Dante Valentine

by Lilith Saintcrow

  McKinley shrugged, a lazy movement. “Doesn’t look like she agrees, m’Lord.”

  Japhrimel’s thumb stroked the wing of my shoulderblade, brushing one of the rig’s leather straps. The touch burned through me, clearing away the sick unsteady feeling of violence.

  He irritates me, but that’s not a reason to kill him. What am I thinking?

  I didn’t know. And that was dangerous in and of itself.

  Silence stretched out until McKinley closed his eyes again. Vann scooped up the bones and the leather square, rolling them into a neat packet he tied off with a leather thong. The resultant little thing disappeared into his clothes and he rose with swift economical grace. “Will we be accompanying you, my Lord?”

  The way the two agents spoke to Japh—with careful deference but absolute trust—rubbed me the wrong way too. It wasn’t that they were so respectful. I of all people understood the need to be cautious where demons were concerned, especially if you work for them. But the lack of unease told me these two had known Japh longer than I had, and that I didn’t like at all.

  Sekhmet sa’es, Danny, are you jealous? Of a couple of Hellesvront agents? I slid away from Japhrimel’s hand. He let me, but I didn’t miss the sudden tension in the air as I crossed the hover in swift strides, my new boots and rig creaking, to stare out the porthole next to Lucas’s.

  “You will be accompanying me, but not in the usual manner.” Japhrimel said it carefully, giving each word particular weight. “Your task will be to protect what is most precious to me.”

  Silence spread out in ripples again. I peered out the porthole, seeing the edge of a landing pad, a bare weedy empty lot, and the unmistakable slumped tenements of Konstans-Stamboul’s poorer section. This wasn’t quite where I would have picked to park—a shiny hover sitting around in this neighborhood would draw attention. Thick, golden late-afternoon sunlight dipped every surface in honey.

  My fingers tightened on the sheath as the silence grew more intense. I felt eyes on me, didn’t turn around. What was I supposed to do?

  “Very well.” Japhrimel sounded like something had been decided.

  Lucas let out a soft breath, a tuneless hum. I glanced over, meeting his yellow gaze. A thought froze me, seeing the river of scarring running down his face.

  They called Lucas the Deathless, and the rumor was that he’d done something so awful even Death had turned His back on the man. I’d always assumed Lucas had been a Necromance.

  What if I was wrong?

  “Lucas.” The word was out of my mouth before I was aware of speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

  He shrugged, turning his gaze out his own porthole. “We stick out like a hooker in a Luddite convention, parked here.” Under the threadbare yellowing shirt, his wiry shoulders were hunched. Call me sensitive, but I got the idea he didn’t want to answer any questions just now.

  “I thought the same thing.” Thin amusement rode the edge of my voice. I rolled my shoulders back in their sockets, settling the rig. “I just wish I could stop getting my clothes blown off me and bloodied.”

  “Quit gettin’ yourself into trouble with demons.” He jerked his chin toward his right shoulder, a movement I belatedly realized took in the silent and visibly unhappy Leander. “Boy’s learned his lesson.”

  “You don’t have to call me a coward, Villalobos.” Leander’s voice was soft, the professional whispering tone of a Necromance. We who enforce our will on the world with our voices learn to speak softly. It’s also kind of an affectation—a whisper is better than a shout when it comes to scaring the hell out of someone.

  I don’t usually feel like scaring the hell out of someone. People—at least, normal headblind people—are simply scared of psions as a whole. It’s xenophobia and fear of the unknown all wrapped up in one economical package, with lingering hatred left over from the Evangelicals of Gilead and their theocratic North Merican empire making a festive bow. The Seventy Days War and the fall of the Republic were years and years ago, but people have long memories when it comes to hating the different.

  “Not callin’ you a coward, Beaudry. Think it’s your smartest move.” Lucas gave the whistling gurgle that was his laugh.

  I turned away from the porthole, looking at Leander directly. A scintilla of light from the emerald embedded in his cheekbone sent a swift bolt of something too hot and nasty to be pain through me. “What’s going on?”

