Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “I suppose you will try to escape me as soon as possible,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” I promised him. “I’m too tired tonight.”

  “But afterward?” he persisted. “I don’t want to lose my chance at freedom for your petty human pride.”

  “You say ‘human’ like it’s a dirty word.” I tucked my free hand in my pocket. My rings were dark now, no longer glittering and sparking. Out here, in the flux and ambient static of city Power, the atmosphere wasn’t charged enough to make them react. Instead, they settled into a watchful gleam.

  “That’s the same way you say ‘demon,’ ” he shot back, immediately. Was he scowling? I had never seen a demon scowl, and I stared, fascinated.

  I’m not going to win this one, I realized, and dropped my eyes hurriedly back down to the pavement. “You stuck a gun in my face.” It was lame even by my standards.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “I did. I thought you were a door-guard. Who knows what the best Necromance of a generation has guarding the door? I was only told to collect you and keep you alive. Nothing else, not even that you were a woman.”

  I stopped short on the sidewalk and examined him. He stopped, too, and turned slightly, facing me.

  I pulled my free hand from my pocket, stuck it out. “Let’s start over,” I said. “Hi. I’m Danny Valentine.”

  He paused for so long that I almost snatched my hand back, but he finally reached out and his fingers closed around mine. “I am Japhrimel,” he said gravely.

  I shook his hand twice, had to pull a little to take my hand back. “Nice to meet you.” I didn’t mean it—I would rather have never seen his face—but sometimes the little courtesies helped.

  “Likewise,” he said. “I am very pleased to meet you, Danny.”

  Maybe he was lying, too, but I appreciated the effort. “Thanks.” I started off again, and he fell into step beside me. “So you’re Lucifer’s Right Hand, huh?”

  He nodded, his profile back to its usual harsh almost-ugly lines. “Since I was hatched.”

  “Hatch—” Then I figured out I didn’t want to know. “Never mind. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

  “You’re very wise,” he said. “Some humans pester us incessantly.”

  “I thought you liked that,” I said. “Demons, I mean, as a whole.”

  He shrugged. “Some of us have leave from the Prince to answer the calls of the Magi. I have not had much traffic with humans.”

  “Neither have I,” I told him, and that seemed to finish up conversation for a while. I was glad. I had a whole new set of things to worry about—how Dacon would react, and how the news of me hanging out with one of Hell’s citizens would get around town really fast, especially if I saw Abra. I couldn’t leave the demon behind—he might get into trouble, and besides, I didn’t think he’d take to waiting in an alley while I went into Dake’s club.

  CHAPTER 13

  I was right. “Absolutely not,” he said, his eyes turning almost incandescent.

  “Okay, fine, keep your hat on.” I looked across the rain-slick street. A few sleek cigar-shaped personal hovers drifted in a parking pattern overhead, and there were several slicboards leaning against the side of the old warehouse, reactive paint glowing on their undersides. I scanned them out of habit and noticed one had a hot magtag; evidently some kid had jacked it. I clucked out through my teeth. Kids stealing slicboards, what next? Then again, since hovers had palmlocks and bodyscans built in standard now, a slic was all a kid could steal.

  Pole Street rang with neon and nightlife around us. I shivered, hunching my shoulders, and sighed. “If you want to go in with me, you’re going to have to do what I tell you, okay? Let me do the talking and don’t start a fight unless I start one first. Okay? And try not to kill anyone—just hurt them bad enough to keep them down.”

  He nodded, his dark hair stuck to his head with dampness. A fine drizzle had started around Trivisidiro and Eighteenth Street, and followed all the way out into the Tank. A block down from us, a group of freelance hookers huddled under an overhang, the neon running wetly off their pleather sheaths and go-go boots. A cop cruiser slid by like a silent shark, bristling with antennas and humming with riotshields. It drifted to a stop by the hookers, and I wondered if they were scanning for licenses or looking for a little fun.

  I licked my dry lips, nervous. “Actually,” I said, “can you look scary? It would help.”

  He bared his teeth, and I had to fight down the urge to step back.

  “Okay,” I said. “You win. You just look scary and I’ll do the talking.”

