The Devil s Right Hand

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Japhrimel’s soft voice interrupted that chain of thought. “I am your Fallen. That is all you need remember. Are you ready?”

  “To try and figure out who’s been trying to hit me with a hover? More than ready.” At least I sounded like myself again, there was no betraying tremble in my voice. All in all, I was dealing with this really well.

  Wasn’t I?

  “Dante. . . .” He let my name hang in the air as if he wanted to say more. I waited, but nothing came. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes glowing and his hair softly mussed. His coat moved slightly, settling around him, and I saw his face change. Just a little.

  “What?” I bounced up off the bed and jammed my sword home. “I’m ready.”

  He shook his head, then turned to lead me from the room. “Hey,” I said. “Thank you. Really. For saving the necklace. And my sword.” But most particularly, for saving me.

  Did his shoulders stiffen as if I’d hit him? He nodded, his hair moving ink-black above the darkness of his coat, and continued out of the room.

  I didn’t have time to wonder about that, just followed him.

  28

  The suite was on the third floor of a cheap hotel in the middle of the worst sink in New Prague, and that was saying something.

  This section of New Prague’s Stare Mesto had been the Judic Quarter, back in the mists of pre-Merican history. During the Awakening it was here that the first Skinlin had been trained by Zoharic and Qabalisticon scholars in their words of Power and the secret of making golem’ai. After the Seventy Days War and the absolute genealogical proof of the extinction of the line of David, the backlash of disbelief had risen against the Judics; their prewar alliance with the Evangelicals of Gilead had only sealed their fate. There were plenty of genetic Judics all over the world, but the culture they had kept alive so successfully foundered under the double shock of the miscarrying of their prophecies and their alliance with the Evangelicals—and, oddly enough, with the Catholica Church. War makes strange bedfellows, but even the most incisive of scholars could not explain why the Judics had allied with both factions of their old enemies. The Gilead records might have offered a clue, but they’d been destroyed in the War. The only theory was that Kochba bar Gilead had been persuasive, and quite a few—psions and humans alike—had believed him to be a messiah, if not the Messiah.

  Curiously enough, most Judic psions turned out to be Ceremonials, gifted with using their voices to sing the Nine Canons and alter reality. The only remnant of Judic culture left was the Skinlin’s pidgin mishmash of their language used to sonically alter plant DNA with Power wedded to voice. That, and the golem’ai.

  If I’d been a little less worried about a demon trying to kill me, I might have gone looking for some historical sites of interest, especially the corner of Hradcany Square where the last of the Judic followers of Gilead—the stubborn band that had shown its hand too soon against Merican StratComm’s final wrenching of political power away from Kochba’s old guard—had been mown down by laserifle fire. As it was, scholarship would have to take a back seat to figuring out who the hell was trying to kill me now. On the bright side, I could always come back.

  If I survived.

  It was obviously night, since the Nichtvren leaned against the wall by the door, his arms folded. He wore the same dusty black sweater and workman’s pants, but a new, shiny pair of boots. “There she is.” He sounded lazily amused, the catshine of a night-hunting predator folding over his eyes. “You look better now, belle morte.”

  I heard rain pattering on the sides of the building, stroking the windows behind his words. No thunder, though. The storm had passed.

  “I should.” I stripped my hair away from my face. I really had to find something to tie it back. “Last time you saw me, I’d just been hit by a hover. Where’s Lucas?” I wanted a little tête-à-tête with him, to touch gravbase and also—more importantly—to ask him what they talked about when I wasn’t in the room.

  “Gathering information.” The Nichtvren inclined his head, his gaze flowing slow and gelid over my body. “I would have loved to Turn you, cherie.”

  That was a high compliment from a Nichtvren, but I never want to hear a bloodsucking Master contemplate any of my vital fluids.

  “Thanks for the compliment.” I settled for a shrug worthy of Japhrimel. My eyes flicked over the room, full of heavy pseudo-antique furniture. Drapes pulled tight over the windows, a nivron fire in a grate. The room was done in red and brown, a graceless slashed painting of a bowl of fruit hung over the fire. Two tables, a collection of heavy chairs. Bella crouched by the fire, her eyes closed. The Asiano Magi hunched over a table spread with papers, his sword close at hand. Today he wore a Chinese-collared shirt and a long brown coat, as if he was cold. He also looked extremely nervous. He was pale under the rich color of his skin, and his hair was sticking up like a crow’s nest.

