Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Afraid? That puzzled me. It wasn’t in me to be afraid, was it? I was supposed to fight. The classics Lewis had poured into me had taught me that much: the only way to kill your fears was to fight them. Be as frightened as you want, Lewis’s voice whispered in my head. Then do what you have to do. That’s what he’s saying here, in this passage.

  “I got whipped once. Put in the cage four times. B-branded. I was lucky it wasn’t more.” Lucky nothing happened that broke me. Nothing big. Nothing I couldn’t handle, Jace.

  “Lucky.” His aura flushed with fury. “Danny—”

  “Clear off a space on the table, Jace. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can bury this again.” And by the grace of Anubis, I can’t wait to bury this again.

  He stared at me for a few more moments, jaw working, then turned on his bootheel and stalked away soundlessly. I knew that set to his shoulders, the controlled angry grace. Jace was furious. I had only seen him in a rage twice, but both times had given me a healthy respect for his anger. I wondered if I was going to see it again, hoped not.

  If he went nova I might draw steel on him, and I didn’t quite trust myself with edged metal right now.

  I carried the books into the dining room. He moved jerkily, clearing a space on the table. Other texts on demonology and basic Magi theory, drifts of paper where I’d made notes, and the talismans Jace had been working on—he stacked them all to the side, and I put the eleven yearbooks down. Blew out a heavy breath.

  “Who are we looking for?” He set a four-book set of Tierley’s Democria Demontia on one of the chairs with excessive delicate care. I picked up a piece of fine parchment, a twisted glyph that was Japhrimel’s name branded into my shoulder repeated over and over again in different permutations. I hadn’t even realized I was doodling it.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly more grateful for his presence than ever. I had to force myself to speak quietly. “Well, after we visit Polyamour we’ll have some more names. But I want to find out if Christabel’s class had anyone named Keller. Can you get my bag and your datpilot? I want to see if there are any Ceremonials in town.”

  “Hm. Why Ceremonials? You’re thinking they might have a connection to this?”

  Ceremonial magicians weren’t as rare as Necromances or as common as Shamans. They worked with the Nine Canons and the Seven Seals, charging and containing Power in objects, working with talismans, and providing permanent defenses for corporations, not to mention doing theoretical work and research into magick and the science of Power. Most teachers and trainers were Ceremonial magicians.

  But there was a simpler reason why I wanted to find out who was in town. I met his worried blue eyes and gave him a smile that didn’t feel natural at all. “I want to find out if any of them have gone Feeder.”

  Because, out of all psions, it was the Ceremonials—those who dealt with the theory of containing Power—who most often turned Feeder in adulthood. And if we had a Ceremonial on our hands who had gone Feeder and was hunting down former Rigger Hall students, the whole city’s collection of psions would have to be alerted.

  I would need all the help I could get.

  CHAPTER 21

  We were into the third book when the phone rang. I stretched and yawned while I padded into the kitchen. Jace tapped another name into his datpilot, glancing up briefly as I passed him. Late-morning light glowed in the windows. I leaned a hip against the counter and picked the phone up. “ ’Lo.”

  A click and a pause, as if the call was on relays. My spine went cold, as if my body recognized the truth before I did.

  “Dante Valentine. It is a singular pleasure to speak to you again.”

  My entire body turned to ice. There was only one being in the entire goddamn world that could strangle me with fear in just two sentences.

  The voice was smooth as silk, persuasive, crawling into my head. My phone had no vidshell, for which I was now doubly grateful. If I had to face down the Prince of Hell again, even over a holovid shell, I wasn’t sure I would come away from the experience quite sane.

  The letter. I’d chucked it into the garbage. I owed him nothing. There was no reason for the Prince of Hell to want to talk to me. I’d done what he wanted, and I’d paid the price. I had screamed as Japhrimel turned to ash in my arms. Wasn’t he happy? Wasn’t that enough?

  Why would the Devil call me on the phone instead of sending another demon to collect me if he wanted me? He’d done it before, sending Japhrimel and asking me to hunt down Santino, perfectly aware I had my own reasons for wanting that bastard dead.

  Anubis protect me. The jolt of fear that smashed through my throat tasted like iron. What if Lucifer is involved with the murders?

