Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Game over.

  “Danny.” Gabe leaned her hip on her desk, regarding me with her pretty, serene eyes. “You’re… different. I… Look, I know what Jace meant to you. If you want to talk, if you need anything—”

  I nodded. “I’ll call,” I promised.

  I saw the crows’-feet at the corners of her eyes, the fine lines beginning to take over her face. Gabe was getting too old for the Saint City Parapsych crap. She was a cop right down to her bones; she’d take it all the way up to retirement and probably do security work afterward—but she was tired. Too tired, even though she had her own deep share of stubbornness.

  And me? I wouldn’t age. I would look just the same. And when Gabe died, who would I have left that remembered?

  When she no longer remembered me, would I be dead too?

  “Gabe?” I made it to my feet in one movement, caught myself. My right leg was still a little unsteady, despite my body’s fantastic ability to heal. I struggled to find the words I wanted, failed, tried again. “Look, I just… be careful, all right? Take care of yourself.”

  “You sound like you’re going to your own execution instead of on vacation.” She laughed, her shoulders had relaxed. She was possibly looking at a promotion from this case. The most tangible benefit she’d received was a gold medallion and a silver credit disc. The credit disc would get her into Nikolai’s office building downtown if she ever needed help. The gold medallion was an award for “superlative police work.” Add to that a fat raise she didn’t need and the goodwill of the Prime Power of Saint City, and she was as well-off as I could possibly hope for. I could rest for a little while, knowing she was safe.

  I had one last question. “How’s Eddie?”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Dealing with it, I guess.”

  I nodded. That was good news.“Tell him… Tell him I killed Mirovitch myself. He isn’t coming back.” My stomach fluttered briefly, the papery whisper of Mirovitch’s voice echoing in the darker corners of my mind. “Tell him Dante gives her word Mirovitch is dead.”

  It was her turn to nod, thoughtfully, the emerald on her cheek flashing. “Danny.” Her voice was soft, as if she’d forgotten we were standing in her office. “Look, I… I’m really sorry. If you… I mean, you—”

  I felt my face tighten. I stepped forward, balanced on both feet, and put my sword down deliberately on the chair I’d just vacated. Then I spread my arms. She stared at me for a second, jaw dropping, and then moved haltingly forward, flinging her arms around me. She was so short her chin rested against the top slope of one of my breasts, but I hugged her anyway, carefully. She squeezed me with all her wiry strength, earning a slight huff of breath out of my lungs for her efforts. “You’re my friend, Gabe,” I whispered, my ruined voice creaking and breaking. “Mainuthsz.”

  “Mainuthsz,” she echoed. Then she sniffed, as if her nose was full. “You’d better believe it. Go on, go on your vacation. And if you need me, call me.”

  “Likewise. Give Eddie my best.” We untangled ourselves. I scooped up my sword. Turned away. Took four steps.

  Taking the fifth step, out of her cubicle, was the hardest thing I’d done so far.

  I did it, and was just about to turn the corner when she called out.

  “Danny? One last question.”

  I looked back over my shoulder, brushing my hair back with my left hand, the sword’s scabbard bumping my cheek, my emerald spitting a single spark.

  Gabe leaned against her desk again, her arms folded. Tears glimmered on her cheeks, her eyes were red and overflowing. She looked wavery through the welling water in my own eyes. “Why did you burn your house, Dante?”

  What could I tell her? In the end, I settled for a simple answer.

  “That was a toll. A toll paid to the dead.” I felt the smile tilt the corners of my mouth up even as a tear slid down, touching my emerald and rolling across my Necromance tat. “Gods grant they stay there. Goodbye, Gabriele. May Hades watch over you.”

  Outside, the sky was cloudy, night falling early as it always does in winter. There were no holovid reporters—they were busy covering a scandal (having to do with a judicial candidate, three hookers, two million credits, and a plasgun) in the North District. I was now, to my profound and everlasting relief, yesterday’s news and probably already forgotten by a great many people.

