Demorn: City of Innocents (The Asanti Series Book 2)

by David Finn

  The blade jarred horribly, snapping on the cartilage.

  Her hand twisted painfully, she let go of the broken sword.

  Demorn heard explosions in the sky again.

  Her hand in savage pain, Demorn rolled quickly toward shelter as another sunburst of energy smashed into the courtyard. Through her mask she felt the intense heat roll across her like a wave.

  Well, fuck you, Capitan. She wondered how much he was paying for these intrusions. Surely a lot more than she had ever owed him.

  The Grod Monster staggered slowly near the laser, howling in a combination of what seemed like fury and horrific laughter. Something almost like pity flickered in her. This creature was a product of the vats, staggering through this hellhole of fire and violence.

  The Goddess alone knew how Alex had won nine of these Tyrant Runs, she thought with grim humour.

  ‘PRINCESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!’

  She flung herself through the air, trusting in the Pain Locket, the pain power flooding her, increasing speed. Her metal hand slammed into the face of the Grod. She enjoyed seeing some of the bone dislodge from his face. She felt the metal come across her right hand as well and she hit him again and again, alternating her punches, power surging through her, everything hurting inside of her, her entire heart and soul open and bleeding with hate.

  Enraged, the creature swung wildly, one loose punch smashing into Demorn’s ribs, snapping some. She groaned in agony, the pain locket ripping through her to compensate, knitting the ribs back together as she matched him punch for punch, ducking or dodging nearly everything he threw, while her own savage metal blows thudded into his cartilage ridden face, partially smashing in the creature’s skull.

  Suddenly, the pain became overwhelming. Demorn staggered to the ground. She flung herself away, hurtling upwards to a nearby rooftop. The Grod kept howling, his rage slurred, movements slow.

  On the shallow rooftop, Demorn took off the locket. Her body shuddered with the translation back to normalcy. Both hands turned back to flesh. She felt so weak and drained it was an effort to stay awake.

  But Demorn knew she had to kill this thing. There was no turning back now.

  The Grod started smashing the wall of the building she was on, a mini-earthquake. She felt for the locket, but it was silent, drained of power.

  The Mighty Pain Goddess Mictecaciuatl was a fickle mistress. She needed her followers to suffer and to bleed.

  Ah well, such was the way of things. She would have to do this by herself.

  Demorn heaved herself up, most of her body still impacted with aches and tears, drawing the other laz pistol from her boot holster, checking that its charge was almost full.

  Demorn swore a quick promise to Asanti and the Goddess of the Innocents. Death was death. It held no terror for her, never had. Perhaps she would die, and sail on the Skeleton Ship with all the other lost souls. Perhaps she would survive and win.

  Her tattoo burnt like sudden wild fire, tearing layers off her mind, shredding past fake, shallow memories, piercing to the heart of her.

  Demorn took off her mask and loosened her freshly long brunette hair. Her face held no scars. She looked young, younger than she had in years.

  Athena burnt brightly on her skin. Her mind was waking up, crystal sharp. Demorn opened her jet-black kimono, exposing her full breasts, and fell to her knees.

  Demorn took the locket from her pale neck, placing it by the death-mask. No more accessories or charms.

  Topless, she knelt on the rooftop, letting her mind roam free, her spirit spiralling above this complex city, this stupid game, all the big-city politicking and the pettiness of people.

  She saw herself back in the valley of the deep lake, floating above the surface with Kate. She was in the ice cave as the Goddess entered her soul. She felt the glow of the Firethorn sun, the cold, refreshing wash of the river where she was reborn, dimensions away, her life reverberating wildly out of violent death.

  Demorn opened her burning green eyes. The burning Xalos lay in her hands, a purple fire quietly burning on the blade. There was no pain in her, none anymore.

  She looked down at the locket, the shard of Mictecaciuatl hair, glistening with power inside the amber chamber, beseeching her to use it, whispering dark promises.

  But that was not needed for this battle, this final death match. She wrapped the black kimono around her body.

  Demorn came back to full reality. The monster was shaking the building in elemental fury, screaming out guttural hate and rage.

  Demorn remembered Kate in the sun. She swore an oath of love in Asanti and she leapt down to face the Grod.

  The Grod Monster snarled in hate, eyes burning in the shadows. Demorn circled him carefully at the edge of the square.

  She waved her fingers slowly, gesturing for him to come to her, passing the Sword from hand to hand, a sneer upon her glowing face.