  My entire body went cold. My throat was dry. My hand tightened, digging clawlike fingernails into the countertop. Ceramic screeched under the pressure of my fingers, claws springing free and dimpling the tough tiles. “I can’t say the same,” I husked, my throat burning with the memory of the Devil’s hand crushing my larynx. “What the hell do you want? Leave me alone.”

  “Polite as ever.” Lucifer’s voice held a weight of amusement I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to hear again. “I must speak with your lover, and I am unable to contact him in the usual manner. You will not respond to my missives. Therefore, I am forced to use the human channels of communication.”

  What the motherfucking hell is he talking about? My lover? Has Lucifer been spying on me? My entire body flushed hot, then cold again; my nipples drawing up, my skin going cold and tight as an icy glove.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I could actually feel my temper grow thin and brittle, rage rising to wash away sick, deadening fear. “I don’t have time for this, Lucifer. You killed Japhrimel, you bastard demon; are you calling to remind me? You think I’m going to hand Jace over to you? Get a life.” And he’s not my lover either. Though that’s none of your goddamn business, is it, you sack of diseased shit. The cupboards rattled as my voice turned sharp and cool, Power spiking under the harsh, throaty croak.

  But the suspicion, once voiced, wouldn’t go away. Oh, my dear sweet fucking gods, is Lucifer involved in this? My entire body turned to ice. A solid block of ice.

  If this was something to do with demons, I was dead in the water. But Christabel’s body had held no hint of demon, no scent of spice and dark flame.

  There was a pause. “Can it be you have not resurrected him?” The Prince of Hell actually—chalk one up for me—sounded shocked.

  I seem to have a habit of nonplussing demons.

  My voice was a choked whisper. “Resurrected?” What the hell did that mean? Jace wasn’t dead. And if I could have resurrected Japhrimel, I would have already done it.

  Then I shook myself. Demons lied. The Prince of Hell was no exception. So he’d sent me a little love note, and now he was graduating to obscene phone calls. I had no fucking time for this, not when I was trying to deal with every goddamn ghost from my childhood trying to climb up through the floor and throttle me.

  “Go away,” I enunciated clearly through the scratching in my throat. “You don’t need me, I’m not your errand-girl anymore. Japhrimel is dead, you can’t hurt him anymore. You’re just lucky I don’t come after you for kidnapping Eve. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have real work to do and a killer to catch.” I slammed the phone down so hard the tough plasteel base cracked.

  I wanted to pick it up again, see if he was still on the line. I wanted to scream, I wanted to dial the operator. Hello, Vidphone Central? Hook me up to Hell. Tell the Devil he can have me, if he just brings Japhrimel back. Tell him I’ll do anything he wants, if I don’t have to face this alone.

  Then welcome fury crawled up between the words. Tell him, while you’re at it, that if he’s involved with this he’d better say his prayers. Because he’s meddled in my life one too many times, and if he’s killing Necromances in my city I’m going to see how much demonic flesh my blade can carve. We’re even, sure, but I have a score to settle with you, Lucifer Iblis.


  Despite my brave words, I couldn’t rescue Doreen’s daughter. I stared at the phone, longing to reach through and throttle the Prince of Hell. Why call me now? He’d left me to rot in Rio, stewing in the aftermath of Japhrimel’s death and savage guilt that I hadn’t been able to save Eve. The fact that Eve was a demon Androgyne—a child I had no hope of raising—didn’t salve the ache. Doreen’s ghost had asked me to save her, and I’d tried.

  Tried and failed. Lucifer had Eve now. That I’d had no hope of fighting the Devil to keep him away from her didn’t ease my conscience one iota.

  Failed. Just like with Japhrimel, lying dead on the white marble plaza under the hammerblow of Nuevo Rio sun, dead and gone. I kept my hand away from the mark on my shoulder only with a titanic effort of will that left me shaking, sweat for once springing up along my scalp and the curve of my lower back.

  I drove my teeth into my lower lip, the sweet jolt of pain shocking me back into some sort of rational frame of mind. Too bad rational never worked where demons were concerned. Stop it. You don’t owe the Devil jackshit, you’re free. He can’t hurt you now.