  A gleaming black hoverlimo broke free of its holding pattern overhead and drifted down, landing with a sigh of leafsprings, the side hatch opening. I barely waited for it to open all the way before I climbed up, ducking through the airseals into climate control and filling my lungs.

  Inside, everything was crystal and pale pleather, gleaming softly. Fitted into a rack on the wall was a twisted, scarred dotanuki, its blackened blade still seeming to vibrate with the last strike made against an enemy it had no hope of defeating. If Japhrimel had been there, Mirovitch couldn’t have attacked me—and Jace would probably still be alive.

  The sharp pinch of guilt under my breastbone retreated. I would pay my penance in my own way, in my own time. For right now, I couldn’t stand to think about it.

  I made a slight sound, wiping my cheek with the back of my right hand.

  Japhrimel sat tensely on one side. I made my way over to him as the hatch closed. The whine of hovercells crested, rattling my teeth as it always did, and my stomach flipped as the hover ascended smoothly.

  I dropped down onto the pleather seat next to him, letting out a sigh that seemed to crack my ribs.

  “You are done?” He sounded as flat and ironic as he had when I’d met him; he stared straight ahead, giving me his profile. It had taken some doing to convince him to stay out of sight in the hover while I finished the hunt I’d started. He had remarked dryly and fiercely that after coming back to physical life, tracking me through Saint City, and finding me trying to fight off Mirovitch, he now knew what fear was, having never felt it in all the long time of his life as a demon.

  The admission, pulled out of him as if by force, had broken me into a sobbing heap. And he had agreed to let me finish up with Gabe alone.

  “That was the last bit of business,” I said. “The case is closed. Gabe can go on now. And nobody needs to know about you. It would just raise more questions.”

  “Hm.” He opened his arm as I slid next to him. I settled against his side, letting out another deep sigh as his familiar heat and aura closed over me. I laid my head on his shoulder and was rewarded with the pressure of his cheek against the top of my head, a subtle caress. “And you?”

  I shut my eyes. It seemed they were leaking again. I had thought I was done with crying. “I thought you were dead,” I said for the hundredth time. “I keep thinking you’ll vanish, and I’ll wake up.”

  “I told you, while you live, I live.” He sounded calmer now, the tension leaving him. He settled back into the seat, and I leaned into him, grateful. “I would not abandon you, Dante.”

  “So if I’d dumped the… the remains into a vat of blood, would it have… brought you back?” A flare of embarrassment stained my cheeks with heat. It had been hard to leave him in the hover while I went into the police station; I still wasn’t sure he was real. The throbbing of his mark on my shoulder, sending waves of heat through me, had remained a steady reassurance. But I wanted to hear him tell me again, I wanted him to keep talking, and above all else I wanted to feel his arm around me and feel the proof and comfort of his skin on mine.

  He repeated his answer for me, again. “Most likely. The first… resurrection… is always the hardest.”

  “The fire, and the shields on my house collapsing—”

  “I am here, am I not?” Now he sounded amused. He stroked my cheek, and my breath caught. It was almost enough to drown out the persistent scratching sound of Mirovitch’s last scream. “It was not so long a time, Dante. Not for us.”

  “Long enough,” I muttered, my heart twisting again. “And if I’d known—if someone would have told me—Jace would still be alive.”

&nbs
p; “You said yourself the god denied you entrance into death. Perhaps it was his time.” Japhrimel now sounded thoughtful. His coat shifted slightly as he moved against the seat. The driver made one low swooping turn over the city, banking to head southeast. The setting sun glittered on the water, rippling on the bay’s surface, the shadows of transport hovers like the shapes of great fish drifting against the ground. I sat up to look out the window past his profile, studying the familiar geography of Saint City falling away under the hover while he studied my right hand loosely clasped in his left, lying in his lap. “I am sorry. I should have sought to tell you more.”

  “There wasn’t time while we were hunting Santino. It doesn’t matter.” It did matter, but who was I to tell him that? If he wasn’t going to make a fuss over me leaving him for dead in a burning house, I wasn’t going to blame him for not having a chance to tell me more about what I was. Even enough for me, for once. More than I deserved. “Where are we going?” And the more important question, “Are you… are you angry with me?”

