When he turned back to me, I almost flinched. His upper lip drew back, exposing his teeth; his eyes were incandescent. He looked far more lethal than Velokel the Bull. “An Androgyne out of Hell,” he said tightly. “Of course. Of course. I suppose the Hunter and the Twins are in league with her?”
“I think so.” I freed my right hand from my swordhilt, started to push myself up on my elbow. The softness—it was one of the new microfiber spaceblankets, warm and soft at the same time—crinkled as it folded down. He was immediately there, helping me; I felt clean, my clothes were soft as if freshly laundered. Probably cleaned off with Power; he knew how I hated to be dirty. I was vaguely surprised to find my sword had a new reinforced sheath, deep indigo lacquer. “Japhrimel, she asked me to distract you. To just wait out the next seven years and pretend we can’t find her. She wants to—”
“She is in rebellion against the Prince.” He stroked my hair back from my face with his free hand as he steadied me. “She cannot possibly win. She is young, untutored, without any support.”
“She can win if you help her. You’re…” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, and apparently neither could he, because he set his jaw and looked away, a muscle flicking in his golden cheek.
“No.” Just the one word, forced out through his lips.
“Japhrimel—” Please, I was going to say. I was going to plead, to beg if that was what it came to. Stopped myself just in time. Begging was weakness.
But she was part Doreen’s, and part mine. It was worth any weakness if I could make him understand, if I could convince him to help me.
He spoke before I could muster the words. “You are asking me to endanger your life by throwing our lot in with a rebellion that cannot possibly succeed. No, Dante. I will not risk you.”
“Lucifer wants to kill me anyway.” It came out flat and hopeless. What chance did I have if the Devil wanted me dead?
“I can keep him from you.” His hand bit into my shoulder. “Have I not kept him from you so far?”
Oh, Japh. Please. Help me out here. “She only asked, Japh. She didn’t demand, she didn’t manipulate, she didn’t force me. She just asked.”
That seemed to make him even angrier. “She’s demon. We lie, my curious one, in case you have not noticed.”
Oh, I’ve noticed. Believe me, I’ve learned to count on it. “What about you?”
He leaned in close, his nose an inch from mine, his eyes filling mine with green light just like the wristcuff’s warnings. “Judge me by what I do. Have I not always kept faith with you?”
I opened my mouth to retort, but he had a point. All I had to do was breathe to understand the answer to that particular question. “The Master Nichtvren didn’t say it was Lucifer, he just said it was a demon with a green gem. You did lie.”
No response. My heart pounded. You gave up Hell for me, and you just lied to the Prince of Hell for me. “You lied to protect me from the Devil. And you pushed him back. You stopped him.”
He shrugged, his coat moving with a whispering sound. Said nothing.
I reached up with my right hand, touched his face. He sighed, closing his eyes. Leaned into my fingers.
If he hadn’t been so close, I might have missed the single tear that slipped out beneath his eyelashes and tracked down his cheek in the semi-darkness.
Oh, Japhrimel. My heart broke. I could actually feel it cracking apart inside my chest.
“What am I going to do with you?” I managed around the lump in my throat. “You tried to force me to do what you wanted. You hurt me.”
His face contorted, I smoothed his mouth down with my fingers. “I am sorry,” he breathed. He leaned into me, his lips brushing my skin so that he kissed my hand with each word. “I should not have, I know I should not have. I was afraid. Afraid of harm coming to you.”
Oh, gods. I traced the arch of his cheekbone, the shape of his bottom lip. Felt the tension go out of him as I leaned forward, pressed my lips to his smooth golden cheek. “You idiot,” I whispered, my lips moving against his skin. “I love you. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
He flinched as if I’d hit him. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Do not doubt me.”
He’d actually apologized. Miracles were coming thick and fast now.
I couldn’t say anything through the lump of stone in my throat, but I nodded. I swallowed a few times.
When his eyes opened again, I almost gasped, their green was so intense. He studied me up-close, then pressed a gentle kiss onto my cheek. He made sure I was steady, sitting up, then straightened, backed up two steps and clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re hungry. We land in half an hour.”