  That was a lie. The Devil could hurt me plenty if he bestirred himself to do it.

  “Danny?” Jace, from the dining room.

  I backed away from the phone, eyeing it as if it would rise up and strike me. Given what I knew of demons, it was a distinct possibility.

  “Danny? Who is it?”

  I cleared my throat. “Wrong number,” I called back, my voice as harsh as if Lucifer had just half-strangled me again. The same wrong number that sent a letter I never let you see.

  Silence. I glared at the phone, daring it to ring again.

  It didn’t.

  Leave me alone. Leave Jace alone, leave my city alone. You killed Japhrimel and stole Eve, you leave me alone or so help me, I will…

  What could I do? A big fat nothing. Fat gooseflesh rose rough on my arms, bumps struggling up under golden skin. I took a deep, racking breath in. I couldn’t worry about demons now too. Let’s just hope he was playing with me, what do you say, Danny? Just torturing the human, making sure I still know who’s boss. Who’s keeping an eye on my life in case he needs a goddamn hand puppet again.

  Finally, my shoulders dropped slightly. Why would Lucifer pick now to start playing mind-games on me again? I hadn’t done any divination for a week or so, but even when I had, there had been no whisper of demons in my cards.

  Then again, last time there hadn’t been any warning either. And the letter, with its fat blood-red seal…

  Don’t think like that, Danny. You’re going to get paranoid, and paranoid is exactly what you do not need. Paranoid people don’t think clearly.

  Despite the fact that paranoid people usually survived better than the foolhardy, I told myself sardonically. Besides, if Lucifer thought he could use me again, he was going to have another think coming. A long, hard think, preferably a painful one.

  “Danny, I think I have something,” Jace called.

  I swallowed, my throat clicking. Turned away.

  The phone rang again. Twice. Three times.

  No. My hands shook.

  “Danny?” Scrape of a chair, Jace was getting to his feet.

  I scooped the phone up, pale crimson fury spilling through the trademark sparkles of a Necromance in my aura. “Look, you son of a bitch—” I began, the cupboards chattering open and closed, a mug falling from a rack and hitting the wooden floor with a tinkling crash.

  “Danny?” It was Gabe. “What the hell? Are you okay?”

  I swallowed. Jace skidded into the room, his guns out. “I’m fine,” I said to both of them. My throat was full of scorching sand. “What’s up, Spooky?”

  “Saddle up, I’ve got another body.” Gabe was trying to sound flip and hard, but her voice shook. I could almost see her pale cheeks, the trembling around her mouth.

  “Where?” I shook my head at Jace, whose hands blurred, spinning the guns back into their holsters. He scanned the room, then stared at me, the question evident in his blue eyes.

  “Corner of Fourth and Trivisidero, the brick house with the holly hedges.” No wonder Gabe sounded uncomfortable—that was precious close to her own home. “Get here quick, we’re holding the scene for you.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.” I dropped the phone back into its cradle. “Let’s go, Jace.”

  “You might want to take a look at this first. Are you all right?” His eyes dropped from me to the shattered mug on the floor. Shards of ceramic dust—my anger and fear had shattered the mug, ground into it, compounding injury with insult. It was the blue Baustoh mug.

  The one Jace liked, the one Japhrimel had chosen for his use the only time he’d drunk coffee in my house.

  Anubis et’her ka. I didn’t want to think about it.

  “What have you got?” I rubbed delicately at my throat with my fingertips, my nails pricking, claws threatening to spring free. My right hand actually itched for my swordhilt, and the sensation was so eerie I almost couldn’t feel relieved that it wasn’t cramping.

  “It occurred to me to look at the last yearbook that listed Mirovitch as Headmaster, the year he died. Guess who was on the Student Yearbook Committee?” Jace looked up from the glossy blue shards of ceramic, and the question in his eyes remained unspoken. I was grateful for that, more grateful than I ever thought I would be to him.

  “Who?”

  “Christabel Moorcock.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I suppose we had to give the reporters something; besides, it was too hard to talk while on slicboards with the wind rattling and howling around us. So we took the hovercar. The flashes from pictures being snapped bathed the underside of the hover. I glanced out the window, my lip curling, glad of the privacy tinting. Jace drove while I looked through the yearbook from my eighth year at school. “Check page fifty-six,” he said, and I flipped through the heavy vellum pages. “Now look at Moorcock’s picture.”

