Saint City Sinners

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The kitchen. I gave them plenty of time, walking slowly, the rage rising until my aura flushed red, almost in the visible range. A low punky crimson stain spread through the trademark swirling glitter of a Necromance’s aura, mixing with the black diamond flames of an almost-demon. Strength flowed hot down my left arm, poured through the mark on my shoulder. I wondered if Japhrimel could feel me drawing on the mark, could feel my anger.

  I didn’t care.

  The sword whispered out of its sheath as I stepped into the hall. Nothing had changed—the place still looked like a tornado had hit it. It hadn’t even been dusted or scanned for prints; it hadn’t even been touched by a Reader or another Necromance.

  I would have thought they would go through the motions of investigating, for a cop as good as Gabe. Or had this case been given to Pontside too? Of course, if the Chill cure was still here, they couldn’t run the risk of anyone else finding it. Not after they tossed the house with a psion to clean up the traces of normals trooping through.

  If the cops didn’t care or were unable to investigate, Gabe would never be avenged, and her daughter would remain in danger.

  Not while I’m alive. Not while I have a single breath in me.

  Tension, screaming in my shoulders; the cuff blazed with dappled, fluid green light. Light like Japhrimel’s eyes, blazing while he looked up from the floor. I drew in a long sweet breath scented with kyphii and the old delicious smell of Gabe’s house, the scent-landscape of a place lived in and loved by generation after generation of Necromances.

  I stepped around the corner and into the kitchen.

  A ricocheting blaze of loud pops, pain tearing into my chest. Black blood rose to seal the bullet wounds away even as I blurred, moving with inhuman speed. The bullets from a Glockstryke 983 projectile repeater would have killed a human psion—but I was no longer human. My sword was a solid arc of silver, white flame singing in its heart, as I carved Pontside’s hand off at the wrist.

  He was blond, but his muddy hazel eyes were the same as hers. He wore a crumpled gray suit and a damp tan trenchcoat, a gleaming badge clipped to the front pocket of his blue cotton button-down shirt. I could see the resemblance—they shared a parent, at least. Did Pontside hate psions because his half-sister was one and he wasn’t, or did he simply hate all of us except her because he was a cop? Did he even hate his sister? Or was the rumor about him hating us just coffee-break fodder?

  Blood sprayed. He howled and I kicked him, heard ribs snap under the force of the blow. He fell backward, grinding into broken dishes, before Mercy even had time to scream. The gun, with his hand still clutching it, thumped wetly on Gabe’s kitchen floor.

  Revenge filled my mouth, sweet and hot. I let out a chilling little giggle that shivered glass from the cabinet doors and made the windows squeal as they bowed out in their frames. Then I stamped down hard into his fair blond face.

  It was like kicking a watermelon with fragile glass bones. Mercy let out a short, violent cry, I looked up as Pontside’s body jerked and twitched, flopping. I saw the light as the soul fled, one sharp burst of brilliance fading into the foxfire glow of false life, the nerves beginning to die in increments.

  I wanted to stuff his soul back into his body and kill him again. But I’d settle for her, the bigger traitor.

  Mercy’s eyes were wide and dark. Sweat stood out on her pale skin, darkening her plain blue T-shirt. The smile stretched my lips, a grimace that made her flinch and cower against the kitchen island, her hip smacking a piece of broken plate and pushing it down to shatter on the floor.

  I studied her for a long moment, my sword flicking. Blood smoked off the blade. The smell of violets and white mallow mixed with the reek of blood and stink of released bowels.

  I lifted the blade. “Why?” Again the windows squealed, as my voice throbbed at the lowest registers of what could be defined as “human.” “You’re a psion! A healer! Why?”

  Her hands curled into fists as she stared at me, her proud spiked hair beginning to droop. Spots of fevered color blossomed on her cheeks and her lower lip trembled.

  I can kill her. I can kill her right now. Right fucking now.

  I shook with the urge to do just that.

  But I wanted to make it last. And I wanted to know why.