Understanding flashed between us. His eyes said, Forgive me. Teach me how to do this. You are the only one who can.
My heart leapt. Just trust me, and don’t doubt me either. That’s all I need from you.
There was more, but I couldn’t have put it into words. The softening in his mouth told me he understood. For that one split second, at least, we were in total accord. My heart twisted inside my chest and my cheeks flamed with heat. Whatever Fallen meant, Japhrimel loved me. Hadn’t he proved it enough?
The rest could wait.
I nodded. Held up my sword. “Thank you. For the scabbard.” My voice was back to rough honey, granular gold. Soothing.
That wasn’t all I was thanking him for, and he knew it.
His slight smile rewarded me. Then he reached up, opening a small metal stasis cabinet. He lifted down something small but apparently heavy and took a single step forward, handing it to me. I had to lay my sword down to accept it. “A small gift, for my beloved.”
He vanished through the opening in the partition as I brought my hands down and found them full of a familiar weight. The statue was obsidian, glowing mellowly through a scrim of heat-scarring from the fire that had destroyed our house. The woman sat, calmly, Her lion’s head set firmly atop Her body, the sun-disc of hammered gold still shining. I could see traceries of Power, careful repair work, where Japhrimel had spent his demon-given Power to repair the weakening of molecular bonds the reaction fire had caused. It would have taken unimaginable Power and precision to repair the glassy obsidian, phenomenal strength and inhuman concentration.
All for me. A gift, the only gift he knew how to give. His strength.
Tears spilled hot down my cheeks.
I’d misjudged him, after all. Just as badly as he’d misjudged me.
CHAPTER 41
Lucas slumped in a chair, blood stiffening on his torn shirt. Sunlight poured in the hover windows, I pushed my hair back behind my ear and examined him.
He looked like hell, gaunt and sticky with dry blood everywhere except for a swipe on his cheek where he’d probably rubbed the dirt-dusted gummy crust off. He still held one 60-watt plasgun, tilted up with the smooth black plasteel barrel resting against his cheek. His legs stretched out, clad in shredded jeans. At least his boots had survived. His yellow eyes, half-lidded, were distant and full of some emotion I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Something like banked rage, and satisfaction.
I lowered myself down in the chair opposite him. This hover was good-sized but narrow, with round porthole windows like a military transport. I didn’t know where Lucas had gotten it, but it was taking us away from DMZ Sarajevo, and that was all I cared about.
McKinley and Japhrimel held a low conference up front in the pilot booth—this hover was old enough to have an actual booth instead of a cockpit—and Vann leaned against the booth’s entrance, his arms folded. He scowled at Lucas. There were horrible livid bruises on his brown face, and one eye was bandaged.
I didn’t want to know.
There was no smell of human in the hover. The agents smelled like dried cinnamon, with the faintest tang of demon, Lucas smelled like a stasis cabinet and blood dried to flakes, and Japhrimel and I… well, we smelled like demon. Of course.
I leaned back in the chair, my katana acros
s my knees.
I have a blade that bit the Devil. Gods grant me strength enough to use it next time. I’m sure there’s going to be a next time.
“Who are you really working for, Lucas?” My voice was quiet, stroking the air, calming.
He shrugged, his eyelids dropping another millimeter. “You,” he said, in his painful whisper. “Since New Prague. I was contracted by Ol’ Blue Eyes to meet you, look after you. Figured the two jobs tallied.”
I nodded, my head moving against the chair’s headrest. Thought about it. Decided. It was only fair, after all.
“If you want to go on your way, I won’t blame you. You stood up to the Devil for me.” Gave him a bit of trouble, too. We might almost have had a chance.
Not really. Not without Japhrimel.
He gave another one of those terrible, dry, husking laughs. He certainly seemed to find me amusing nowadays.
“Shitfire,” he finally wheezed. “This’s the most interesting thing I seen in years. Ain’t gonna stop now. Four demons, eyes an’ ears. Until the fourth demon’s dead, chica, I’m your man.”
