Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Liar.” The first thing you noticed was my annoying human habit of asking questions and being rude. I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder to calm him. It had taken a long time for me not to care what his long black coat was made of. I was getting better at all of this.

  “Hm.” He stroked my hair, his fingers slipping through the long ink-black strands. I often had wistful thoughts of a shorter cut, but when he played with it I always ended up putting off the inevitable trim. At least I no longer had to dye it, it was black all the way through naturally now. Silken black.

  The same as his. Just as my skin was only a few shades paler than his, or my pheromonal cloak of demon scent was lighter but still essentially the same.

  “Japhrimel?” The huskiness that never left my voice made the air stir uneasily. My throat didn’t hurt anymore, but something in my voice was broken all the same by the Prince of Hell’s iron fingers.

  “What, my curious?”

  “What’s wrong?” I slid my free arm around him and squeezed slightly, so he’d know I was serious. “You’re….” You’re in that mood again, Japh. The one where you seem to be listening to something I can’t hear, watching for something I can’t see, and set on a lasetrigger that makes me a little nervous. Even though you haven’t hurt me, you’re so fucking careful sometimes I wish you’d forget yourself and bruise me like you once did.

  “What could be wrong with you in my arms, hedaira?” He kissed my cheek, a soft lingering touch. “Come. Dinner. Then, if you like, I will tell you a story.”

  “What kind of story?” Trying to distract me like a kid at bedtime. I’ll let you.

  It didn’t often show, how old he was; I suspected he deliberately refrained from reminding me. Perfect tact, something I’d never known a demon could exercise. They’re curiously legalistic, even if their idea of objective truth often doesn’t match a human’s. Another pretty question none of the books could answer. How close is legalism to tact?

  He made a graceful movement that somehow ended up with him handing me my sword and turned into a kiss—a chaste kiss on my forehead, for once. “Any kind of story you like. All you must do is decide.”

  Emilio had indeed outdone himself. Bruschetta, calamari, soft garlic bread and fresh mozzarella, lemon pasta primavera, a lovely slate-soft Franje Riesjicard, crème brulee. Fresh strawberries, braised asparagus. Olives, which I didn’t like but Emilio loved so much he couldn’t imagine anyone hating. We were, after all, in Toscano. What was a meal without olives?

  The olive trees on the tawny hills were probably older than the Hegemony. I’d spent many a late afternoon poring over a solitary Magi’s shadowjournal written in code, Japhrimel stretched out by my side in the dappled shade of a gnarled tree with leathery green-yellow leaves, heat simmering up from the terraced hills. He basked like a cat as the sky turned into indigo velvet studded with dry stars. Then we would walk home along dusty roads, more often than not with his arm over my shoulders and the books swinging back and forth in an old-fashioned leather strap buckled tight. A schoolgirl and a demon.

  I had basic Magi training, every psion did. Since the Magi had been dealing with power and psychic phenomena since before the Awakening they were the ones who had the methods, so the collection of early training techniques was the same for a Magi as a Necromance, or a Shaman or Skinlin or any other psion you would care to name. But actual Magi nowadays were given in-depth magickal training for weakening the walls between worlds and trafficking with Hell. It was the kind of study that took decades to accumulate and get everything right—which was why most Magi hired out as corporate security or took other jobs in the meantime. Japhrimel didn’t stop me from buying old shadowjournals at auction or from slightly-less-than-legal brokers, but he wouldn’t speak about what being Fallen meant. Not only that, he wouldn’t help me decode the shadowjournals either… and good luck apprenticing myself to a Magi circle, if any would take me while Japh was hanging around. They would be far more interested in him than in me, even if I could convince one to take on a psion far too old for the regular apprenticeship.

  Dinner took a long time in the high, wide-open dining room, with its dark wooden table—big enough for sixteen—draped in crisp white linen. I was happy to savor the food, and Japhrimel amused himself by folding some of my notes—brought to the table in defiance of manners—into origami animals. I always seemed to lose some when he did that, but it was worth it to see him present them almost shyly after his golden fingers flicked with a delicacy I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.