  ‘I’m not even slightly scared of you.’

  The monster groaned, “WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?”

  She fast-pulled her pistol and shot out his eyes with two quick shots. The monster cried out in a single guttural roar. She smoothly glided across the square, Xalos searing through his corrugated skin, even as his massacred eyes tried to regrow.

  Demorn pushed the blade through him, gritting her teeth, every ounce of her muscle focused on the blade. It punched through his hide.

  She danced away, the purple fire slick with his blood.

  She watched the Grod Monster stagger toward her, his chest split, green gunk flowing out of him.

  With a vicious movement, she sliced upward, her green eyes aflame.

  ‘You’re a stupid old monster. I’m the Princess of Swords.’

  Demorn looked at his beheaded body.

  She breathed, ‘Nobody knows how much I long for Firethorn. Nobody knows how much I miss Kate.’

  Demorn watched him for a while, to see if the Monster would rise. She wondered what she would do if he did. But the Grod didn’t rise. He was dead, as all warriors die.

  Demorn felt the shudder go through her system when the cash hit her account. She walked away.

  6

  * * *

  Demorn walked toward the dimly lit club, the red light splashing across her death mask. A light rain was falling. The cross-town train rattled high above.

  They were a long way south in the Diamond Core. Pink letters scrolled across an electric blue wall. SUICIDE SUE’S.

  Oh Sue, the night has been so long. She could feel the Repeater Arcade, shimmering as it broke down piece by piece. Our night has been so long.

  A quick glance at her invisible watch told her this place was a swarming mass of targets, in synch with her instincts.

  Smile whispered, ‘I know this club, Sis.’

  Demorn smiled to hear his voice. ‘Me, too. I was a regular once. I thought you had forgotten about me, bro. I thought you were busy praying to pretty lights in the sky.’

  Smile giggled, all light pink shadows.

  ‘The girls are sleeping in the garden, but I had a feeling you were on a mission.’

  His tone got slightly dreamy. ‘It’s way more transcendental than you would ever believe.’

  She rolled her eyes, letting the rain fall into her hair. ‘Oh, I believe it’s a long way out there. How’s Alex?’

  ‘Asleep in the Pool, not a mark on her. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good, take care of her.’

  Demorn looked at the pink glittering sign in the rain.

  Our night has been so long.

  ‘No, no not yet. I’ve got to finish this myself.’

  She shut the communication down, her black kimono partially open as she walked down into the club. Slick invisible shields slid across her skin, presumably recognising her as a participant of the Run.

  She brushed her chest as she walked down the narrow steps. The robe changed to her dark leather jacket.

  She wasn’t wearing the pain locket anymore. It lay inside the jacket lining, a dead we
ight of feeling. She didn’t want to feel that way all the time.

  Diamond chandeliers glittered in the flashing lights. The girls in the club moved in pulsating rhythm.

  Demorn watched a stunning blonde bombshell grinding on the pole, her incredible body moving like a dream vision. She could never tell if she truly loved these places or if they just fed the chasm of emptiness inside. She didn’t really care.

  Strange ghostly green shapes flitted through the club like ghosts, circling the businessmen and the tourists. One came close to her. Demorn tensed instinctively. There was no stable consistency to the shape.

  As it edged close to her, a digital abyss opened. Her magic green eyes were mirrored in the ghost. The club filled suddenly with beautiful girls grooving, seductively gyrating to songs filtering through Demorn’s mind, a mélange of sights and sounds.

  They were everywhere, grinding up on her. Demorn could feel the sudden heat of her desire and need. She felt herself tremble, for she knew there were parts of her she could never control. There was no price tag in the abyss, just a terrible, hungry temptation to surrender.

  Demorn was filled with welcome warmth. Every person she had ever lightly loved, dated, kissed and forgot, they were all dancing around her.

  She slid smoothly amongst them, invisible, loose and easy, dancing as the manifold images slid away, fading to just a select few dream girls, gathered from the most delicate places in her memory.

  The chandeliers tinkled. The girls glittered with tassels and perfect boobs. Her mind felt sharp and alive. Under the red light, a blonde girl with curves and a sly smile, somebody she vaguely met centuries ago at some distant party in Chicago, smiled cheekily at her.

  The girl turned away, vanishing onto the flickering dance floor.

  ‘Miss, can I help you with anything?’

  Demorn smiled at the young blonde waitress, and ordered a Pina Colada.