  The Necromance shrugged, an economical movement. His katana rattled unhappily inside its sheath, and his shielding shivered as the charged atmosphere stroked at it. His eyes were shadowed, and the inked lines of his accreditation tat shifted under scruffy dark stubble. “Your friend doesn’t like me, Valentine.” He didn’t have to point for me to know it was Japhrimel he was talking about. “But if I strike out on my own, I’m looking at trouble. I’m associated with you now. So do I stick around and wait for your pet demon to take more of a dislike to me, or do I find a hole to hide in until this blows over?” A short bitter laugh, and he palmed his face wearily. “Except things like this don’t blow over. I’m just unhappy. I’m not a goddamn coward.”

  “Nobody’s saying you are.” My eyes fastened on the emerald, alive with green light. He still had his connection with his psychopomp, with whatever face of Death had revealed itself at his Trial.

  He was a Necromance. His god hadn’t forced him to spare a traitor’s life.

  Except my god hadn’t forced me, had He? No, He had simply asked. I could not blame Him. Who did that leave to blame?

  Anubis— The prayer started inside my head, I shoved it away. I would not call on Him.

  Not now. Not like this. The determination was raw and painful, heavy sunlight on already burned skin.

  “So I’m in.” Leander’s tone said plainly, That’s that. Don’t push me.

  I considered him for a long moment. He was right. I’d stepped in over my head this time, worse than usual. The hideous beating secret inside my brain was almost as black as the traitorous tingling on my cheekbone where my own emerald flashed.

  After all my worship, all my love, and all my service, my god had let me down just when I needed Him most, by even asking the sacrifice of me. How could I reconcile my faith to that? I had been forced to spare a killer’s life. I had been used by the god I loved.

  Would another Necromance understand my pain?

  Why don’t you ask him over coffee, Danny? Whenever you can take a moment out of your busy schedule of being dragged into Hell and strangled to death by demons.

  I scraped together the most tactful thing I could think of to say. “Fine. You’re in.” Just stay out of trouble. I half-turned again, meeting Japhrimel’s eyes.

  My Fallen stood with his hands loose at his sides. It was the closest to bored I’d ever seen him, but he also had a look I didn’t like at all. A look of listening to some sound I would never be able to hear, no matter how hard I strained my better-than-human senses. It was only a millimeter’s worth of difference in the set of his mouth, a slight tension in his winged eyebrows, but it was as loud as a shout to me. I’d spent long enough looking at him to know.

  He’d worn that look a lot in Toscano, before our life together had gone merrily to Hell.

  Icy spider-feet walked up my spine. “You have a problem with that, Japh?”

  He considered me, his eyes burning incandescent green. The raggedness of dark hair falling over those eyes helped make his gaze a little less awful, as did the thin oval of human darkness behind the glow.

  He ended up saying nothing. It might have seemed like the wisest course, considering the way my right hand itched for my swordhilt. I wasn’t used to this kind of simmering rage.

  Still, I didn’t dislike it. It felt clean. Cleaner than the dark thing pulsing in my head, at least.

  “See?” I swung back round to face Leander. “You’re in.” Another thought stopped me, so fast I snapped off the end of the last word. A sudden inspiration. “My very own Necromance to hang around. Just like
getting a puppy for my birthday.”

  The sharp intake of breath, for once, wasn’t mine. It was McKinley’s. His eyes flew open, and I could swear Vann went white under the copper tone of his skin.

  Wow. Maybe I just said something right for a change. Either that or I’ve just made a huge mistake. Guess which way my luck’s running lately.

  Japhrimel nodded. “As you like, my curious.” No more than that. No color to his voice except simple acceptance.

  I wished I could figure out whether he was giving in because it didn’t matter in the long run what I did. It was pretty damn likely.

  There you go, Danny old girl. You’re thinking like yourself again.

  The trouble was, I wasn’t sure I really was thinking like myself. It’s hard to tell when you’re not sure who you are anymore.