I nodded. Braced myself. It was always best to pay debts before the interest mounted, and I owed him. If not for him, Lucifer would have killed me before Japhrimel could reach me. “I told you the pay’s negotiable. What do you want?”
“Your demon boyfriend paid me, Valentine. Consider yourself lucky.”
Well, it was certainly a day for surprises. I shifted uneasily in the seat, then rested my head against the seat’s high back.
“Do you think she was telling the truth?” I meant Eve. He’d been in the room, after all.
“Don’t know. I ain’t no Magi.” He shifted a little in the chair, as if he hurt. “Explains a helluva lot.”
“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question. We’d both gotten off lightly, for tangling with Lucifer.
“Devil damn near pulled my spleen out through my nose. It hurt.” Lucas sighed. He sounded disappointed. “Guess even he can’t kill me.”
“Give him time.” I didn’t mean for it to sound flippant. Then I leaned forward, running my hand back through my hair. “Lucas, do you have any friends? I mean, real friends?”
An evocative shrug. His yellow eyes fastened on me.
“If you had a friend,” I persisted, “and he lied to you but it was for a good reason, what would you do?”
Silence. Lucas studied me.
The hover began a stomach-jolting descent then rose again, probably to avoid a traffic stream. I folded my left arm across my belly; it wasn’t tender, but I was still cautious.
Finally, Lucas hauled himself upright, leaned forward. Rested his elbows on his knees. “You askin’ me for advice, chica. Dangerous.” He rasped in a breath. “I seen a lot of shit on the face of the earth. Most of it pointless. The only thing I can tell you is—take what you can get.”
I weighed the statement, wondering if it was any good. Take what you can get. Was that even honorable? “So you don’t have any friends?”
He shrugged again.
I closed my eyes, leaning back into the chair’s embrace. “You do now, Lucas.” I paused, let the fact sink in. “You do now.”
After all, he’d shot the Devil. For me. Who cared if it was just a job to him?
Take what you can get.
Eve wanted her freedom. Lucifer wanted her dead or captured—most likely captured, since he had used me as bait to draw her out. Lucifer also wanted me kept so busy with “hunting” down his escaped children that I didn’t have time to find out it was Eve he was really after. Japhrimel probably wanted to keep us both alive long enough to figure out which was the winning side, and I didn’t blame him. Lucas was curious, and he might have thought Lucifer could finally kill him.
Take what you can get.
What did I want out of this? I didn’t even know yet.
We were going to land in Giza, meet Leander, and figure out what course to follow next. I had to decide if I was going to hunt down Doreen’s daughter for Lucifer, or if I was going to risk my life—and Japhrimel’s too—taking on the Prince of Hell.
Who was I fooling? I already knew what I was going to do.
The trouble would be talking both myself and Japhrimel into it.
Excerpt from “A Face for Death”
Hegemony Psionic Academy Textbook,
Specialized Studies
By Fallon Hoffman
Sirius Publishing, Paradisse
In classical antiquity, the psychopomp was merely any god relating to death or the dead. The term narrowed with the advent of the Awakening and narrowed even further after the Parapsychic Act was signed into law. The psychopomp—defined as the god or being a Necromance sees during the resurrection phase of the accreditation Trial—is thus an ancient concept.
Necromances are unique among psions because of the Trial. Borrowed from shamanic techniques born in the mists of pre-Awakening history, the Trial is nothing more than a specific initiation, a guided death and rebirth for which every Necromance is carefully prepared through over a decade and a half of schooling and practice in other magickal and psionic techniques.
There is no such thing as a non-practicing or non-accredited Necromance. The nature of a Necromance’s peculiar talent demands training, lest Death swallow the unpracticed whole. In pre-Awakening times, those gifted with this most unreliable talent usually ended up in mental hospitals or prisons, screaming of things no normal could see.
