“Do you think he’s betrayed you?” he finally asked me when I checked the action on my main knives.
“It’s looking pretty fucking possible,” I said. “If what Abra told me is any indication, he ran with the Corvin Family even before he came to Saint City. You don’t ever escape the Mob. And if Santino’s running the Corvins from behind, they might be running Jace—or he was using me to pressure them for something. Or maybe just holding me until the Corvins reached a point in negotiations with Santino…” I trailed off. “It’s very possible.” I slipped my turquoise necklace on over my head, settled the pendant between my breasts. Japhrimel didn’t reply. I finally settled my bag strap across my body. “What do you think?” I asked him.
His jaw set. “Do you truly wish to know?”
I nodded. “I do.”
He shrugged, clasping his hands behind his back. “My opinion? He wants you far too badly to give you up to this Family,” he said. “All the same, it would be foolish to trust him.”
“If he wants me so much, why did he leave me?” I flared, then closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“It seems we must discover this,” he answered. “Do you care for him, then?”
“I used to,” I said, opening my eyes and looking down at my free hand, clenched in a fist. “I’m not so sure now.”
“Then do not decide yet,” was his equable reply. But his face was full of something dark. I didn’t want to know.
It was my turn to shrug. “You have agents in the city, you said.”
He nodded. “They are already searching for information. Quietly, so as not to alert our quarry.”
“That’s good.” My conscience pricked me. But that was ridiculous. He was a demon. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t even close to human. “Hey… you know, I…” Was I blushing? I was. Why?
I don’t have time for this.
I approached him cautiously, laid my hand on his shoulder. His smell closed around me, vaguely comforting. “Thank you,” I said, tilting my head back to look up into his face. “Really. I really… well, thank you.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. It was by far the most human expression I had ever seen on him. “No thanks necessary,” he said quietly. “It is my honor.”
“Do you really think I can kill Santino?” I asked.
His face changed. “We have no choice, either way. I will do all I can to protect you, Dante.”
“Good enough.” I dropped my hand. “Let’s go find our first contact.”
CHAPTER 32
The police net plug-in gave me a current map of the city and tag-locations of landmarks loaded from my datband to my datpilot; the DOC told me who was in town. It wasn’t too hard to find a familiar face. Whatever city Captain Jack was infesting, he always hung out near the prostitutes.
We visited five bordellos before we hit paydirt. I scanned a two-story building and brushed against weak, familiar shielding. After running into Captain Jack on four bounties, one of which had almost cost me my life when he turned traitor and sold me to the criminal I was hunting, I could tell his shielding even through a building reeking of sex and desperation. It was an unpleasant skill. “Come with me,” I told the demon, pushing through the crowd. “Look dangerous. Don’t kill anyone unless I do, okay?”
“As you like.” He shadowed me as I crossed the street. We ended up on the doorstep, two Nuevo Rio prostitutes eyeing us. They made no move to stop me as I strode past them. The heavies guarding the door—two rippling masses of black-market augmentation—examined me, looked at the demon, and stepped back.
It was kind of useful, having Japhrimel around.
Inside, the place was done in threadbare red velvet, waves of perfume and hash smoke, naked women pressed against lace, offering their breasts and other things. One bronzed Nuevo Rio man, reclining on an overdone mahogany and black satin couch with a guitar in his supple hands, plucked out a mellow tune—an accompaniment to the girls’ blandishments. Two customers, neither of them Jack, stared at me with wide eyes. Seeing a fully clothed woman carrying a sword in a Nuevo Rio bordello must be a huge shock.
I scanned the room—no, the Captain was up on the second floor. It figured.
The madam came fluttering out in a pink synthsilk robe, a tall and heavily lipsticked woman, her thinning hair padded out with horsehair. She carried about fifty extra pounds, and I felt the skin on my nape prickle. The three whip scars on my back gave one remembrance of a twinge, then subsided as I took a deep breath.
At least being a Necromance had saved me from being a sex worker.