  “My Lord.” Vann clasped his arms behind his back, standing poker-straight. It looked ridiculous on him, especially with the fringe hanging off his leather coat. “I would remind you—”

  “Not necessary, Vann.” Japhrimel said over the top of him. Not dismissively, and not with any real heat. But his face settled and set, a demon’s essential oddity closer to the surface than ever before, and my heart turned over inside my chest.

  He wasn’t human. It should have bothered me. It should have reminded me of the thing beating like a diseased heart inside my skull, the memory sleeping uneasily behind the strongest door I could make to shut it away.

  It didn’t. Instead, I saw the thin line of his lips, the fineness of his eyelashes, and the raggedness of his hair. I saw the oval of darkness behind his burning eyes.

  I saw the man—no matter if he was a demon—who always came for me.

  Whatever was on my face might not have been pleasant, but it seemed fine by my Fallen. His mouth relaxed into a half-smile, one corner quirking up in that sardonic expression that meant he was enjoying himself. As if I’d made an unexpected move in a game of battlechess, or done something that pleasantly surprised him.

  I liked that look.

  But what I liked even more was the thought that I might have some sort of control over my relationship with him. A little bit of control might sound like a small thing, but it was the difference between screaming insanity and some kind of rational shape to the inside of my head.

  I actually felt happier than I had in a long time. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but there it was. But still, my arms and legs were heavy, and deep in my belly a stone sat, dragging me down.

  “So.” I actually sounded perky. Chalk up a winning gravball goal for Danny Valentine. It’s about time. “What’s this about an appointment?”

  CHAPTER 7

  I hadn’t thought it would affect me like this.

  Sofya’s outer beauty was nothing compared to the magnificence inside. I’d seen holostills and travelogues, but they… nothing could do her justice. The blue, white, yellow mosaics had been carefully restored, domes soaring with mathematical precision above the standard Hegemony sundisc, its burnished glory little match for the piercing shafts of dying russet and gold sunlight falling through space harmonized, sanctified, and made agonizingly sweet by centuries of Power, praise, prayer, and above all, sheer undiluted belief.

  Belief is what magick works on, after all. And so much of it is bound to give anyone who works the highest art humanity’s capable of a high cleaner and sweeter than Clormen-13.

  The temple was also heavy with demonspice and a tang of mortality’s decay—a heady stew when added to the kyphii incense swirling hazily through the interior and the sweet blue-black resin they use in temples in this part of the world. The time to find any temple deserted is dusk, when incense grows heavy and shadows skitter with a life of their own. Normal humans instinctively avoid places of Power after dark, and psions are just waking up as the sun goes down. It’s like a psychic shift-change for the entire world.

  The gods, in this slice of the world, were mostly Old Graecian. Hermes with winged sandals and helmet, Héra in Her place of primacy, Apolo’s small statue next to the more massive Artemisa Hekat holding a bow and touching the head of a sleek marble greyhound. Hades was there, shadowed by Persephonica, with Her basket of flowers echoing Demetre’s horn of plenty. res crouched behind His shield, shortsword thrusting belligerently up. Aphroditas swooned on a long couch, Her naked body glowing triumphantly.

  There was another long gallery of gods, mostly Old Perasiano, along with a round shield of calligraphy for the remnants of old Islum, enduring its last death here in a part of the world it once ruled, just like Novo Christianity. The Religions of Submission had a good run, but once the Awakening had happened and people could speak directly and reliably with gods… well, they just didn’t make sense anymore.

  At least, to most reasonable people.

  I’m not really up on my Old Perasiano, but I recognized Ahra Mzda, as well as Ah’rman, His destructive shadow-twin. There was a rough carved stone for Allat, who hadn’t been Perasiano but who made sense, given the once-popularity of Islum in this part of the world.

  It was beautiful in a way only sacred space can be. For just a moment the spell of beauty and belief closed around me like a warm bath, almost dispelling the twitching heaviness in my belly. But the emptiness of my naked face, my emerald still twinkling unnecessarily from its grafted roots on my cheekbone, hit me like a slap.

  What was I doing in a house of the gods, now that my own god had asked me for more than I could give? I had always been so certain, so sure of being cradled in Death’s hands. Now I couldn’t even look at Hades’s dour shadowed features under his anachronistic crescent-peaked helm. He was just another of Death’s faces, not the slender canine head of my own personal psychopomp, but my eyes skittered away from Him all the same.