  We crossed the street, the demon keeping step slightly behind me, and stepped up on the pavement on the other side. There were two bouncers there—shaved gorillas with black-market augments, three times my size. My fingers itched.

  Don’t let there be any trouble, I prayed silently.

  I came to a stop right in front of the bouncers. The one on the left paled visibly, seeing my tat. The one on my right looked the demon over, his fat cheeks quivering with either terror or silent laughter. I inhaled deeply, tasting night air, hash smoke, and the salt-sweat-sweet smell of Chill. Did Dake know one of his bouncers was on Clormen-13? That shit was nasty, it made addicts psychotic after a while. Taking down a Chillfreak was hard work.

  I tilted my head so my tat was visible to both of them. “Dacon Whitaker,” I said, pitching my voice loud enough to slice through the pounding bass thudding out the door.

  The bouncer on the right nodded. I saw the telltale glint of a commlink glittering from his right ear, and his throat swelled. He had a subvocal implant, too.

  Great. Dake knew I was coming.

  “He’s indisposed,” Shaved Gorilla #1 said. He had muttonchop and some very nice custom-made leather pants straining at his massive legs.

  “Either he sees me now, or I tear his club apart and bring the cops down here. He can be charged for interfering with a legitimate hunt.” My lips peeled back from my teeth. “I’m doing a bounty, and I’m in a bad mood. It’s up to him.”

  The demon’s hot silence swelled behind me. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

  “Come on in,” the gorilla on the right said. “Go up to the office, the big man says.”

  I nodded and passed between them, the demon moving close. Together we plunged into a swirling migraine attack of red and orange light, skitters of brightness from the blastball hanging from the ceiling, hash smoke and the reek of alcohol mixing with the smell of sweat and the psychic assault of a warehouse full of people, sunk in the music, most of them dancing. A thin edge of red desperation curled over a smile, a razor-flick against a numb arm.

  I was used to the sensory assault, barely paused, my mental shields thickening. There were ghostflits in the corners, riding the air, a few of them silently screaming.

  People think that when they die, the Light opens up and takes them. A majority of the time, that’s what happens. But sometimes—often enough—the soul is chained here. Sometimes confused, or held by violent death, and sometimes just unable to leave without a loved one, the souls of the dead crowd toward the living any place there’s Power enough to feed them and make them more than just a cold sigh against the nape, more than just a memory.

  Back before the Parapsychic Act, there was about fifty years of psionics being bought and sold by corporations like chattel—even Necromances. And before that, Necromances were generally locked in asylums or driven to suicide by what we saw—what nobody else could see. Some, like Gabe’s ancestors, made it through by keeping mum about their talents, blending in. Others just assumed they were crazy.

  I forced my way through the crowd, each person a padded sledgehammer blow, laid completely open by hash and trance music. I recognized the track—it was RetroPhunk’s “Celadon Groove”.

  If I could stand being around a crowd again, I could dance to this, I thought, and felt a sharp twisting pain. I hadn’t danced for three years. Not since Jace.

  Don’t think
about that. My head came up; I scanned the crowd. Like most psis, I disliked crowds, especially riot-crowds or large groups all stoned on hash. Sure, I could jack in and ride the Power created by that much wide-open emotional energy—but I had no need of it. Other psis knew enough to keep their thoughts to themselves, but most normals were sloppy broadcasters, hammering at even the best of shields with the chaotic wash of sense-impressions and thoughts. It was like walking through a field of unmuffled hovers; even if you had earplugs the noise still settled against the pulse and bones, and hurt.

  No. Maybe it wasn’t the dancing or the crowd that hurt, maybe it was only my heart. I hadn’t thought of Jace in at least six months.

  Writhing bodies pulsed on the lit-up dance floor. I saw couples twisted around each other, a few shadowed booths in back full of bodies that could have been swooning in love or death. A sharp strain of desperate sex rode the air. My nostrils flared and my rings sparked. I could have jacked into the atmosphere and used that Power for a Greater Work, if I’d needed to. I slid between two tarted-up, rail-thin yuppie girls so doped-out on hash it was a wonder they were still vertical; nodded to the bartender.

