Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Be polite, sweetie. She’s new at this.” The woman rolled her eyes, then rested her elbows on her knees again. “What can we do for you, Miss Valentine?”

  Now that was unexpected. I drew the papers out of my pocket, making sure to move very slowly. All the same, Nikolai’s eyelids dropped a fraction. A chill, prickling weight of Power covered him.

  I don’t think I’d ever want to see him pissed off. The thought was there and gone in a flash, I pushed the sudden swell of almost-fear down. I had nothing to worry about, I was here on business, and I wasn’t just human.

  Am I? What’s the protocol for an almost-demon dealing with a Master Nichtvren? This wasn’t ever covered at the Academy. Maybe I should write to the Hegemony Educational Board.

  I laid the papers on the table, swallowing the choking panicked giggle rising in my chest. “The police have asked me to look into this. Have you ever seen anything like it? I know you’ll have access to texts I don’t. If you can narrow this down, it would help me immensely.”

  She scooped the papers up. Nikolai didn’t move, but he seemed to give the impression of a twitch. She settled back, moving with preternatural Nichtvren grace, and cuddled into his side.

  That managed to make him move. He slid his arm over her shoulders and looked down at the top of her head. My heart slammed into my throat. For some reason, he reminded me of Eddie watching Gabe, his face softening slightly, his eyes lighting up. It was a startlingly human expression on a being who hadn’t been human for a long, long time. No man had ever looked at me like that.

  Would you have noticed, if they did? the deep voice asked me.

  I decided to not even dignify that thought with a response. Sekhmet sa’es, I’m even ignoring my own bloody self. I’m losing my mind.

  Velvet rustled as I shifted uneasily. I wished I could have worn jeans to this. At least if I’d worn jeans I could have ridden a slicboard. I licked dry lips and watched as she scanned the pictures, her mouth tightening.

  She shuddered, her blue eyes lighting with a flare of something almost-panicked, gone in an instant.

  Nikolai’s eyes flicked over me.

  “Nik?” She held up the papers. “Take a look at this.”

  He stirred himself to glance, a faint line grooving between his eyebrows, taking the laseprints from her slim pretty hand.

  “It’s Ceremonial.” She moved slightly, her body shifting closer to his. “But I haven’t seen this variation. Have you?”

  “It stinks of evil, Selene.” His eyes lost their catshine for a moment and turned dark. For a moment, there was a flash of how he might have looked as a human man, and I found myself staring, hoping to catch it again.

  “Have you seen it?” she demanded, her hand flashing out to catch the other side of the sheaf of paper. There was a long, breathless pause.

  “No, milyi.” His eyes searched her face, still dark and horribly, awfully human. “I have not seen this exact variation. And yet…” He trailed off, his gaze moving slow and gelid past me and out over the dance floor. He looks just like a lion looking over a herd of zebras, I thought. Or a pimp checking out a flock of unregistered hookers.

  “You’re killing me here, Nikolai.” She pushed a dark-blonde curl out of her face. Her lips quirked downward before she smiled. Bits of light from the blastball suspended over the dancefloor flicked over the smooth planes of her face. “Can we just once have some information without it being a huge production?”

  Hear, hear, I seconded internally. I’d thought it was going to be a relief to be in a place without human stink. Instead, it creeped me out. My hackles rose, almost-goosebumps roughening my skin. They clustered through the whole building, the Nichtvren, alien as demons, even if originally human. The only way to become a Nichtvren is to be infected, bitten and transformed with a blood exchange; it usually takes two or three exchanges for the Turn to happen. Bones change, the jaw becomes distended and cartilaginous, the eyes transform, able to see in complete darkness, and the thirst races through their veins. It’s a combination of retroviral infection and some etheric transfer from Master to fledgling that modern science, for all its biomechanical wonder, can’t replicate. They were different from normal humans and different from me, yet I still felt something odd: a type of kinship.

  Most of the Nichtvren here had been Turned into something else, altered away from human and into something different. Something more.

  Like me.

  I wonder if people feel like this when they look at me. I shifted slightly on the uncomfortably hard couch. Velvet rasped against my skirt. The air inside the sticky shield turned chill, pressing against heart and throat and eye. If I’d still been human, this would have made me draw my sword, a feral, bloodthirsty current swirling through the air. I would have looked for a safe wall to put my back to. It felt like someone was going to get hurt.