  Christabel Moorcock, known as “Skinny.” She grinned out of the page of holovid stills, a tenth-year student with long dark hair and wide dark eyes. She was pretty but alarmingly thin; her cheekbones standing out and her heart-shaped face a touch too long. The cupid’s-bow of her mouth was plump and perfect, her eyebrows winged out. The picture was a headshot, it showed only the very top edge of her collar.

  Below were the usual lists of interests, including Faerie Ceremonial magick—and a small black mark shaped like a spade in a deck of playing cards. I rubbed at it, thinking it an ink blot, but it didn’t blur. “The black mark?”

  “Now try page fifty-eight. Steven Sebastiano.” Jace’s fingers danced over the touchpad, and the AI pilot took over inserting us into hovertraffic. I felt the familiar unsettling pull of gravity against my stomach, swallowed hard. Can it be you have not resurrected him? Lucifer’s soft, beautiful voice teased at my brain.

  Resurrect a demon? It’s not possible. But then again, I’d been researching only to try and find out how Japhrimel had altered me. I had never thought that… It wasn’t possible that I could bring him back, was it?

  Was it?

  I want him back. That was a child’s plaint. I wanted each dead person back. I wanted every person I’d ever loved back.

  And I, of all people, should understand the finality of Death.

  “Danny?”

  I shook myself back into the present, closed the yearbook with a snap, not bothering to check Sebastiano’s picture. “You’re a sneaky bastard.” I tried to sound admiring. “Good work, Jace. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Have you looked to see—”

  “I haven’t made a list yet. But I thought it was worth looking into, seeing as how that’s the only link between Christabel and Polyamour I can find in the yearbook.”

  The year Mirovitch died, Christabel was on the yearbook committee. Why would she leave a mark? If she did leave a mark, that is. It would be stupid. On the other hand, Mirovitch was dead by the time they finalized the yearbook, it came out at the
end of the year, after the inquest. It’s probably nothing, some primary-school bullshit. Still, it’s the only clue we’ve got. “I wonder who lives on Trivisidero.” I looked out the window, seeing the city roll by underneath, its daylight geography gray with concrete and splashes of reactive paint marking hover bounce pads, the towers of high-density apartment buildings scrolling down Lossernach Street. If I focused, I could see the strings of Power underlying every street and building, the green glow of any trees and gardens that managed to survive. And underneath it all lay the pulsing radioactive smolder of the city’s heart, seething in a white-cold mass of Power.

  “Gabe does.” The hover dropped out of the traffic pattern into a lazy spiral.

  “Gabe didn’t go to Rigger Hall.” I reopened the yearbook, scanned the pages, looking for more black marks. “We’re going to have to make a list.”

  “Here we are,” he said. “Danny? Who was it on the phone?”

  It was the goddamn Devil, Jace. “Nobody,” I muttered, my right hand reaching up to massage my burning left shoulder through my shirt. “Gods.”

  Can it be you have not resurrected him?

  “ ’Kay.” We were keyed through the police security net. Jace piloted the hover down to land in the driveway of an immaculate brick house. I remembered the place from walking to Gabe’s so many times. The holly bushes outside were green and healthy and the walls behind them covered with the strangely geometric shielding of a Ceremonial. There were other police hovers there, including a squat black coroner’s hover.

  “Great.” I triggered the door lock. “Well, what do you know. Digging that coffin up wasn’t useless after all.”

  I hopped out, the hover’s hum diminishing as Jace turned off the drive. The springs groaned a little as the hover settled.

  The house was three stories high and immaculate, the gardens largely ornamental. I saw several rosebushes and a monkey puzzle tree. The roof was new, plasilica made to look like slate, gleaming wetly from last night’s rain and the afternoon sunlight. There were officers milling all over the front driveway, a wide circular field of crushed white stone. At the top of wide granite steps there was a police guard at the massive wooden front door, two Saint City blues; I saw Gabe’s familiar figure come out blinking into the sunlight. She lifted a hand, I saw one of the blues at the door flinch.