again.”

  Bingo, Danny. We’ve found something that works to irritate him. I felt equally childish and vindicated, as if I’d suddenly gained some kind of control over the situation. “Or what?” I finally worked my way free of his arm. If my voice hadn’t been shaking so badly, I might have almost sounded tough.

  “Or I will teach you not to do so.” The bed creaked as he flowed away and to his feet, without a single hitch in the movement. “Think what you like of me. I begin to believe you will anyway.”

  Gods above and below, does he actually sound hurt? I could barely believe my ears. He stalked away, and I was too badly shaken to say a word. Lucifer called Japhrimel his Eldest, and I wondered how on earth I could live with a being that old, that powerful—and that alien. He wasn’t human, for all he’d successfully mimicked it for me.

  Not human. Inhuman.

  But then I was no longer fully human either, was I? Maybe only human inside my head. Or my aching, pounding heart.

  Wherever I’m still human, it will have to be enough.

  The bedroom door closed behind him. I hunched on the edge of the bed, buried my face in my hands, and shoved down the tears. After a long, shaking moment or two, I sighed and dropped my fists into my lap. Looked over at the file, lying innocent against the now-rumpled bedspread. Japhrimel was right, I hadn’t been thinking straight. Even if he’d irritated me past human endurance, he had still helped me clear my head.

  First thing I’ve got to do is wait for nightfall. It was a relief to have a single, clear, definable thing to do in the complex mess my life had become.

  Then I’ve got to go see Abracadabra.

  12

  I lay curled on my side, my sword clasped in my hands, my rig at the end of the bed near my booted feet. I puzzled over the idea of the Key and the Roof of the World, I thought of what I would do when I saw Abra, and I thought of what I would do to whoever had hurt Gabe.

  I brooded most on that, and on how I would find Gabe’s daughter. I chewed over the problem in my head, not coming up with anything new.

  I tried not to think about acting like a spoiled little brat. I was beginning to deconstruct under the stress. I needed a good clean-out meditation session to keep my head straight. The faster and harder I ran, the more I’d need a clear head and a sure hold on my temper.

  First, though, I had to rest.

  A twilight doze fell over me near dinnertime, just as I heard Japh and McKinley speaking in the other room. It was hard to ignore, my hearing was so acute, and I strained for the sound of Japhrimel’s voice despite myself.

  “Tiens is right. You should—” McKinley, getting braver by the moment.

  “I did not ask for your opinion on this matter, McKinley.” Japhrimel didn’t let him finish the sentence, which was irritating in the extreme. “I asked for your loyalty as my vassal. There is a difference.”

  A long pause. “I’ve served you faithfully. I’d be remiss in my duty if I didn’t warn you it is dangerous to allow her to treat you like this.”

  “What do you suggest? I should chain her in a sanctum like a Nichtvren’s plaything? Or that I should allow her to commit a foolhardy suicide and fall with her into darkness?” Each word was underlit with savage anger. I snuggled deeper into the softness of the bed, drowsily glad Japh never spoke to me like that. And fuzzily alarmed at what I was hearing.

  Foolhardy suicide? Just what does he think I’m going to do? Of course, he can’t have too high an opinion of my maturity right now. I actually winced at the thought.

  It was time to get a few things straight with him. I lay utterly still, pieces of both puzzles revolving inside my head. Waiting for dark, when I could uncoil like a snake under a rock. And begin hunting.

  “You put it that way, it gets a lot clearer.” McKinley sounded like he was smiling, for once.

  I was tired. My eyes were heavy, and the mark pulsed and rang with soft Power, sliding down my skin, easing me into relaxing. I couldn’t cry anymore, could barely dredge up the energy to keep listening.

  I listened anyway.

  “It is no small choice.” Japhrimel sounded heavy, and sadder than I’d ever heard him. “Her hatred or her pain, I do not know which is harder to bear.”

  If you’d just talk to me, Japh. Precognition tingled along my skin, prickling with tiny diamond feet. It isn’t my strongest talent, not by a long shot, but sometimes when the quicksand is g
etting deeper and deeper I can get a flash of something useful.

  Sometimes. But not when my heart was aching this badly. Not when I all but vibrated with the blood-deep hunger for revenge. I wanted to start killing, and I wasn’t too choosy about who I started with.

  Anyone would be fine. And that alarmed me a little.

  The precog refused to come. Just the sense of danger, and a creeping sensation against the flesh of my wrist, above my datband. I’d taken the Gauntlet off, but my skin still tingled with the feel of it. Loathing touched the back of my throat, I forced it away.