  “It looks like Feeder glyphs.” One of Nikolai’s hands crept up, touched her cheek. The gesture was so tender, blood rose hot in my cheeks, I felt like a voyeur. His eyes took back the gold-green sheen of a cat’s, flicked between the photos and then her face. “Why have I heard nothing of this?”

  I shrugged. “It started with a normal, and then a sexwitch. One of Polyamour’s girls. Then it was a Necromance. Christabel Moorcock.” I quelled the shiver rising up my spine. “They’re Feeder glyphs?” Feeder glyphs were illegal except for research purposes. Twisting the Nine Canons to serve a Feeder was heavy-duty magick, lethal to some, it was hard to protect against spells using runes that could bolster a Feeder’s talents.

  “They appear to be,” Nikolai answered, his eyes still locked on Selene’s face. She moved slightly, her mouth softening, and I dropped my gaze to the bullet-scarred table. You’d think Nichtvren would have proper furniture, I thought sourly, and inhaled deeply to calm myself. My left shoulder eased slightly, not so much of the crunching, living glare of pain. The music outside melded into RetroPhunk, their Celadon Groove. A chill finger traced my spine. The last time I’d heard this music had been in Dacon Whitaker’s old nightclub before I’d turned him in for running Chill. When I’d blown back into town after Rio, I’d found out Dake was dead of Chill detox, eaten alive by the drug. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, just like everything else I’d been thinking lately.

  Nikolai spoke again, his voice slicing the noise like a silvery scalpel through mauled flesh. “This thing killed a tantraiiken?”

  I had to think before I remembered that was one of the old—very old—words for a sexwitch. Sexwitches used to be rare, their ability to heal and need to live off the etheric and psychic energy raised by sex combining to make them prized paranormal pets before the Awakening. It also contributed to a lot of them getting killed off young in some very nasty ways before they had Hegemony protection. I nodded, the stilettos a reassuring sharp weight in my hair.

  “Then you shall have assistance in hunting down the perpetrator.” Nikolai shuffled the papers back together with one brisk movement. “You are welcome here, Miss Valentine. When you have dispatched this criminal, come back. It seems my Selene fancies you.”

  The female rolled her eyes again, a reassuringly human movement. “That’s his way of saying you can step in without an invitation,” she translated, plucking the papers from his hand and leaning forward to offer them to me. My fingers were numb. I forced my right hand to close around the laseprints and tuck them back in my pocket.

  “Thank you,” I managed through my dry lips. “Ma’am.”

  “It’s Selene.” Her eyes flicked out over the dance floor. It was a glance very much like his, maybe an unconscious imitation, but it still made my skin crawl. “There’s the delegation,” she sighed. “I think that’s all we can tell you. Nikolai’s got this thing about anyone messing with tantraiiken.”

  I don’t know why I asked. “Why?” Curiosity killed the cat, Danny. Just get out of here. Get out of here now.

  She shrugged. It was a beautiful, loose, fluid movement. “Maybe because I used to be one. Sta
y and have a drink if you like, the bar’s got stuff for just about everyone. Come back sometime.”

  “I might.” I made it to my feet, my shoulder throbbing. “Thank you.”

  Nikolai lifted his hand. “One moment, demonling.”

  I froze. He recognizes me as demon? Of course, he’s Nichtvren. He can see Power. If he came over the table at me I could carve his heart out, but she was something else. The hard glitter in her dark blue eyes and the nervous way she twitched was almost scarier than his rocklike stillness. And the Power that cloaked them both was impressive, even if it was nothing like a demon’s. Then again, nothing in the wide world was like a demon when it came to Power—except for a god.

  And I had no desire to meet any god other than my own, thank you very much. I could even go the rest of my life without having to deal with a demon ever again too.

  Now if I can just convince the Prince of Hell to forget I exist.

  “I have a library.” Nikolai’s flat cat eyes looked straight through me. The music pounded behind me. I wasn’t sanguine about going back out into the sonic assault. Or about having them at my back. Or about staying in this goddamn place any longer than I absolutely had to. I didn’t look up at the cages on the ceiling—but the effort cost me dearly. My stomach fluttered uneasily, and I had never in my life wished to vomit more than I did at that moment. “Among my acquisitions are several texts supposedly written by demons. You may find them useful.”