She fired a chattering stream of Portogueso at us, and Japhrimel answered her with a few curt words. She paled, and he held out two folded notes—Nuevo Rio paper. Currency for those without datbands.
She snatched the notes from his hand and leered at me. I turned my cheek so my emerald sparked at her, and she almost fell over backward in her haste to get away. If the Nuevo Rios were easier with Shamans and demons and loa, they were even more frightened of Necromances. They had old legends here of the spirits that walked in Death and the humans that could talk to them—while Shamans were mostly acceptable, a Necromance definitely was not.
I took the stairs two at a time, following the pattern of instinct, intuition, and Power. A long hall, some open doors with women standing in them, their usual catcalls dying on their lips as I came into sight; other doors were closed, the reek of sex and hash in the air thick enough to cut. I tapped in, shaping the Power deftly, and by the time I smacked the door open and came face-to-face with a half-naked and disgruntled Captain Jack I was all but humming with invisible force. Any more and I’d go nova. It alerted him to my presence, of course, but by then it was too late for him.
“Hesu Christos—” he began, and I was on him, driving him to the floor, my sword within easy reach. I had him in an armlock. Japhrimel hushed the naked, screaming girl on the bed by the simple expedient of clapping a hand over her mouth. He dragged her to the door and tossed her out, then tossed a few more Nuevo Rio notes after her. How much money does he have? I thought, and leaned into the armlock.
Captain Jack, weedy from hash overuse, his ribs standing out, still possessed a great deal of wiry strength. I was actively sweating by the time he finished cursing and heaving, his sweat-slick skin sliding under my fingers. He’d gotten old. His dreadlocked brown hair was streaked with gray, bits of glittering circuit-wire wrapped around dreads and twisted into runic shapes, dusty from the plank flooring. He called me something filthy. I got my knee in his back and applied a little pressure. He settled down a little.
“What the motherfucking hell do you want?” he snarled. The demon, his face expressionless, leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest.
“What I always want, Jack. To see your sweet face,” I leaned over and purred in his ear. “Taking a vacation from Saint City, pirate? I’m on a legitimate hunt and you’ve got warrants. If you don’t want your ass hauled in and cored in a Nuevo Rio prison, you might want to consider being a little more polite.”
“Bitch,” he hissed. His long thin nose pressed into the dusty planks; spittle formed on his thin lips. He’d pawned his golden earring, I saw it was missing. The tattoos on his shoulderblades—twin dragons, with no significance or Power—writhed on his skin. He was a bottom-feeder, with only enough psi to avoid being taken into wage slavery, not enough to qualify for a trade or even as a breeder. “Whafuck? Don’t got nothing on you, I ain’t seen you in years—”
“It’s not me I’m asking about,” I said quietly. “I want to know why Jace Monroe blew into town three years ago. Give, Jack, or I’ll break your fucking arm and haul you in, I swear I will.”
He believed me. “Christos,” he moaned. “All I know’s Jace was in the Corvins… bought himself out six months ago, foughta running street war with them. He’s… big man now, lots of credit and a mean network. On the way to becoming a Family himself, he’s filed… agh, lay off— for incorporation.”
“Corvins made him a deal: Either he come in or they ice some bitch he was seeing. Lay off, willya? You’re breakin my fuckin arm!”
“I’ll break more than that if you keep whining. Who’s he working for now?”
“You! Goddammit, woman, he’s working for you! That’s the word! Let up a little, come on, Valentine, don’t!”
“Quit your bitching. Who’s leaning on the Corvins to put my ass in a blender? Huh? Who?”
“Some big dude!” Jack moaned, his eyes rolling. “Don’t know! Five million credit and a clean slate for bringing you in. Whole city’s lookin’ for you—”
“That makes you the lucky one, doesn’t it.” I eased up a little on the pressure. “You must have heard rumors, Jack. Who’s pushing the Corvins?”
“Same as always, the big dick Corvin. Jace was their front man in Saint City, man. Goddammit, lay off!”
“Jace was their front man three years ago?” That was something I hadn’t guessed.