  “We were poor,” she choked out, her eyes falling past me to linger on the mess of meat that was her brother. “Herborne paid for my Academy schooling, I was in debt up to my eyeballs and Gil . . . he never made enough.” Her chin quivered. “Eddie was going to give it away, Valentine! Give away the cure! The stupid motherfucking Skinlin was going to ruin everything.” She sucked in a deep painful breath. “You don’t know,” she whispered. “He was rich, he had his little rich-girl Necromance and—”

  So she had hatched this plan, bombed her own clinic, arranged Eddie’s death, arranged Gabe’s death, collaborated in the murder of how many? “For money.” My contempt smoked, shattered more glass, made the walls tremble. “How many have you killed? And how many have fucking died of Chill while you tried to cover everything up?”

  Noise, cutting through the syrupy tension and crackling static of my fury. Sirens in the distance. I heard them, and maybe she did too. Pontside probably had time to trigger a call for help on his HDOC. The Saint City PD was on their way.

  Doesn’t matter. If they had a hand in this I’ll kill them too. The ease and naturalness of the thought should have disturbed me.

  My hand twitched, the tip of my blade making a precise little circle, painting blue flame on the air from the runes running along the keen edge. The steel’s heart flamed white, and the sword sang to itself, a low echoing song of bloodlust and chill certainty.

  “You’ve never been poor,” she whispered. “You don’t—”

  What the fuck? “I’ve been poor.” My voice sliced through hers. “I’ve eaten heatseal—and sometimes not even that. I was poor and hungry for years, you stupid bitch. I did espionage and bounty hunting. But I never assassinated anyone.” It wasn’t strictly true—I’d killed in self-defense, and I’d killed Santino.

  But that was different. Wasn’t it?

  I don’t kill without cause. My own words rose up to taunt me. But by the gods, this was cause.

  This was vengeance.

  “Congratulations.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the still-twitching body. “That makes him your first.”

  How dare you, you piece of shit? The fury rose in me again and blue fire answered, crawling up my sword to caress my hand. I stopped, my jaw dropping as I stared at the shivering sedayeen. The sirens whooped and brayed, getting closer.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  The world slowed down. Time stopped. Blue fire closed over my vision, and I felt the touch of my god, slipping through the stubborn, torn-raw layers of my mind. The feeling was weightless, like leaving the meat of the body behind and rising into the clear rational light of What Comes Next, the great secret Death whispers into the ears of the departing. My left shoulder squeezed with sudden pain so sharp and fierce I gasped, falling back into the low guard, the blade slanting up and singing a high thin keening note as my steel recognized the presence of the only Power I bowed my head to, Death Himself.

  This? This little bitch, this traitor, was who Death wanted me to spare? This was the geas laid on me by my god, who I had always trusted with everything, my life, my fears, my vulnerability itself?

  The choice is yours, He said, His deep infinity-starred eyes resting against mine. It is always yours.

  “No,” I whispered. “No.”

  I wanted to kill her. I ached, I hungered to strike, to carve, to watch the blood flow, to end her miserable life. I’d sworn. Was I required to break the oath I had sworn to my best friend, my only friend?

  The sirens dipped closer, and I heard the whine of police hovers. I heard my voice, shaking, freighted with a fury so intense it shivered more glass into breaking. “Anubis et’her ka. . . .”

  The prayer died on my lips. My
vision cleared. I saw her teeth pulled back in a grimace of effort as she cowered against the counter. She was sedayeen, a healer, incapable of defending herself.

  But she was perfectly fucking capable of betraying Eddie, of tossing Gabe’s house while looking for the cure, capable of lying to me. Lying like Japhrimel, lying like a stone-faced demon. Lying worse than a demon, even; Japh hid things from me for a reason!

  “Cameron,” I croaked. “Your bodyguard. Pico-Phize.”

  Mercy shook her head, sadly. “She suspected. We were going to eliminate her at the clinic, but. . . . She was Pico-Phize corporate too, she was going to meet Massadie yesterday, when he called from Tanner’s, gabbling something about seeing you. It was . . . we had to . . . well.” Her eyes flicked down to Pontside’s body again. “He did it.”

  Realization, detonating like a reaction fire in my head. The team waiting to assassinate near the clinic hadn’t been Tanner Family troops. They’d been off-duty Saint City police normals, crooked cops, to get rid of an inconvenient bodyguard who had maybe started to ask too many questions. Then I’d shown up, and Mercy had lied with a cool ease that would have put even Lucifer to shame.