  Vann peered out the window, tweezing the ancient curtain aside. He held a very respectable Glockstryke laserifle, with an ease that told me he knew how to use it. “McKinley should be back by now,” he said darkly.

  I looked past him—a fire escape going down to a dark alley. A good escape route, or a good way for an enemy to sneak up on us. I shook my head, backing away from the window. My hair fell in my face again, I pushed it back.

  “He can look after himself,” Japhrimel replied. “Do not worry on his account.”

  The Necromance I’d seen in the sparhall tipped me a lazy salute from a chair set in a dark corner, his long legs outstretched. His emerald spat a single spark, my cheek burned again in answer, the inked lines of my tat running under my skin.

  Gods above. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Nice way to thank a man who saved your life,” he answered in a low, clear voice. “I was following you; saw you get hit with that hover. Your . . . ah, demon there, he shunted the reaction fire straight up and repaired the damage. Damnedest thing I ever saw.” He rose easily; he was tall when he wasn’t hunching. Dark eyes, dark hair, unshaven cheeks blurring his tat a little. Nice mouth. Lines around the eyes—he wasn’t young. “I’m Leander Beaudry.”

  My jaw didn’t quite drop, but it was close. “The Leander? The Mayan reconstructionist?” I knew he looked familiar. What’s he doing here, and why isn’t he laser-shaved according to the Codes? It was time to measure him out.

  He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I’d seen that smile on holovids, no wonder he looked familiar. He’d made his professional name sorting out the skeletal remains of ancient Centro and Sudro Merican sacrificial victims, in some cases raising their apparitions so linguists and anthropologists could question them; then he’d moved to Egypt and worked on the tombs there. I hadn’t heard any gossip about him for a while. “And you’re Danny Valentine. I’m honored. I’m working Freetowns.” He indicated his fuzzy cheek.

  Ah. No Necromance codes out here. He was trained Hegemony, but he works bounties. Probably not very good at following orders, been doing freelance for a while. Nice to know. “I read about Egypt. Raising Ramses for the Hegemony Historicals. Nice work—I saw the holovid.” You kept his apparition up for a good forty-five minutes, very nice work indeed. I heard you’re pretty good with an edged weapon, you brought in Alexei Hollandveiss alive and trussed up like a Putchkin Yule turkey. That’s right, you specialize in cold-case bounties.

  He completed the psionic equivalent of dogs sniffing each other’s rumps by meeting my eyes. “Well, mummies are easier than cremains. You’re the one who raised Saint Crowley the Magi. And the Choyne Towers.”

  That managed to make me shudder. It was one of the jobs that had made my reputation as the best Necromance in the world, one capable of raising apparitions from bits of bodies instead of the whole corpses, the fresher the better, that other Necromances needed. A Putchkin transport had failed and crashed into the three Choyne Towers, and I’d worked for weeks raising and identifying the dead—all but the last ten, who must h
ave been vaporized. Thanks for reminding me. I looked down at his hands, scarred and bruised from swordfighting and working the heavy bag. “Why were you following me?” A faint tone of challenge.

  “Not every day I see a tat I recognize on the face of a holovid angel. Was curious. Did a few stunts with Jace Monroe in Nuevo Rio before he went solo. He always talked about you.”

  “Did he.” I looked away first, down at the floor. My chest tightened. He’d talked about me? What had he said? “Well, you’ve fallen into bad company.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a hunt going. I want in.”

  Everything I’d ever heard said he was direct. “Ask Japhrimel.” I tipped my head back. Japh had gone still and silent behind me, the mark on my left shoulder turned molten-hot. I paced over to the table the Magi was hunched over and pulled out a chair, dropping down and presenting the Necromance with my profile. “I normally don’t work in groups, but it seems I’m overruled.” I looked down at the papers, started shuffling through them. Maps of New Prague, magscans, sheets covered with cramped, crabbed Magi codewriting. I glanced at the Asiano, who said nothing. His eyes glittered at me, and I saw how tight his hand was on his swordhilt.