  Emilio, a thick, round Novo Taliano with a moustache to be proud of, waltzed in carrying a plate with what looked like… it couldn’t be.

  “Bella!” His deep voice bounced off warm white stone walls. A crimson tapestry from the antique shop in Arrieto fluttered against the wall, brushed by soft warmth through the long open windows, my sword leaned against my chair, ringing softly to itself. “Behold!”

  “Oh, no.” I tried to sound pleased instead of horrified-and-pleased-plus-guilty. “Emilio, you didn’t.”

  “Blame me.” Japhrimel’s lips curved into another rare smile. “I suggested it.”

  “You suggested Chocolate Murder?” I was hard put not to laugh. “Japhrimel, you don’t even eat it.”

  “But you love it.” Japhrimel leaned back in his chair, the origami hippopotamus squatting on his palm. “The last time you tasted chocolate—”

  Heat flooded my cheeks, and I was glad I didn’t blush often. “Let’s not talk about that.” I eyed the porcelain plate as Emilio slid it in front of me. A moist, heavenly chocolate brownie, gooey and perfect, studded with almonds—real almonds grown on trees, not synthprotein fooled into thinking it was almonds. Nothing but the best for a Fallen and his hedaira.

  The thought made me sober, looking down at the still-hot brownie mounded with whipped cream and chocolate shavings, cherries soaked in brandy scattered in a flawless arc along one side of the plate. I could smell the still-baking sugars, could almost taste their delicate balance of caramelization. “Oh,” I sighed. “This is fantastic, Emilio. Whatever he’s paying you, it isn’t enough.”

  He waved his round arms, his fingers thick and soft, not callused like mine. Our cook didn’t take combat training, nobody wanted to kill a rotund Taliano food artist who wore stained white aprons and spoke with his plump hands swaying like slicboard wash. For all that, he was very easy with me—one of the few normals who didn’t seem to fear my tat. “Ch’cosa, s’gnora, I don’t cook for him. I cook for you. Take one bite. Just one.”

  “I’m almost afraid to, it’s so beautiful.” I picked up the fork, delicately, and glanced at Japhrimel, who looked amused. The hippo had vanished from his palm. Emilio waited, all but quivering with impatience. “I can’t do it. You have to.”

  Emilio looked as horrified as if I’d suggested he cut up his own mother and chew on her, his mustache quivering. I offered him the fork.

  “Please, Emilio. I really can’t.” I blinked, trying not to look like I was batting my eyelashes. “You made this, it’s beautiful, you deserve to break it.”

  He shook his head solemnly. “No, no. Wrong.” He waved a blunt finger at me. “You don’t like the Chocolate Murder?” His voice was laced with mock hurt—he was so good at laying on the guilt. His accent mangled the Merican; I still hadn’t learned Taliano.

  I laughed, but an uneasy frisson went up my spine. I glanced at Japhrimel, who now studied me intently.

  His eyes were almost human, dark and liquid in the light from the crystal chandelier hanging overhead. “Thank you, Emilio. She loves it, but she simply can’t trust a gift. It’s in her nature to be suspicious.”

  I let my lip curl. Even a demon had a better time of dealing with normals than I did. “I never said that.” To prove it, I broke through the pristine whiteness of the whipped cream, took a scoop of brownie, and carried the resultant hoverload of sinful k-cals to my mouth.

  Bittersweet darkness exploded, melting against my to
ngue. I had to suppress a low sound of pleased wonder. No matter how many times Emilio made this, I was still surprised by how bloody good it was. It’s supposed to be a cliché, women and chocolate, but damn if it didn’t have a large helping of truth. Nothing else seems to satisfy.

  “Sekhmet sa’es.” I opened my eyes to find both Japhrimel and Emilio staring at me as if I’d just grown an extra head. “That’s so good. What?”

  “Thank you, Emilio.” Japhrimel nodded, and Emilio, satisfied, bounced away out of the dining room. My eyes strayed to my pile of notes. Japhrimel’s fingers rustled among them. “I shall make you a crane. A thousand of those are said to buy a space in heaven.”