  Behind the bar was a moth-eaten red velvet curtain that the bartender—a skinny nervous man in a red jumpsuit, a cigarette hanging from his lips—pushed aside. A safety door was slightly open, a slice of yellow light leaking out and into the smoky air.

  The music shifted. My skin prickled with heat and uneasy energy.

  Goddammit, that bastard at the door warned Dake and now he’s getting ready. I wanted him off-balance.

  I jumped forward, darted through the door, and ran lightly up the stairs. I wasn’t in the best shape—my stomach was still bruised and tender from puking and my entire body felt just a fraction of a second too slow—but when I spun into Dake’s plasglass-walled office, my sword already drawn, he did look surprised. He was up to his pudgy elbows with venomous green snapping Power, and was just turning away from the open iron casket on his desk.

  Dacon was a Magi, albeit a weak one. He’d been a few years behind me at Rigger Hall, and I still thought of him as the same pudgy-faced kid with his uniform all sloppy and his mouth loose and wet from too much synth hash. He’d barely managed to produce a low-level imp to qualify for Magi-accreditation, and his tat was a plain round Celtic symbol with no taste. All in all, he wasn’t the best for this type of work, but he was the only Magi I could conceivably bully into doing me a tracker for a demon without having to pay an arm and a leg for it.

  Even though Dake was a lousy Magi when it came to calling up demons, he was pretty good at the offensive magicks. He couldn’t fight much physically, but with enough of a Power charge he was fast and nasty. That, I suspected, was why he rarely if ever left his nightclub. I hadn’t heard of him being on the street in years. He was as close to a shut-in as it was possible for a psion to get.

  And that was also why he was the perfect choice to do a tracker for me. It was a passive offensive piece of magick, which meant it was right up his alley—and he didn’t have to leave his nightclub to do it.

  “You son of a bitch,” I said, pleasantly. “You were planning on giving me a little surprise, weren’t you, Dacon? Just like the little bitch you are.” My blade spat blue-green, light running along its razor edge. The runes I’d spelled into the steel sparked into life, twisting fluidly along the length of the blade. And the demon’s aura laid over mine sparked and swirled.

  Dacon squeaked, his round pale face suddenly slick with sweat. I felt more than heard the arrival of the demon behind me, and Dacon nearly passed out, swaying, his expensive Drakarmani shirt wet and clinging under his armpits. “You—you—” he spluttered, and the green glow arced between his fingers. Sloppy of him.

  “Me,” I answered. “Of course. Who else would come and talk to you, Dake? Nobody likes you, you have no friends—why are you so fucking surprised?”

  Dake’s eyes flicked past me. He wore a pair of shiny pleather pants straining to hold his ample legs in. “You have a… that’s a… you’ve got—”

  “A demon familiar.” My voice was edged with a hard delight that I didn’t really feel. “Jealous, Magi? I’ll have him talk to you up close, if you like.”

  The demon moved past me, almost as if reading my mind. The diamond flares of his aura spread, filling the room, closing around the unlucky Magi. I held my sword slanting across my body, the blessed steel a defense from the demon who bore down on Dacon with slow, even steps.

  “What the fuck you want?” Dake yelled, scrambling back and almost leaping on top of his desk. “Christ, Danny, what you want? Just tell me!”

  The demon paused, again as if reading my mind.

  “Information,” I said, scanning the room. Something was off here, one instrument was out of tune, screwing up the whole damn band.

  My nostrils flared.

  Salt-sweat-sweet. The odor of Chill.

  I fumbled the paper out of my bag. Silver flashed from my rings. I approached Dake carefully, brushing past the demon, who stood taut and ready. I unfolded the paper, glanced down at the twisted rune that was Vardimal’s name. The African masks Dake hung on the walls ran with wet red light through the plasglass windows. People downstairs were dancing, strung out on hash and sex, unaware of the drama going on right overhead.

  “I want you to give me a tracker keyed to this name, Dake. And if you’re a very good boy, I won’t call the Patrols in to get rid of your Chill stash.” You lousy, stupid motherfucker, I thought. Chill’s going to eat you alive. And how many lives are you going to destroy, dealing here? No wonder one of your bouncers is on that shit. Gods damn you, Dake.