“Hell, he’s been working for them his whole life! Ran off about six years ago, worked mercenary, they let him go for a while and then sank their hooks in good when he started seein’ some bitch up Saint City way. I ain’t been back there for five goddamn years, Valentine, I don’t know who he was screwin’ up there! Lucas will know, go bother him!”
That was unexpected news. “Lucas Villalobos? He’s in town? Where?”
“Man, do I look like a fuckin’ vid directory?”
I shoved. He screamed, the sound of a rabbit caught in a trap.
“Las Vigrasas! He hangs out at Las Vigrasas on Puertain Viadrid, goddammit, motherfuck—”
I looked up at the demon. He nodded slightly, understanding. It sounded like Jack was telling the truth.
I gained my feet, scooping my sword up; watched Captain Jack struggle up to hands and knees, then haul himself into a sitting position, facing me. “Hesu Christos,” he moaned. “Look at this mess. You used to be such a nice girl, Valentine.”
“Yeah, I had to grow up. Sucks, doesn’t it.” My lip curled. “Thanks for your time and trouble, Captain.”
“Fuck you,” he spat, his watery brown eyes rabbiting over to the demon and halting, wide as credit discs. He crossed himself—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—while I watched, fascinated. I’d never seen Captain get religious before. “Nominae Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti—”
Does he think Japhrimel’s going to disappear in a puff of brimstone? I thought, feeling a sardonic smile tilt one corner of my mouth. “I never knew you were a Novo Christer, Jack. I thought fucking so many prostitutes would have made you irreligious.”
He kept babbling his prayer. I sighed, backed up a few steps, eased for the door. It wasn’t wise to turn your back on Captain Jack.
I made it to the door before he broke off long enough to glare at me. “I hate you, Valentine,” he hissed. “One of these days—”
Japhrimel tensed. His eyes flared. I reached behind me for the doorknob. “Promises, promises,” I said, twisting the knob and opening the door. “If you go running to Monroe, tell him he’d better pray his path doesn’t cross mine.”
“They’ll catch you!” Jack screamed. “The whole city’s lookin’ for you!”
“Good luck to them,” I said, and ducked out of the room. Japhrimel followed me.
“Shall I kill him?” he asked quietly as we made our way down the hall. The entire bordello was silent, waiting. “He threatened you.”
“Leave him alone. He hates me for a good reason.”
“What would that be?”
“I killed his wife,” I said, checking the stairs. Looked safe enough. “Come on. Let’s go find Lucas.” My jaw set, and fortunately, Japhrimel didn’t ask me anything else.
CHAPTER 33
Las Vigrasas was a bar. The street it crouched on lay under a drift of trash, furtive shadows sliding from place to place, danger soaking the air. I shivered, peering at the front of the bar from our safe place across the street. Japhrimel had suggested watching the place for a few minutes, and I’d concurred.
I scanned the place carefully. No real Power here, this was a blindhead bar. It was asking for trouble, walking in there. Some places weren’t very hospitable to psis.
A lonely sign with a peeling L s Vig asa painted on it swung slightly in the freshening breeze. The air was so muggy, even the breeze didn’t help much. Bullet holes and plasgun scorches festooned the buildings.
I took a deep breath. “What do you think?” I asked him.
I can’t believe I’m asking a demon his opinion, I thought. What the hell is wrong with me? Then again, he’s my best backup, at least until I find this Egg thingie.
“I think this is a dangerous place,” he said softly. “I would ask you to be careful, but—”
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “Look, don’t hesitate in there. You see someone go for me, take them down.”
“Kill them?”
“If necessary.” I paused. “I trust your judgment.”
His eyes sparked briefly, turning bright laser-green, and then just as swiftly darkened. “You do?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “You haven’t let me down yet.”
He didn’t answer, but his eyes held mine for a long moment.
I finally eased out of the shadows and crossed the street, skirting mounds of rubble and trash. I didn’t have to look—Japhrimel seemed melded to my shadow. Three steps led up to Las Vigrasas’s swinging door; I heard rollicking shouts from behind it, a barrelhouse piano going. I pushed the door open, grimacing inwardly at the feel of greasy wood against my fingers. A roil of smell pushed out—alcohol, vomit, cigarette smoke, the stench of an untended lavatory, unwashed men.