  That managed to spark my interest. “Really? Which heaven?” Warm wind blew in from the Toscano hills, making the house creak and settle around itself. The shielding—careful layers of energy applied by both demon and Necromance—reverberated, sinking into the walls as Japhrimel calmed the layers with a mental touch. The sense of him listening to something I couldn’t hear returned, and I watched his face. “Elysium? Nirvana?”

  “No. Perhaps I am wrong, and it only buys good fortune.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “Is it good?”

  “Have some.” I balanced a smudge of brownie and whipped cream on my fork, managed to scoop up a brandied cherry as well. “Here.”

  He actually leaned forward, I fed him a single spoonful of Chocolate Murder. I don’t know what Emilio called the dessert, but I’d called it murder by chocolate and Japhrimel found it amusing enough the name had stuck.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the taste. I examined his face. Even while he concentrated on the dessert, his fingers still moved, folding the paper into a crane with high-arched wings. “That’s very pretty.” I took the fork back. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

  “Hm.” His eyes flashed green for just a moment, a struggle of color losing itself in a swell of darkness. “Inspiration, hedaira.”

  “Yeah.” I took another bite, the siren song of chocolate ringing through my mouth. “The man’s a genius,” I said when I could talk again. “Give him a raise.” Since we don’t seem to be hurting for cash. I’d ask you where it comes from, but demons and money go together. Besides, you’d just change the subject, wouldn’t you. As usual.

  “For you, anything.” But he looked grave. The crane was gone. “Days of poring over Magi scribbles seem to have taxed you.”

  “If you’d just tell me, it would be a lot easier.” I took another bite, adding a brandied cherry to the mix. He was right, it was heaven. Took a sip of wine, sourness cutting like a perfect iaido strike through the depth of chocolate. “What does hedaira mean, anyway?” Just one little clue, Japh. Just one.

  Demons wouldn’t talk about A’nankhimel, I guessed it was an insult to imply they could Fall. Asking a demon about the Fallen was like asking a Ludder about genesplices: the whole subject was so touchy with them that precious few demons—if any—were capable of discussing it rationally. Japhrimel was highly reticent about it even with me, and I was the reason he was where he was.

  I wondered if I should feel guilty about that, tried not to ask him. Couldn’t help myself. It was like picking at a scab. He never stopped me from researching, but he wouldn’t provide anything more than tantalizing hints. If it was a game, the point of it was lost on me.

  “Hedaira means you, Dante. Have I told you the story of Saint Anthony?” One coal-black eyebrow lifted fractionally, the mark on my shoulder compressing with heat as he looked at me. “Or would you prefer the tale of Leonidas and Thermopylae?”

  I stared at the remains of the brownie. It would be a shame to waste it, though my stomach felt full and happy. I was pleasantly tired, too, after three days of slogging through code. Why won’t he answer me? It’s not like I’m asking something huge.

  It was always the same. I had a real live former demon living with me, and I couldn’t get him to answer a single damn question.

  I used to be so good at finding things out. I scooped a brandied cherry onto the fork, chewed it thoughtfully while I watched him. He was busy looking through my notes. As if they could tell him anything he didn’t already know.

  The paper rustled, a thin, familiar sound. “Shall I make a giraffe for you?”

  “They’re extinct.” I laid my fork down. “You can tell me the one about Saint Anthony again, Japhrimel. But not now.” Silence fell between us, the wind from the hillside soughing in through the windows. “Why won’t you tell me what I am?”

  “I know what you are. Isn’t that enough?” He ruffled through my notes again. “I think you’re making progress.”

  You know, if I didn’t like you so much, we’d have a serious problem with your sense of humor. “Progress toward what?” Silence greeted the question. “Japhrimel?”

  “Yes, my curious?” He folded another small sheet of paper, over and over again, the spidery ink scratches of my notes dappling the paper. The mark on my shoulder throbbed, calling out to him. I was tired, my eyes strained and my neck aching.

  “Maybe I should go back to Saint City. The Nichtvren Prime there has some demonology books, he and his Consort invited me to stop by anytime.” I watched his face, relieved when it didn’t change. He seemed to be concentrating completely on folding the paper again and again. “It’d be nice to see Gabe again. I haven’t called her in a month or so.” And I think I might be able to go back to Saint City without shaking and wanting to throw up. Maybe. Possibly.