  Where were you the last year or so when I had time to come and bury my nose in a few books? I nodded. “Thank you.” It was all I could say.

  I turned on my heel and plunged through the sticky shield, pausing only to scoop up my cloak and swirl it around my shoulders. The music slammed into my whole body like a backdraft from a reactive fire. Get me the hell out of here. I have got to get out of here; dear gods, get me out of here—

  There was only a millisecond’s worth of warning before the lights died. The music failed as well, which was a relief. Instinct sent me into a fighting crouch, and my hand blurred up toward my swordhilt. Sudden dark settled into the walls and floor, I heard whispers and shuffles, the lamplit pricks of Nichtvren eyes firing through the gloom.

  I heard something else, too. A low, vicious growling.

  My sword whispered free of the sheath. My heart gave one incredible leaping thud, my skin coming alive. I cursed the skirt of the dress even as the demon equivalent of adrenaline flooded my system. Whatever was coming, if anything got near me I was going to kill it.

  Oh, yes. This was what I lived for.

  Screams. Something snarled and soft padded feet slapping the floor.

  A thundercrack of Power slammed out from behind me, bearing the unmistakable cold acid tang of Nichtvren. “I am not amused,” Nikolai said softly, the weight behind each word pummeling the air in concentric rings of razor-edged glass.

  That seemed to break the stasis. Chaos screamed into being, snarling and scrabbling boiling through the darkness. Roaring filled the air. I tracked the sound, coming up out of my crouch in a fast, light shuffle, blade whirling, the familiar feeling of racing on the thin edge of adrenaline rising from that old place of instinct and terror. The cloak fell for the second time, it would only tangle me up. My boots squeaked as I half-turned, steel coming up with a faint sound as it clove heavy air.

  Tchunk. My blade carved cleanly through whatever it was. I whirled on the balls of my feet, avoiding bloodspray, took the second one with a clash. Low hulking shape, my pupils dilated, demon-eyes taking in every available photon and squeezing the usefulness out of it. There wasn’t much light here, even for me.

  My left-hand main-gauche, reversed along my forearm to act as a shield, took a hell of a strike. I cried out, more in surprise than pain—the damn thing was fast. The emergency lights came up, a wash of crimson stinging my eyes but I was moving on instinct anyway, punching something hairy in the face with my fist braced with the knifehilt then leaping, landing between two hulking shapes. Quick kick behind one’s knee, the hairy shape bellowing and folding down; spinning to engage the other. The smell of blood and wet fur exploded out, gaggingly strong, my shoulder burned even more fiercely. Claws raked up my side, and the whole world seemed to go white for a moment, a sheet of fire blinding me. Black, demon blood pattered on the marble, my blood, redolent of spice and sweet rotting fruit. How did I get into this? I’m fighting off a couple of fucking werecain, bad luck I suppose, I was just in the way. Goddammit.

  It hit me like a freight train, fur and stink and claws. I smashed up with my left and again; too close to engage with the sword, get a little distance, move move move. I took the easy way out, dropping and rolling to scythe the ’cain’s legs out from underneath it. The ’cain spun aside, twisting in midair with unholy fluidity, and the scar on my left shoulder blazed into agonized life. My body gathered itself, new strength suddenly coursing through my veins, and I kicked up with both legs, my back curving as momentum jolted me up off the floor and onto my feet. My right foot lashed out, catching the ’cain I’d just tripped on the nose. A flurry in the corner of my eye was another one bearing down on me. Steel flashed. Fudoshin described a sweet, clean arc, deadly steel singing low, and more blood exploded. The ’cain leaping for me dropped, its intestines slithering wetly out as I landed, spinning to feint with the main-gauche and then cut; followed with a one-handed side-downsweep that missed because the ’cain was shuffling back.