During the Awakening, it became much more dangerous and common to slip over the border into what any EKG will label the “blue mesh,” that particular pattern of brainwaves produced when a Necromance triggers the talent and creates a doorway through which a spirit can be pulled to answer questions. Many nascent Necromances were lost to the pull and chill of Death, their hearts stopping from sheer shock. Unprepared by any schooling, meditation training, or Magi recall techniques, the Necromance faced death defenseless as a normal human—or even more so.
The solution—a psychological mechanism of putting a face on Death—was stumbled upon in the very early days of the Awakening. Unfortunately, we have no record of the brave soul who first made the connection between the psychopomp and a managed trip into Death, instead of the less-reliable techniques such as soul-stripping or the charge-and-release method. Whoever she is (for Necromances, like sedayeen, are overwhelmingly female), she deserves canonization on par with Adrien Ferrimen.
The reason the psychopomp is so necessary is deceptively simple. Death is the oldest, largest human fear. To create a screen of rationality between the limited human mind and the cosmic law of ending, the defense mechanism of a face and personality makes the inhuman bearable and even human itself. A psychopomp is no more than a graceful fiction that allows a human mind to grasp the Unending. It is the simplest and most basic form of godmaking, hardwired into the human neural net. It is much easier to believe in a god’s intercession than in a random mix of genetics and talent allowing what our culture still sadly views as a violation of the natural order—bringing the dead back, however briefly.
A psychopomp is unutterably personal, coded into the deepest levels of the Necromance’s psyche. Gods are mostly elective nowadays, except for those rare occasions when they choose to meddle in human affairs. But to plumb the depths of mankind’s oldest fear and greatest mystery, a human mind needs a key to unlock those depths and a shield to use against them. That key needs to be strong enough, and rooted deep enough in the mind, to stand repeated use.
The psychopomp serves both functions, key and shield. First, it gives the psyche a much-needed handle on the concept of Death. Intellectually, the human mind knows death is inevitable, that it visits every single one of us. Convincing the rest of the human animal, not to mention the animal brain, is impossible. Death is disproved by every breath the living creature takes, by every beat of a living heart. The psychopomp allows empirical evidence of the living body and of the non-space of Death to coexist by providing a framework, however f
ragile, to fix both concepts in.
Psychopomps also function as a defense against the concept of death itself. Necromances, when interviewed, speak of “Death’s love”—not the worship of Thanatos but an affirmation of Death as part of a cosmic order and the Necromance as a necessary part of that order, helping to keep the scales balanced. The idea of balance is intrinsically linked to any god dealing with Death, proof again of the psyche’s grasping for reason in the face of the eternal.
Necromances speak, often at great length, about the emotional connection to their psychopomp. This is necessary, otherwise the fear reflex might crush even the most finely honed sorcerous Will. Indeed, the outpouring of emotion lavished on death-gods by Necromances is only matched by the propitiatory offerings made in temples by normals in hopes of Death passing them by. The idea that Death can be reasoned or bargained with haunts humanity with hope.
The psychological cost of trips to the other side of Death’s doorway shows itself in several ways, from the Necromance’s common need for adrenaline boosts to the compensatory neuroses detailed in Chapter 12. Were it not for the useful concept of a god as guardian, gatekeeper, eternal Other, and protector, Necromances might still be going mad at puberty, which is when the talent commonly manifests itself…
FILE HFS-IW-104496B
INTERNAL
Classification Level 4
Hegemony Federal Service File
Internal Watch
104496B
CLASSIFIED
EYES ONLY
Subject: Dante Valentine (birth name: ******* *** *********) HD# ***-**-**** **
Last Known Location: Santiago City, North Merica, Hegemony
Detail: Subject is thirty-two years old, brown and brown, height 1.64 meters, slim build, weight variable. Subject is accredited Necromance (Amadeus Academy graduate #47138SAZ) and bounty hunter. Some illegal activity suspected, mostly in industrial espionage/illicit bounties. Psych profile normal despite childhood trauma (see HFS-IW-*******) and high probability of deconstruction under severe stress. (See HFS-IW/P-*******) Compensatory reflexes within normal range, with significant exceptions as detailed in psych profile.
Dante Valentine Page 92