  Cam had been going to meet her death yesterday, while I’d been in a demon house. If they hadn’t taken me I might have saved her too. “Herborne supplied the staff for the hit on Eddie, it was routine given the amount of profit you were talking about. But for Gabe, you needed more. You needed crooked cops with your brother in the lead.”

  Her teeth chattered. She said nothing. There was nothing she could say. I was right.

  “I should kill you.” A strained, unhealthy whisper. She shivered and cowered even more, sliding down the side of the island until she crouched, making a small screaming sound like a rabbit caught in a trap. “I should kill you slowly. I should send you to Hell in the flesh. I should kill you.”

  “Go ahead!” she screamed, lifting her contorted face. She didn’t look young now. “Go ahead, you goddamn fucking freak!”

  The next few seconds are hazy. My sword chimed as I dropped it, my boots ground in shattered dishes and broken glass, and I had her by the throat, lifted up so her feet dangled, my fingers iron in her soft, fragile human flesh. The cuff pulsed coldly; green light painted the inside of the kitchen in a flash of aqueous light. She choked, a large dark stain spreading at the crotch of her jeans. Pissed herself with fear.

  My lips pulled back. Rage, boiling in every single blood vessel. Heat poured from me, the air groaning and steaming, glass fogging, the wood cabinet-facings popping and pinging as they expanded with the sudden temperature shift, the floor shaking and juddering. The entire house trembled on its foundations, more tinkling crashes as whatever Pontside and Mercy and their merry crew of dirty fucking Saint City cops hadn’t broken as they searched the house shattered.

  It is your choice. It is always your choice. Death’s voice was kind, the infinite kindness of the god I had sworn my life to. If I denied Him, He would still accept me, still love me.

  But He should not have asked this of me.

  She was helpless and unarmed, incapable of fighting back. But she was guilty, and she had lied and murdered as surely as any bounty I’d ever chased.

  Anubis et’her ka . . . Kill. Kill her kill her KILL HER!

  I could not tell if the reply was Anubis, or some deep voice from the heart of me. But she can’t fight back. This is murder, Dante.

  There was only one prayer I could utter as I shook, trembling, on the verge of grateful insanity.

  “Japhrimel,” I breathed, and the mark on my shoulder twisted again. I reached for him, for help, for strength, for anything. “Japhrimel . . . oh gods help me. . . .”

  Strength flooded through the demon mark on my left shoulder. No answer, except the soft velvet heat of Power sliding through his name scarred into my skin, dappling my entire body with heat.

  A piece of his power, given without reserve or hesitation. Did he feel it when I drew on the mark? Did he care?

  Did it matter?

  I dropped her. She thudded onto the floor and lay there moaning. My hands shook. Hot tears splashed onto the sweater Eve had given me. The house groaned again, complaining, and settled on its foundations.

  The god waited, his presence filling the room, invisible but heavy. I smelled kyphii and the odor of stone, felt the invisible wind of the blue-crystal hall of Death touch my cheeks, ruffle my hair. My god waited to see what I would do, if I would spare this traitor at his request . . . or if I would strike.

  If I killed her, like this, would I be any better than her and her brother? Was I any better right now?

  Oh, gods. Who am I?

  I no longer knew.

  “Thy will be done,” I grated out, and backed away. She groaned again, scrabbling against the floor as terror robbed her of everything but the urge to get away. I sobbed, once, hoarsely. Sirens rattled the air, and I heard shouts. Someone was pounding on the magsealed front doors.

  My sword made a low metallic sound as I picked it up from the debris-littered floor. Mercy gurgled. I slid the blade home in its sheath slowly, every muscle in my body protesting. My hands and legs shook with the urge to rip the metal free, pace back to the helpless cringing animal on the floor, and finish her off as bloodily and painfully as I could.

  The sense of the god’s presence faded, bit by bit. I felt it go, swirling away from me.

  Kill her. Rage swirled through my skull, tender bruised places on my psyche cracking under the strain. She betrayed Gabe. Kill her.