  Relax, Dante. Nothing you can do right now. Just breathe, and wait. Hold yourself still. Don’t even think. Just breathe.

  I did.

  I tipped over the edge into gray nothingness. It wasn’t the dead unconsciousness Japhrimel could lull me into, the sleep that was a restorative for my human mind. No, this sleep was more like the restless tossing I’d had all my mortal life, my conscious mind paralyzed by too much stress and sliding out of commission like a disengaged gear, spinning fruitlessly while the deeper parts of me worked, intuition and insight grinding finer and finer until they would present me with the wrench jamming the works.

  Inducing a precognitive vision is hard goddamn work, and I failed miserably. But something else happened, something I hadn’t done since I’d been human.

  I dreamed.

  This was not the hall of Death.

  I gathered up my skirts as I negotiated a wide, sweeping staircase; the vast parquet floor of the ballroom below shimmered mellow under many layers of wax and care.

  I recognized this place.

  It was the Hotel Arméniere in Old Kebec. I’d stayed here once on a bounty hunt ending with a clean collar in the teeming sink of the Core in Manhattan. The Arméniere was expensive, but a Hegemony per diem had covered it and right after Doreen’s death I hadn’t cared if it was pricey; it was magshielded, had a sparring hall, and the staff were mostly psi-friendly. That was worth a little credit. Besides, I’d just been knifed, shot at, and hit on the left arm with a ringbar while engaging in a slicboard duel with the bounty I was tracking. I figured I deserved a little relaxation while I waited for him to screw up and give me something to work with to bring him down.

  The ballroom had been one of my favorite places, mostly deserted during the day; quiet and full of space where I could run through katas without being gawked at or challenged to a sparring match I wasn’t in the mood for. Long narrow windows looked out on a night pulsing with neon and citylife, I heard distant traffic and the thump of a nightclub on the other side of the wall by the stairs. That told me it was a dream—the Arméniere was on a busy street, but the walls were thick and you would no more hear a nightclub than you would hear the staff whistling the Putchkin anthem.

  The other clue that I was in a dream was the fantastic pre-Merican-era illustration of a dress. Red silk, long whispering skirt, a bodice just short of indecent, and long sleeves that belled over my hands.

  My human hands, not gold-skinned demon hands. I saw the well-healed scar on my right thumb, the different texture of pale human skin, the crimson molecule-drip polish I used to use. A fading bruise was turning yellow on the back of my right hand.

  With the fuzzy logic of dreams, it all made perfect sense. Even the dream-copy of the necklace Jace made for me, silver-dipped raccoon bacula and blood-charged bloodstones, was there. The real necklace was on my sleeping self, but this copy hummed with Power, throbbing against my collarbones.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs, my pulse pounding like the thump of bass coming through the wall. I felt naked—I had no sword, none of the familiar weight of a rig against my shoulders. Crimson silk mouthed the floor as I moved, cold waxed wood and the grit of dust against my bare tender human feet.

  You look beautiful.

  The necklace’s throb settled into a sustained heat. I whirled.

  He leaned against the wall between two windows, his face in shadow except for the bright points of light in his blue eyes. A stray breeze touched a sheaf of wheat-gold hair, and my mouth turned dry and slick as desert glass.

  Jace Monroe hooked his thumbs in his belt. He wasn’t armed either. Hey, Danny. Spare a kiss for an old boyfriend?

  I’m dreaming, I thought. Dreaming. Have to be.

  Of course you’re not dreaming. His lips shaped the words, but the air didn’t move. Instead, the meaning resounded inside my head. Like the tone of psychic music that was a god’s communication, fraught with layers on layers of complexity. A wash of amusement, bitter spice of regret, a thin thread of desire blooming through and sparkling like an iron wire to hold it all together. Under it, the smell of peppered honey that was Jace’s magick, the smell of a Shaman, the smell I’d missed without knowing.

  He moved forward into the dim light. Don’t think much of the choice of venues, sunshine. Never did have you pegged as a romantic.

  Another shock. He was the young Jace of the days of our first affair, moving smoothly and without the telltale hitch from his injured knee, his face smoother without age and the bitterness that had crept up and glazed over him like varnish. Even his haircut shouted it—shaggy, but obviously expensively trimmed. I’d forgotten that about him, forgotten the antique Bolgari chronograph he used to wear glittering over his datband. Forgotten the lopsided, charming smile he used to use on me, the one I’d fallen for.