  Anubis help me, I still sounded like a kid. Could he forgive me for using Jace to remind myself of what I used to be? Could he forgive me for loving a human, even if it was no match for whatever it was I felt for him?

  A demon.

  My demon. One of the many. Only this one, I hoped, wouldn’t hurt me.

  He stirred slightly, freeing his left hand to gently cup my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. A spark of green flared to life in his dark eyes, like a flash at the bottom of a deep, old well. “You are asking if I am jealous. I recall a certain swordfight not too long ago, and the outcome—and my warning you not to use me to make the Shaman jealous.”

  I was glad part-demons didn’t blush. At least, I hoped I didn’t. My cheeks were on fire. The green spark vanished, leaving his eyes dark and thoughtful as they had been since his resurrection; his skin on mine made pleasant shivers rill down my spine. Seeing him brought home how little I knew about him—and how little I knew about what he’d made me into.

  A hedaira.

  Whatever that was. Maybe now I could learn what it meant.

  His thumb stroked my cheek. My eyes half-closed. When he spoke next, it was very softly, his voice an almost-physical caress against my whole body. My flesh tightened like a harpstring. I swallowed hard against the wave of liquid heat. “How can I possibly be jealous when I know you spent your time grieving for me, Dante?”

  That reminded me of something else. “Lucifer,” I reminded him. “He said he’d been trying to contact you. That was the first clue I had that…”

  Japhrimel shrugged. “What do you owe him?” He leaned closer, a fraction of an inch at a time. My heart sped up, anticipation beating just under my skin with my pulse.

  I swallowed dryly. My eyes were dry and grainy, and bright diamond needles of pain sometimes rippled through my head. I couldn’t think of Jace without my chest hurting and my eyes filling—couldn’t think of Rigger Hall without shuddering, my hands shaking like windblown leaves. It would take time for the effects of Mirovitch’s mental assault to fade, time for my almost-demon body to heal. It would be quick, Japhrimel told me—but his idea of quick wasn’t exactly mine. Yet.

  And being near him would speed the healing even more. But the grief and the guilt, would those go away? Did I want them to, would I still be human if I no longer felt that pain?

  “Dante?” Japhrimel asked.

  “Last time I checked, I was even with the Devil. He got the Egg back.” My breath hitched in, almost a silent gasp. Though he’s been sending me letters. If he sends another one, Japhrimel, will you throw it away? Or will you open it? And if he knows you’re alive, what will the letter say?

  I couldn’t bring myself to worry about it.

  “Then let him wait,” Japhrimel said, and his mouth touched mine. I didn’t ask him again where we were going.

  It didn’t matter.

  THE NINE CANONS:

  AN INTRODUCTION

  Lecture at the Stryker Lee Hegemony

  School of Psionic Arts

  Are we all present, then? Or at least physically here? (Faint laughter.) Very well. Let’s start immediately, shall we?

  Writing is an old art, one of the oldest abstract arts known to man. We presently believe the Sumerians to be the first to practice it, but given the perishable nature of much written work we may have overlooked other civilizations entirely—including the theory that somehow demons learned writing first and taught it to humans. (More faint laughter.) I see the Magi students are not chortling. Good.

  The cuneiform of the Sumerians represents for us a critical development in human understanding: the need to convey reality with symbols.

  Ever since its inception, writing has been regarded as an art that smacks of the magickal. For example, a large part of Egyptianica sorcery was focused on writing. The Book of the Dead (here I refer to both the Egyptianica and Tibetan manuscripts of the same name) qualifies as an act of religion, which in several important aspects is indistinguishable from an act of sorcery, not the least in which it presumes that the written or spoken word—human language itself—can alter the behavior of an immutable law (namely, death), and another state of being, the afterlife. We are all familiar with the concept of Logos here, the magical act of naming to enforce one’s will on the world? Good.

  It is critical to understand one simple thing about the Canons. This is a magickal law you have had drilled into you ad nauseum, and I will repeat it again.