  I walked heavily out of the kitchen. Paused for a moment in the middle of the dark hallway, my head down, hair curtaining my face. I heard the whine of lasecutters at the front door.

  Blood slicked down my skin, warm and wet. My feet moved, carrying me into the front hall. I lowered myself down on the steps, watching the bright points of light as the lasecutters began slicing through the magshielded door to let the Saint City PD back into Gabe’s house.

  As I sat there, I rocked back and forth, both hands wrapped around my sword, softly repeating in the deepest recesses of my brain the only prayer I had left since my god had betrayed me too.

  Japhrimel. Japhrimel, I need you. Japhrimel.

  29

  Horman hunched his shoulders like a turtle, pulling his bald head down and back. “Asa Tanner’s confirmed everything. The lab’s sent out the formula to the West Coast Chill clinics, for real this time.” Fog crept up to the sides of the house, moisture breathed in the air, the storm had moved inland and left a foggy dark five A.M. in its wake. Gabe’s house rose above us, lights blazing. Finally, her death was being investigated by the cops for real.

  “I should have checked,” I said dully. “All Mercy had to do was send it to a dropfax number.” My throat ached. I’d been hoodwinked by a sedayeen. If I’d been able to care, I might have blushed with embarrassment. “I never guessed you were Internal Affairs, Lew.” I wonder if that was what Gabe meant when she called you incorruptible.

  “I never guessed you was a fucking moron.” His beady eyes sparked for a moment. The shoulders of his tan trench were damp, his breath plumed in the air. “You didn’t even check for a tran number on a fucking datafax.”

  I shrugged. Dried blood crackled on my clothes—Pont-side had shot me six times, probably counting on volume of lead to kill me as it had killed Eddie and Gabe. Most of the bullets had gone right through me, black demon blood closing the holes and inhuman flesh twitching to expel any chunks that hadn’t escaped. The twitches were only now fading as demon adrenaline leached out of my tissues. My heart beat thin and sour in my throat.

  We watched, the night exhaling fog between streetlamps, as the lights went out and the last of the techs filed out of Gabe’s house. The entire place had been dusted and scanned finally, and a Reader would be sent in tomorrow morning. Not that it was necessary—there was more than enough proof to indict Mercy, and she was so terrified she would probably testify against both Herborne and the circle of dirty cops—
whoever was left after I’d attacked them at the clinic and escaped them in the Rathole. There were going to be a lot of empty desks in the Saint City South Precinct house. And a lot of freelance bounty hunters would be very busy tracking down whoever fled from justice. It would take a long time to get it all sorted out.

  I was no longer suspected of killing my best friend. The police hovers I’d destroyed and cops I’d killed in self-defense wouldn’t be mentioned—after all, the department wouldn’t like to admit to a conspiracy this big, funded by Chill money, in its own hallowed halls. It was bad for their image.

  Horman, leaning against a police hover, shifted his bulk from one foot to the other. The hover’s landing-springs sighed as he settled his ample ass more firmly against the plasteel hull. “The kid,” he said finally.

  “She’s safe. I know where she is.” I can’t believe I was so stupid as to miss that even for a moment. I’m slipping in my old age. Guilt pinched me. I should have been planning to hunt down the rest of them. I should personally dispatch everyone who had anything to do with the whole sordid plot. I owed it to Gabe.

  It was a debt I wasn’t going to be able to pay. I had broken my word twice now, once to Lucifer and once to my best and only friend.

  “Don’t suppose you’re gonna tell.” Horman sighed.

  “Not with half the precinct implicated in a murder plot against her mother, no.” My tone was just as flat and ironic. The simmering smell of decaying fruit and spice from my blood was damped by the fog, beginning to thicken in earnest, wrapping the world in cotton wool.

  “It ain’t half the precinct, deadhead. Just some dirty-ass cops.” His neck flushed beet-red, he reeked of Chivas soy whiskey. His tie was askew, and there was a stain on his shirt that looked suspiciously like mustard.

  I’m still alive. I let out a long soft breath. Herborne Corp was already disassociating itself, claiming Mercy hadn’t been acting under its directives. That told both Horman and me that they had supplied the team for Eddie’s death. It would come out in court and the corporation would be dissolved. The publicity was going to be hell.