  With a lot of luck.

  “If you like.” Still absorbed in his task. It was uncharacteristic of him to concentrate so deeply on something so small while I spoke to him. That look of listening was back on his face, like an unwelcome visitor.

  Night breathed into the room through flung-open windows. Uneasiness prickled up my back. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” I sound like an idiot girl on a holovid. I’m an accredited Necromance and a bounty hunter, if something’s wrong I should know, not him.

  “I would tell you what you needed to know.” He rose like a dark wave, his coat moving silently. Green flashed through his eyes. “Do you not trust me?”

  That’s not it at all. After all, who had rescued me from Mirovitch’s deadly ka in the ruined cafeteria of Rigger Hall? Who had I left Saint City with, who had I spent every waking moment with since then? “I trust you,” I admitted, softly enough my voice didn’t break. “It’s just frustrating, not knowing.”

  “Give me time.” His voice stroked the stone walls, made the shielding reverberate. He touched my shoulder as he passed, pacing weightlessly across the room to stare out the window. His long dark coat melded with night outside. I caught a flash of white—did he still have the animal he’d made out of my notepaper? “It is no little thing, to Fall. Demons do not like to speak of it.”

  That did it. Guilt rose under my ribs, choked me. He had Fallen, though I had no idea what that meant beyond a few hints gathered from old, old books. He’d shared his power with me, a mere human. Never mind that I was more than human now, never mind that I still felt human every place it counted. “Fine.” I pushed my plate away, gathered up my notes. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  He turned from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Very well.” Not a word of argument. “Leave the plates.”

  I stacked them in a neat pile nonetheless. It doesn’t pay to be sloppy, even when you have household help. I’ve washed my own dishes all my adult life, it feels wrong to leave them to someone else. When I spoke, it was to the ruins of the brownie. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “All things in their proper time.” Damn him, he sounded amused again.

  Dante, you’re an idiot. “I hate clichés.” I brushed my notes into a scarred leather folio and crossed the room, carrying my sword, to stand beside him as he looked out onto the darkness of the hills under a night as rich as blue wine. The smell of demon—amber musk, burning cinnamon
—rose to cloak us both, the deeper tang of sun-drenched hills exhaling after nightfall making a heady brew. “I’m sorry, Japh. I’m an idiot.” Easier than an apology had ever been, for me. Which meant that it only hurt like a knife to the chest, but didn’t claw its way free.

  “No matter. I am a fool, as any Fallen is for a hedaira’s comfort.” He forgave me, as usual, and touched my shoulder. “You mentioned being tired. Come to bed.”

  Well, that’s another sliver of information. For a hedaira’s comfort. “Give me back my notes, and I will.” I sounded like a kid throwing a tantrum for an ice-cream cone. Then again, he was much older than me. How old was he, anyway? Older than the hills?

  Lucifer’s eldest child, Fallen and tied to me. As any Fallen is for a hedaira’s comfort.

  Did that mean there was something so terrible he was actually doing me a favor by not telling me?

  He made a single brief movement, and an origami unicorn bloomed in his palm. I took it delicately, my fingertips brushing his skin. “Where did you learn to make these?”

  “That is a long story, my curious. If you like, I will tell it to you.” He didn’t smile, but his shoulders relaxed and his mouth evened out, no longer a grim thin line. The listening look was gone, again.

  For once, I opted to take the tactful way out. “Sounds good. You can tell me while I brush my hair.”

  He nodded. The warm breeze stirred his hair, a little longer over his forehead since I’d met him. “Heaven indeed. Lead the way.”

  Now what the hell does he mean by that? He knows this house better than I do, and I’m the one always following him around like a puppy. “You know, you get weirder all the time, and that’s saying something. Come on.” I reached down, took his hand. His fingers curled through mine, squeezed tight enough to break human bones. I returned the pressure, wondering a little bit. It wasn’t like him to forget I was more fragile; he was usually the very first to remind me. “Hey. You all right?”