  There is no such thing as an empty word. Write that down, underline it, brand it into your memory. The psionic arts are tightly regulated and accredited practitioners are held to a high standard because of this simple fact. Word wedded to will—intent, that is—produces change in reality, which is the heart of even simple sorcery. Words are an extension of action; an action wedded to intent is sympathetic magick, the First Great Branch of sorcery. The Second Branch, encompassed by but distinct from the First, is runewitchery and other magickal writing. The propagandists of the twentieth century fumbled with this law, and their shortcomings as well as triumphs will be studied later this semester.

  Let us take a short look at the Canon itself before we dive into theory, shall we?

  The Nine Canons we have now had their nucleus in one Canon, from a manuscript dating to just prior the Seventy Days War. As you will no doubt recall, just prior to the War, the Awakening was beginning, and a renascence of occult knowledge as well as workable techniques for controlling Power were flourishing, both in the subversive stratum of noncitizenry in the Republic of Gilead as well as in what we now refer to as the Putchkin Alliance. This particular Canon, today known as the Jessenblack Runes and the first half-canto of the Nine, was codified by a nameless person in Stambul. It was first distributed among the ceremonial magicians in that city as a set of broadsheets, stapled together and extremely perishable. The great revolution in the Jessenblack Runes was their accessibility—they are never more than two syllables, and were distilled from several different occult traditions. They are more properly glyphs than runes—Question? No? Very well.

  We know very little about who discovered the actual technique for distilling a rune, but history has provided us with some interesting candidates, any one of whom would be an excellent subject choice for your term paper, by the way. Let us explode one myth right now: Saint Crowley the Magi had nothing to do with the Jessenblacks, though his strain of magickal theory certainly fed the spirit of experimentation that bore such fruit during the Awakening itself.

  The easiest and best theory is that the Jessenblacks were simply in the right place at the right time. Due to the explosion of psionic ability during the Awakening, any set of runes would have done just as well. However, the Jessenblacks were easy, they were simple, and they worked nine times out of ten—which is far more than many other pre-Awakening occult practitioners could say.

  The rest of the Canons were added in dribs and drabs over the next century of magickal experimentation, leaving
us with the Nine we know today, which encompass by themselves an entire branch of magick. Not only that, but the fact that the Nine have been used by so many psions for so long has given them a quantum increase in the amount of untapped Power each rune possesses.

  This is of course a simplification. The Canons are not powerful in and of themselves. Like any symbol, they are fueled by human intent. Think of it this way, especially those of you talented as runewitches: The Nine Canons are a set of doors. It remains up to you to expend the effort of opening the door. Once opened, the door will stay open as long as you hold it, and the combined weight of expectation—of Power—built up over successive uses of the rune is there to be tapped.

  Now, can anyone tell me what holds the door open? Yes, Miss Valdez? (Indistinct murmur.) Very good!

  Your sorcerous Will holds the door open, which is why practice is so important to runewitchery. This is a feedback cycle. Your Will is strengthened and trained by attention and practice, allowing you to hold the door open and incidentally adding the weight of your expectation to the symbol countless other psions have used. This is the reason the Canons are required study for every psion, not just runewitches or Ceremonials.

  Now, if you will open your books to page eleven, we will begin the first Canto…

  (Fadeout.)

  NEITHER FRIEND NOR FOE

  Term Paper: Magi Studies 403

  East Merican Hegemony Academy of Psionic Arts

  Dacon Whitaker

  The current strain of Magi thought has undergone a complete reverse in past years. This paper examines the attitudes most current among active Magi practitioners and touches on how this change came about.

  The pre-Awakening view of demons was hazy in the extreme, tainted by the Religions of Submission. Of all spiritual practices, only Vaudun and Santeriana came close to a workable theory of interaction with noncorporeal or sometimes-noncorporeal beings. This had begun to change by the end of the twenty-first century, when a vibrant counterculture existed, most notably of those studying Saint Crowley’s work. However, the Republic of Gilead interrupted most serious experimentation in this area, and the confusion of the Seventy Days War, as well as the social and economic dislocation caused by the Awakening, further interfered.