  He’s afraid of me. Why? My left hand tightened on my scabbard as I stared back at him. The room had gone hot and tense. “What do we have?”

  The Asiano shifted in his seat, said nothing.

  I heard Leander move, leather boots creaking. “If you’re hunting demons, you’ll need every hand you can get. I’m trustworthy, I’ve got a reputation to protect just like you do.”

  The Asiano handed me a blue file folder. The mark on my shoulder crunched with heat, another flush of Power tingling along my skin. “Fine.” I glanced up at Leander, flipped the file open. “I told you to ask Japh. I’m not the one in charge here.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Leander muttered. He turned on his heel, facing Japh. “What do you say, then? I’ve done bounties in every Freetown on earth, and I’m bored. A demon should be a nice change.”

  “If you like.” Japhrimel sounded chill and precise. Why? It wasn’t like him to care about something like this. “You are here on Dante’s sufferance, then, Necromance. Since you rendered her aid.”

  Amaric Velokel, I read. Then a twisted, fluid glyph—the demon’s name in their harsh unlovely language. The glyph had lines scratched out and redrawn, obviously the Magi was working on figuring out if there was more to it. A combination of divination and codebreaking, feeling around for a demon’s Name, sidestepping countermeasures and protections that the demon would use to keep its identity a secret.

  I felt the familiar thrill go through me, shortening my breath and prickling at my skin. A new hunt.

  All the shutting myself up in a library hadn’t managed to change the way I felt about bounties. Sure, they paid well—most of the time. But the real reason I took them was for the hunt. The feeling of pitting myself against an enemy both strong and fierce; just like a sparring match and a battlechess game all rolled into one. The year that Japhrimel spent dormant I had flung myself into bounties, working one after another after another, always feeling nervous and edgy if I didn’t have a hunt started or under way. Gabe called it “bounty sickness.”

  I hated the danger of bounties—they had almost killed me more than once—but I’d grown to need it. Almost addicted. Hate and love, love and hate, and need.

  I had said all I wanted was a quiet life. Had I been lying? Or was it just that I was angry now, being jerked around by demons once more?

  I turned the page over. More conversation in the room, but I closed it away. I turned over the next sheet too and looked down at a drawing, finely shaded in charcoal. A face—round and heavy, square teeth that still looked sharp, cat-slit eyes that seemed light-colored. The face wasn’t human, for all that a human hand had drawn it. The eyes were too big, the teeth too square, and the expression was . . . inhuman.

  This was the first demon, then. Was it the one hiding out in New Prague?

  I spread my left hand over the picture, looking down at the wristcuff. Heard a slight sighing sound. Glanced up.

  Ogami stared at the wristcuff, before his dark eyes flicked up to my face. He was pale under the even caramel of his skin, his thin mouth drawn tight in a grimace.

  Bingo. We’ve hit a Magi that recognizes something about this. Maybe I can get him alone and ask a few questions.

  I looked back down at the wristcuff. It flared with green light, the lines twisting back on themselves. Was this thing like a Magi tracker? It seemed to react to demons. Was that why Lucifer had given it to me? Why didn’t it glow when Japhrimel was around?

  Well, no time like the present to ask. “Does this cuff work like a tracker? Is this the demon in New Prague? ’Cause it seems like this thing lights up whenever a demon’s prowling around looking to kill me.”

  Long pause. I looked up. Vann’s eyes were fixed on me, his mouth slightly open. Ogami stared too. Bella, crouched by the fire, had craned to look back over her shoulder. Her hair was mussed, and the triangular haircut didn’t suit her. Her chin was too sharp.

  The Nichtvren leaned back against the wall, his eyes half-closed and his fangs dimpling his lower lip. I hoped he’d visited a haunt and was well-fed. A chill traced up my spine—I had never really dealt with Nichtvren in my human life. They didn’t like Necromances much. I suppose bloodsuckers who prize their near-immortality—and all of them do—might not look too kindly on Death’s children.