  His round, brown eyes rolled. I held up the paper, ready to jump back if the green glow around his hands struck for me. He stuttered.

  “I ain’t—I’m not—Danny—” A thin thread of spittle traced down his stubbled chin. His mouth worked.

  “Don’t fucking lie to me!” I snarled, my sword whipping up, stopping just in time. Razor steel caressed his wet double-chin. “Now, are you going to do me a tracker, Dake, or do I get all catholic and burn this goddamn place down?” Where did the demon go? I wondered. Too much static, where did he go?

  The demon’s arm shot past me, fingers sinking into Dake’s throat under its slab of fat, pushing my sword aside. I resheathed my blade. “Put. It. Down,” the demon said, in a low throbbing impossible-to-ignore voice.

  Something metallic clattered on the floor. I didn’t glance down. The green glow lining the Magi’s hands drained away.

  Dake’s face crumpled. He began to sob.

  Oh, Sekhmet sa’es. If he starts to cry I’ll be here all night calming him down.

  “Let go of him,” I snapped. “He won’t be good for anything if you make him cry.”

  The demon made a low, growling sound. “As you like,” he finished. Dake whined, gibbering with fear.

  I was perilously close to losing my temper. Instead, I curled my fingers into Dake’s shoulder as the demon retreated. “Oh, c’mon, Dake, we’re just playing around, right? You don’t mean to hurt me. You like me. You want to be my friend, don’t you, Dake?” Exactly as I would talk to a four-year-old.

  Dake whined and nodded, his lank brown hair flopping forward over his sweaty forehead. Just like school. I’d interfered once when some of the bigger Magi kids had been pushing Dake around, and had to suffer his pathetic attachment for the rest of my career at Rigger Hall. The trouble with Dake was that he had no grit in him; if he hadn’t already been broken Mirovitch and Rigger Hall would have wrecked him. For a Magi to lack a magickal Will was bad news; the Power wouldn’t obey and his or her spells would go awry. I was of the private opinion that it was a good thing Dake hadn’t been able to call up more than an imp inside a chalk circle with a whole collection of more experienced Magi standing guard in case things went wrong; an unwary, cowardly Magi would be easy prey for anything larger than an imp.

  And I wondered what would have happened if something like Jaf ha
d shown up in response to Dake’s summonings. A Greater Flight demon could kill even from within a chalked circle; that’s why they were so hard to call up. Lucky me, getting to hang out with one.

  The demon made a low grinding sound, a growl. “Good,” I said. “Good. You’ll be my good boy, Dake, and give me a tracker. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you can go back to selling Chill and waiting for it to burn out your fucking brain and your Talent as well.”

  “I’m not on Chill,” he lied, his eyes shifting back and forth.

  I cursed internally. Does he have enough Talent left to do a decent tracker? I stepped back, and Dake slid down from the desk, his boots hitting the floor. I half-turned, looked at the demon. Japhrimel’s eyes were incandescent green. “Make sure he doesn’t move,” I said, and didn’t wait for the answer.

  Below conscious level, the spinning vortex of darkness that was the demon focused on a red-brown pulsing smear. Dake.

  My own aura under the demon’s shielding held the trademark glitters of a Necromance. I watched those glitters swirl, reacting to the presence of the demon and the nervous spatters of red-brown Dake was giving off. On this level, Dacon Whitaker was visibly in trouble, gaping holes in his aura, Power jittering and trembling out of his control. Dake’s Power would escape him, eat him alive as the Chill consumed his nervous system. But not yet—not yet. He had his Power—but not for very much longer.

  I snapped back into myself. The demon was absolutely still and silent, his shoulder touching mine, his eyes eating into a trembling Dake.

  I held the paper up. “I need a tracker, Dake. Get your kit, and be quick. I’ve got other shit to do tonight.”

  When it was finished, the tracker looked like a globe of spun crystal and silver wire, a crystal arrow inside it, pulsing faintly reddish as it spun. “What’s the range on this thing?” I asked, almost forgetting that Dake was a Chillfreak now. When he was motivated he did good work, and it was always nice to see another magickal discipline perform.