  I couldn’t look Death in the face anymore.

  I tore my eyes away and paced into the temple, Japhrimel’s step soundless behind me. He was alert and wary, the cloak of his Power against my skin drawing together more and more tightly, covering me with a mantle of warmth.

  I was grateful for that, even as I shamefully averted my eyes from one of Death’s faces. Our little group made next to no noise except for the creaking of the blasted new rig, announcing to the world that I was wandering around even more loudly than the light-filled scar of my aura on the ambient landscape of Power.

  Kyphii filled my nose. Gabe Spocarelli had always been burning the stuff, its fragrant bite filling her house. Except now her house was empty, everything inside it searched and possibly broken, and Gabe was dead.

  Another reason not to look Death in the face. If I went into the blue land where my god resided now, would I meet my oldest friend? Would she ask if I was protecting her daughter, like I’d sworn to? Would she ask me if I had avenged her death?

  Would her soul believe me if I told her I’d tried?

  The temple spun around me, a spiked wheel of sanctity and belief. I took a deep breath of kyphii-laden air, the Power contained in those thrumming walls bleeding out in organ-tones of deep red and deeper violet just at the edge of hearing, rattling my bones. The floor clicked underfoot, permaplas mosaic tiles distressed to look like old chips of silica glass, and in the middle of the vast empty bell of the deserted temple a monstrous cramp gripped the lowest regions of my belly, sinking its rusty teeth right through me.

  Japhrimel’s arm circled my shoulders. “Dante?”

  Vann swore. There were little clicks as he and McKinley moved up to what I recognized as cover positions—and I would have cared about that, really, if the pain hadn’t been eating me alive, a blowtorch in my guts. Lucas swore too, but more quietly, and I heard the whine of an unholstered plasgun.

  The temple shivered like a parabolic mirror swiveling on jeweled bearings. The Power in the walls turned to streaks of oil on a wet surface as I collapsed, only Japhrimel’s sudden clutching hand keeping me from spilling writhing to the ground.

  What the hell it hurts oh no now what?

  I felt it, the thrumming in this buil
ding even older than the Republic of Gilead. A darkness lived at its very roots, and as fresh pain gripped me I bent over without even the breath to scream. My emerald sparked once, twice, green glimmers in the gloom.

  Pain eased, in dribs and drabs. I hung from Japhrimel’s hands, limp and wrung-wet, sweat standing out in great clear drops on my skin. “—ohgods—” I managed, in a very small voice. “I think I’m going to…” Throw up. Pass out. Something.

  “Do what you must. I thought we had more time.” Japhrimel’s hands were gentle. Too gentle. I would have preferred him to use the iron-under-velvet strength he was capable of, because if he was being this exquisitely careful, something was most definitely wrong.

  “More time for what?” I gasped, my legs shaking. The only other time I’d felt this unsteady was when I had my worst bout of reaction fever after landing in a slagheap on a bounty in Hegemony Suisse. I’d thrown up so hard I’d been weak and shaky for days and almost burst a few blood vessels.

  Back when Doreen was still alive.

  I didn’t need that thought. I had enough keeping me occupied. “I think I’m all right.” I shook Japh’s hands away—or would have, if I could have stood up on my own. My legs refused to obey me. They’d turned into wet noodles.

  Is it me? Am I not allowed in temples anymore? Anubis, my Lord, my god, why? What have I done? I spared the traitor You wanted me to spare.

  But I’d cursed Him, hadn’t I? I had cursed my god bitterly, down in the very roots of my being. I’d thought it could not matter. I had been sure it would not matter. I had also lied, broken my sorcerous Word, and betrayed everything I held dear.

  No wonder sacred space did not want me.

  The voice came from nowhere, skittering through the temple’s shadows like thousands of pairs of decorative insectile feet, pricking hard and hurtful against shivering skin. “Kinslayer.” It spoke Merican, but the accent was pure demon, twisted and wrong. “How dare you enter this place?”