Eau de Nuevo Rio bar, I thought. I wish Gabe was here.
That startled me. I wasn’t used to hunting with anyone in tow, but it had been nice to have Gabe around. At least she was honest—or I hoped so. Then again, she had suggested staying with Jace, and contacted him.
It truly sucks to doubt your friends when you only have one or two of them, I realized.
I strode into the bar, Japhrimel behind me. Cigarette smoke hazed the air. The dark and sudden quiet that fell over the raucous drunken pit warned me. Oh, what the hell, I thought. In for a penny, in for a motherfucking pound. My emerald spat, sizzled, a green spark drifting down to the floor.
A long bar crouched on the left side of the room, tables and chairs scattered to my right. I stepped down, my boots making quiet sounds against the wood of the stairs and then a muffled deadened sound as I stepped onto the oiled sawdust.
Dark eyes watched me. Several Nuevo Rios, lean tanned men in clothes very much like mine, plasguns and old-time projectile guns openly displayed. There was a smattering of Anglos—I scanned the bar once, and found a familiar slouched set of shoulders. Lucas stood with his back to the door, leaning against the bar.
I knew better than to think he didn’t know who had just come in from the cold.
I made it two steps across the sawdust before the bartender spat something in Portogueso, a long deadly-looking shotgun in his brown hands. He wore a stained apron and a sweat-darkened white shirt, oddly luminescent in the gloom.
Japhrimel said something in reply, and the air temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. Nobody moved, but there was a general sense of men leaning back. I waited, eyeing the bartender, my peripheral vision marking everyone in the room. Lucas wore a Trade Bargains microfiber shirt, like me; run-down jeans and worn engineer boots. But he also wore a bandolier, oiled supple leather against his shirt; his greasy hair lay lank against his shoulders.
The bartender spoke again, but his voice quivered slightly. I watched the shotgun.
Japhrimel said nothing, but the air pressure changed. I felt like a woman holding a plasgun over a barrel of reactive—my pulse ran tight and hot behind my wrists and throat, my nape tingling, my
skin bathed with Power.
Five seconds ticked by. Then the bartender dropped his shotgun on the bar. The wood and metal clattered. I tensed, bile whipping my throat. Do all these places have to smell so bad? I thought, and then, If I didn’t have Japhrimel with me, someone would have tried to kill me by now.
It was awful handy, having a demon around.
The bartender raised his hands, backing away from the shotgun. His pupils dilated, the color draining from his face. Pasty and trembling, he slumped against the flyspotted mirror sporting shelves of dusty bottles. Glass chattered.
I pantomimed a yawn, patting my lips with the back of my hand. My rings flashed. I walked across the sawdust, skirting a table where three men had a card game set out. I glanced down at the table—poker. Of course. A pile of metal bits lay in the middle of the table. One of the men caught my eyes and hurriedly looked down at his cards.
I made it to where Lucas leaned against the bar. A glass full of amber liquid sat at his elbow.
“Valentine,” he said, not turning around. His voice was a whisper, the same whispered tone Necromances affected after a while. It made me shudder to hear. “Thought you’d come looking for me.”
“I hate being predictable,” I said carefully. “I want information.”
“Of course you do. And I’m the only honest fucker you can find in this town that won’t sell you.” He shrugged, one shoulder lifting, dipping. “What you paying?”
“What you want?” I kept my katana between us.
“The usual, chica. You got it?” His shoulders tensed.
“Of course, Lucas. I wouldn’t come here otherwise.” Letting you walk inside my mind isn’t a price I want to pay, but I have no choice.
He turned around then, slowly, and I took a step back. Japhrimel’s fingers closed around my shoulders, and I found myself with the demon plastered to my back, my sheathed katana raised to be a bar between me and Lucas Villalobos.
Dante Valentine Page 19