  He folded his arms. This has got to be the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless. Don’t talk too soon, I’m enjoying it.

  You’re dead. My lips shaped the whisper. The pulse in my temples and throat was made of glass. Mirovitch killed you. Gabe set you free in the hospital. You’re dead.

  Of course I’m dead. He shrugged. But am I gone? Not on your life, Danny girl. I don’t have much time right now, you’re heading into dangerous waters. I’ll help all I can.

  A shuddering impact hit next door, the wall behind the stairs creaking. Dust pattered down from the ceiling. I flinched, my right hand searching for a weapon that wasn’t there. I didn’t just feel naked without my sword. I felt lost, and panicked, and uncomfortably like I was having a nightmare.

  Jace’s hand closed around my wrist. I damn near levitated—anyone getting that close without my knowledge spooks me. Listen to me, he said, his skin warm and dry and blessedly human against mine. You have to wake up now, Danny. No time for fun and games. Wake up and get moving. You got a lot of trouble on your tail.

  I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he shook his head again. I drank in his face, the angle of his jaw, each small detail lovingly polished. It was lifelike, incredibly vivid, right down to the individual grains of grit under my bare feet. Jace’s fingers burned, clamping down hard on my left wrist, clasping like chill heavy metal quickly warming to my skin.

  Wake up, Danny. Wake up.

  I don’t want to! I wailed. My hair slid forward—my old human dyed-black, dead dark lifeless hair. I never thought I’d be so glad to see split ends again. I don’t want to wake—

  Another shuddering boom. A visegrip clamped around my right shoulder and ripped my body free of its moorings. I felt the snap as whatever space holding me was torn away and I fell, arching my back, screaming and—

  —landing on the floor beside the bed, an undignified squeak cut short as my teeth clicked together hard. I blinked up, a pair of familiar yellow eyes meeting mine; the tip of my blade caressed Lucas Villalobos’s throat. Blue flame ran through my sword, its heart showing a thin thread of white fire; I had also lifted my left arm instinctively into a guard position when I’d landed on my ass. My eyes snagged on my raised wrist—clasped against my golden skin, the cuff of silvery demon-wrought metal glowed.

  I didn’t put that back on. I choked. I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—a human dream, or finding out I was still hedaira. The thin hitching sound of a sob rose in my throat; I denied it.

  “Time to go,” Lucas wheezed. Darkness broken only by the glow of a small nightlight fastened into a w
all plug filled the room like deep water, shadows lying over the top of unfamiliar furniture. “Get up, Valentine.”

  My sword whispered back into its sheath. It was small consolation that I’d been ready to kill him, he could have slid a knife between my ribs while I was lost in whatever trance had taken me. My eyes were grainy, and my entire body felt torpid, like I’d been shaken out of a dead sleep in the middle of the afternoon. It was a very human feeling.

  It was also profoundly unsettling. Where’s Japhrimel? What’s going on?

  Of all the things I could have said, I settled for the most predictable. “What the hell?”

  “Had to wait until your boyfriend left, chica. Come on.” Lucas’s sleeve was torn and floppy, soaked with blood. His yellow eyes were dead and dark, his lank hair fell in his face, and he wore the widest, most feral smile I had ever seen on him; either post-coital or post-combat, it was wholly scary. His teeth gleamed white in the dim bedroom. “Abra wants to see you tomorrow. I found out some o’ what the demon’s up to.”

  “Great.” I ducked into my rig. Where’s Japhrimel? I thought he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight. I didn’t smell him, and the mark on my shoulder pulsed softly, absently, coating my skin with now-familiar Power. A few seconds worth of buckling had all my weapons riding in their accustomed places, I passed the strap of my bag over my head, shrugged into my coat, and was ready to go. My katana weighted my left hand as I followed Lucas out into the rest of the suite.

  Which was, to put it kindly, a shambles. The furniture was destroyed, chairs and tables smashed, the holovid player shattered, and a large imprint rammed into the wall between the suite and the bedroom. Japhrimel was still nowhere in evidence; I wondered where he’d gone. “Sekhmet sa’es, I slept through this?”

  “You been sleepin’ a lot, chica. Even on your feet. It ain’t like you.” Lucas jerked his chin at a shape lying on the floor by the nivron fireplace. It was McKinley, bleeding from the nose and ears and gagged with an anonymous bit of cloth held down with magtape, trussed with a thin golden chain that shivered and smoked in the light from the upended lamp. The carpeted floor groaned under him as he caught sight of me and started to struggle.