I am Valentine. Danny Valentine. I’m me. I am Dante Valentine.
Relief scalded me all over, gushed in hot streams from my eyes. I knew who I was now: I could remember my name.
Everything else would follow.
I hauled myself up to my feet. My legs shook and I stumbled, and I was for once in no condition to fight. I hoped I wasn’t in a bad part of town.
Whatever town this is. What happened? I staggered, ripped my claws free of the brick wall, and leaned against its cold, rough surface, for once blessing the stink of humanity. It meant I was safe.
Safe from what? I had no answer for that question, either. A hideous thing beat like a diseased heart behind the door I’d slammed to keep it away. I didn’t want to know right now.
Safe place, Danny girl. I flinched, but the words were familiar, whispered into my right ear. A man’s voice, pitched low and tender, with an undertone of urgency. Just the way he used to wake me up, back in the old days.
Back when I was human and Jace Monroe was alive, and Hell was only a place I read about in classic literature and required History of Magi classes.
That thought sent a scree of panic through me. I almost buckled under the lash of fear, my knees softening.
Get up, clear your head, and move. There’s a temple down the street, and nobody’s around to see you. You’ve got to move now. Jace’s voice whispered, cajoled.
I did not stop to question it. Whether my dead lover or my own small precognitive talent was speaking didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was if it was right. I was naked and covered in blood, with only my bag. I had to find somewhere to hide.
I stumbled to the mouth of the alley, peering out on a dim-lit city street, the undersides of hovers glittering like fireflies above. The ambient Power tasted of synth-hash smoke, wet mold, and old silty spilled blood, with a spiked dash of Chill-laced bile over the top.
Smells like North New York Jersey. I shook my head, blood dripping from my nose in a fresh trickle of heat, and staggered out into the night.
2
The street was indeed deserted, mostly warehouses and hoverfreight transport stations that don’t see a lot of human traffic at night. There was a temple, and its doors creaked as I made it up the shallow steps. It could have been any temple in any city in the world, but I was rapidly becoming convinced it was North New York Jersey. It smelled like it.
Not that it mattered right at the moment.
The doors, heavy black-painted iron worked with the Hegemony sundisc, groaned as I leaned on one of them, shoving it open. My right leg dragged as I hauled myself inside, the shielding on the temple’s walls snapping closed behind me like an airlock, pushing away the noise of the city outside. The damage to my leg was an old injury from the hunt for Kellerman Lourdes; I wondered if all the old scars were going to open up—the whip scars on my back and the brand along the crease of my lower left buttock.
If they did open up, would I bleed? Would the bleeding ever stop?
Take out all the old wounds, see which one’s deepest. The voice of panic inside my head let out a terrified giggle my chattering teeth chopped into bits. The door in my head stayed strong, stayed closed. It took most of my failing energy to keep that memory—whatever it was—wrestled down.
Every Hegemony temple is built on a node of intersecting ley lines, the shields humming, fed by the bulge of Power underneath. This temple, like most Hegemony places of worship, had two wings leading from the narrow central chamber—one for the gods of Old Graecia, and one for Egyptianica. There were other gods, but these were the two most common pantheons, and it was a stroke of luck.
If I still believed in luck.
Jace’s voice in my ear had gone silent. I still could not remember what had been done to me.
Whatever it was, it was bad. I’m in bad shape.
I almost laughed at the absurdity of thinking it. As if that wasn’t self-evident.
The main chamber was dedicated to a standard Hegemony sundisc, rocking a little on the altar. It was as tall as two of me, and I breathed out through my mouth because my nose was full of blood. I worried vaguely about that—usually the black blood rose and sealed away any wound, healing my perfect poreless golden skin without a trace. But here I was, bleeding. I could barely tell if the rest of me was bleeding too, especially the deep well of pain at the juncture of my legs, hot blood slicking the insides of my thighs.
I tried not to think about it. My right hand kept making little grasping motions, searching for a sword hilt.
Where’s my sword? More panic drifted through me. I set my jaw and lowered my head, stubbornly. It didn’t matter. I’d figure it out soon enough.
When I held my blade again, it would be time to kill.
I just couldn’t think of who to kill first.
My bag shifted and clinked as I wove up the middle of the great hall, aiming for the left-hand wing, where the arch was decorated with dancing hieroglyphs carved into old dark wood. This entire place was dark, candles lit before the sundisc reflecting in its mellow depths. The flickering light made it even harder to walk.
My shoulder pulsed. Every throb was met with a fresh flood of Power along my battered shields, sealing me away but also causing a hot new trickle of blood from my nose. My cheeks were wet and slick too, because my eyes were bleeding—either that, or I had some kind of scalp wound. Thin hot little fingers of blood patted the inside of my knees, tickled down to my ankles.
I’m dripping like a public faucet. Gods. I made it to the door and clung to one side, blinking away salt wetness.
There they sat in the dusk, the air alive with whispers and mutters. Power sparked, swirling in dust-laden air. The gods regarded me, each in their own way.
Isis stood behind Her throned son, Horus’s hawk-head and cruel curved beak shifting under Her spread hand of blessing. Thoth stood to one side, His long ibis head held still but His hands—holding book and pen—looking startled, as if He had been writing and now froze, looking down at me. The statues were of polished basalt, carved in post-Awakening neoclassic; Nuit stretched above on the vault of the roof, painted instead of sculpted.
There, next to Ptah the Worker, was Anubis. The strength threatened to leave my legs again. I let out a sob that fractured against the temple’s surfaces, its echoes coming back to eat me.
The statue of the god of Death regarded me, candles on the altar before Him blazing with sudden light. My eyes met His, and more flames bloomed on dark spent wicks, our gazes flint and steel sparking to light them.
I let out another painful sob, agony twisting fresh inside my heart. Blood spattered the floor, steaming against chill stone. This might be a new building, but they had scoured the floor down to rock, and it showed. My ribs ached as if I’d just taken a hard shot with a jo staff. Everywhere on me ached, especially—
I shut that thought away. Let go of the edge of the doorway and tacked out like a ship, zigzagging because my right leg wouldn’t work quite properly. I veered away into the gloom, bypassing Anubis though every cell in my body cried out for me to sink to the floor before His altar and let Him take me, if He would.
I had given my life to Him and been glad to do it—but He had betrayed me twice, once in taking Jason Monroe from me and again in asking me to spare the killer of my best and only friend.
I could not lie down before Him now. Not like this.
There was something I had to do first.
I kept going, each step a scream. Past Ptah, and Thoth, and Isis and Horus, to where no candles danced on the altars. The dark pressed close, still whispering. It took forever, but I finally reached them, and looked up. My right hand had clamped itself against my other arm, just under the scar on my left shoulder, each beat of Power thudding against my palm as my arm dangled.
Nepthys’s eyes were sad, arms crossed over Her midriff. Beside Her Set glowered, the jackal head twitching in quick little jerks as candlelight failed to reach it completely. The powers of De
struction, at the left hand of Creation. Propitiated, because there is no creation without the clearing-away of the old. Propitiated as well in the hope that they will avoid your life, pass you by.
What had been done to me? I barely even remembered my own name. Something had happened.
Someone had done this to me.
Someone I had to kill.
Burn it all down, a new voice whispered in my head. Come to Me, and let it burn away. Make something new, if you like—but first, there is the burning.
There is vengeance.
Saint City Sinners Page 32