  Japhrimel approached me soundlessly. Leander drop-ped back down into his chair, his katana placed at a precise angle across his knees. He was staring at me like I had grown another head. Why? I hadn’t done anything.

  “It is certainly possible.” Japhrimel’s hand curled around my shoulder. “Given the reaction of the Gauntlet, it’s likely he’s close.”

  Okay, finally. A usable piece of information. “So who is this guy? And what’s the Gauntlet?”

  “Velokel is of the Greater Flight.” His hand tightened on my shoulder. “In an earlier age he was called the Hunter. He hunted the Fallen and their brides, and killed many.”

  A lump rose in my throat. “Great.” I looked down at the wristcuff. “So what is the Gauntlet?”

  “The Gauntlet is what you’re wearing,” Vann said quietly. “It’s a mark given by the Prince. It means you’re his champion, and any demon who doesn’t bow to his authority is your enemy.”

  Oh, yeah. This just keeps getting better and better. I twisted in the chair to look up at Japhrimel. “When were you going to tell me about this?” Why does everyone else seem to know more than I do? You’d think they’d be falling all over themselves to tell me everything they possibly could.

  He shrugged, his coat rustling. “It provides you with some protection.”

  The fact the Lucifer had given me the bracelet made my bones feel cold and loose inside my skin, but I had other fish to heatseal at the moment. “He hunted hedaira? This Velokel guy?”

  “He did. Nor was he the only demon who did so.” Japhrimel’s hand slid up my shoulder, curved around, and rested intimately against my nape. Heat rose up my neck, and I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “But the A’nankhimel were only Fallen, no more.” He paused. “They did not have the luxury of bargaining to regain their place, as I have.”

  “Great.” I can’t tell whether to feel comforted or doomed. “So what can you tell me about this guy, Japhrimel?”

  “Intelligent. Resourceful. A good foe.” Japhrimel paused. “He hates Fallen almost as much as he hates Lucifer, but I would have thought him too wise to leave Hell.”

  I looked down at the drawing, then met Ogami’s eyes. “You drew this?”

  The Asiano nodded. His eyes were so eloquent it was hard to believe he didn’t once open his mouth.

  “Good.” I said. “Give me a full-body one. And write down in Merican what you know about this guy.”

  29

  I pored over the magscans again as Ogami drew. Tiens stirred against
the wall. I had almost forgotten he was there—he was that still and quiet. “The Deathless approaches.” He moved gracefully aside from the door. “Rather quickly, too.”

  I heard the footsteps, light and shushing. Lucas’s distinctive almost-shuffling gait—when he wasn’t as silent as a knife to the kidneys, that is.

  “Get all this together,” I said, my neck prickling. Bella began shuffling the papers together. “Hurry. If Lucas is running, it’s bad news. You.” I pointed at Vann. “Watch the alley. Anything out of the ordinary, yell. Nichtvren, slip down to the foyer, take a look. Make sure Lucas isn’t being followed. Get those papers together now.”

  Thankfully, none of them glanced at Japhrimel to make sure they were supposed to do what I said. I gained my feet with a single lunge, the chair scraping back. “Leander, I want you to hang out with Bella and Ogami. You’re protection detail for our Magi.”

  “Gotcha.” He levered himself up out of his chair, the trademark glitters swirling in his aura. If this Velokel was half as canny as Japhrimel said, he wouldn’t think twice about taking out the Magi. And there would go my best link to him.

  How well could a demon hide, though? They were huge magickal smears on the landscape of Power. Shouldn’t Japh be able to track him better than a human Magi?

  My eyes snagged on the magscans again. Intuition clicked into place as the answer I’d been searching for burst out like colors under full-spectrum lighting, shapes falling and locking together to create a picture. Oh, crap. Right in front of me.

  Lucas opened the door and half-fell inside. Tiens had vanished, a slight shimmer leaching out of the air. The chill returned, touching my back—he must be old, and obviously a Master. A Nichtvren performing that trick in front of humans was something I’d never seen before, though I’d read accounts of it and taken the standard Paranormal Behavior classes at the Academy.