  It was my turn to attack, my wrist turning so the blade fell into position again, every motion as natural as breathing. I bolted forward, boots shuffling and the battlecry rising in my throat; my kia shivered the air as I engaged with the werecain again. Its snarl turned into a falsetto squeal as I rammed the main-gauche home between two ribs, then leaned, sword coming in from the side, because the side-downsweep turned naturally into the rib-splitting cut. The werecain gurgled as Fudoshin bit deep—deep enough, I hoped, to cut the abdominal aorta. I twisted the blade against the suction of preternatural muscle, smelled the stink of a battlefield and of werecain blurring together, and the ’cain in front of me slumped away from my sword. I backed up, blood hissing free of shining blade as I whipped it through the cleaning-stroke; faint blue fire etched itself along the razor edge. The process of making the sword mine had begun with the first blood shed together.

  I half-spun, ready to take on the next enemy, but as soon as it had begun the fight was over. Dead werecain lay scattered about, the last one flopping until Nikolai casually reached down, Nichtvren claws extended, and tore its throat out.

  There were more bodies piled over the red velvet couch he and Selene had just been perched on, and still more bodies further away toward the dance floor. For every one I’d killed, Nikolai had killed three. “Most distressing.” His voice throbbed in the lowest register, like a huge pipe organ. It was a voice that could tear through bones and thump against the heart itself, a sound felt more than heard in the crackling silence that followed the death of the music.

  “Well,” Selene answered, over his shoulder. “You left nothing for me.”

  “My apologies, milyi.” He straightened. “Søren will have much to answer for.” His eyes came up, dark holes in his face under the shell of crimson lighting. “You fight well, demonling. And you attacked my enemies.”

  That most emphatically does not make me your friend, I thought, clamping my teeth so the words couldn’t escape. The last thing I needed right now was more trouble. If I hadn’t been in the way they would have ignored me, and I would have been happy to just get the hell out of here. “Thanks for the compliment,” I managed, my jaw set tight as I bent down to wrench my knife free of a werecain’s ribs. “Why…” I trailed off, not wanting the explanation anyway.

  “The werecain are embroiled in a territorial dispute.” He straightened as I did, immaculate. His face was a thoughtful Renascence stone angel’s, set in its perfection and unremarkable as a statue compared to the welter of Power surrounding him. Selene stood behind him, dyed and dipped
in crimson, her hands on her hips. She didn’t look happy. “This is the faction unhappy with the decision I was required to arbitrate. I am sorry for the disturbance. I do not like a guest of mine being forced to fight, it reflects badly on me. Accept my apology.”

  It’s hell being top of the heap, isn’t it? The merry, sardonic voice inside my head almost made it out of my mouth. There was a time when I would have let it. “Oh. No worries.” Then, “Have a nice night.”

  “It is extremely unlikely.” He half-turned to look over his shoulder at Selene, his gaze falling in one swift sweep down her body, as if checking her for damage. “But you have my thanks, demonling. Good luck.”

  Great. I couldn’t help myself. “I’m beginning to think I’ll need it,” I said, and got out of there while I still could.

  CHAPTER 15

  I had the hoverlimo for the rest of the night; there was no reason not to use it. So I gave the driver Christabel Moorcock’s address.

  I should have started with the puzzling Bryce Smith, or with the sexwitch Yasrule. I should have gone to salvage whatever traces remained, yet I went to Christabel’s. I tried to tell myself I was violating procedure because of instinct, and that the other two scenes were too old.

  The hoverlimo spiraled down to land on the roof of her brownstone apartment building at the edge of the Tank District. The driver scurried around to open the door before I could reach for the handle; his eyes were wide and dark. The hoverlimo rose afterward to circle in the parking-patterns overhead.

  This close to the Tank District, the smell of garbage and synth hash swirled through the air, mixing with sharp spikes of illicit sex from the hookers prowling the strips and the deep wells of the nightclubs, glittering like novas in the psychic ether. Cool wind touched my hair as I stood for a moment on the concrete landing-pad, feeling the atmosphere of the Tank press against me. If Saint City was a cold radioactive animal wanting to be stroked, the Tank was the pulsing heart of that animal, so fiercely cold it burned. The throbbing that forced vital energy through the rest of the city, through the sluggish brain of the financial district and the arteries of the pavement. The Rathole was buried in the depths of the Tank, a deep pit of vital energy whistling a subsonic note at the very bottom of my sensing-range.