  Huge video screens played sports, teasers for dancers. Another wall quietly fed data updates on the Run. Demorn casually wondered what the odds on her were, as she watched angles. There were targets in here. She was a target, too.

  A cool-looking girl with a tight ass and dark hair was swaying to the tune. After watching her for five seconds in silhouette, Demorn suddenly realized it was Sue, free from the Arcade.

  She walked quickly toward her, almost running across the dance floor, her fingers brushing across her neck, so glad it wasn’t pain flooding her.

  The woman turned to her. Smoky eyes under the dance floor lights. Demorn remembered meeting her in a Vegas hotel during a loose, hot summer. A couple of quick conversations in the lift with a mysterious neighbor that led to coffee and somewhere else.

  A cool girl with smoky eyes who constantly listened to pop music on her earphones, swaying to the tunes that moved her heart and ass. A cool girl who loved comics who was easy to love. A couple of Vegas weeks that had felt like just about everything.

  Demorn could feel the gentle ache inside of her, until it was just her and the smoky-eyed girl, slow dancing, brushing against each other. Demorn looked into those burning dark eyes, knowing it was memory made flesh. It wasn’t Sue, not really, but something or someone so like her it hurt.

  She turned away. Sue faded back into the club smoke.

  ‘Sweet Asanti,’ Demorn breathed, half gasping, ‘I am owned by the storm.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let the green ghosts touch you,’ said an exhausted, old voice from a dark booth.

  An ancient withered man, with a transparent white cloth stretched across his face, was seated in a dark, cloistered booth, his hands spasmodically rattling on the wood.

  ‘Why?’ she said, with a touch of dark humour. ‘Are the hot girls giving you a heart attack?’

  His laughter was a sigh. ‘The ghost program can read your lust patterns, all your kinky little secrets.’

  Demorn could feel the pistol on her leg strap as she gazed at him carefully.

  He said, ‘So you like the pretty ladies with a touch of mystery, hey?’

  ‘I thought it was strip club etiquette to ignore the clientele, keep your eyes on the dancing girls.’

  His voice was a death rattle. ‘I’ve seen everything they could ever do. I barely own a heart. That’s why they don’t bother me.’

  ‘You’re becoming a Pale Sun. Your flesh is dying like your soul has. There’s nothing left to do the hard sell on. That’s why they don’t bother you,’ she drawled.

  He wheezed meditatively. ‘Perhaps there isn’t.’

  He looked past Demorn, at the beautiful women, into the multi-screens, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

  ‘How long have you been in the Run?’

  ‘A long time,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ve seen a lot of big scores go down in this Quarter.’

  She didn’t need to look at her wrist feed, the subtle vibrations in her system, to know that this creepy old man was a big score himself.

  Even with her distaste of the Run, she had heard rumours of sleepers, staying deep inside the Run, ducking beneath the radar. But how had he survived Alex’s rampages? She wasn’t subtle or merciful.

  He gestured with old-school politeness for her to sit down. Carefully, Demorn slid into the booth, her surface face unreadable as she took her drink off the beautiful waitress. She crossed her legs and sipped through a long straw.

  Demorn held her burning green eyes away from his milky gaze. His withered hands flicked quickly across the wooden table. She kept thinking, there is so much blood on your hands, old monster, so much blood.

  Clips of Alex in her sheer white and yellow bodysuits flashed to one of the biggest wall-screens, a close-cut of her face screaming as the Blood Clan pierced her. Then she was shooting up a pair of reptile creatures in this darkened room, her pistols firing in righteous sequence.

  WITHDRAWN FROM RUN WITHDRAWN FROM RUN flashed across the screen.

  His breath rattled. ‘Look at her, shooting them as they beg. No mercy. I’ve seen contacts die by her hand, screaming.’

  Demorn smiled, her death mask mirroring cruel thoughts. ‘She couldn’t care less. That’s why she’s one of the best.’ She laughed softly.

  He had constructed a dangerous mirror-maze within the cards upon the table, a layer of mirrors, a red dragon tunneling through the shimmering energy lines.

  ‘Is that your way too, Princess? To just kill us all.’

  Demorn sliced through the maze with a perfectly played sword card. She watched his maze slowly collapse in on itself.

  She sipped at her drink, savouring this fake, quiet peace. The dragon started to surge within the last maze, crushing down on everything, twisting and turning in a miniature rage. The old man’s white face flashed in the bizarre, coloured lights.

  He folded his cards and the maze and red dragon vanished.

  She said, ‘Isn’t that the point of this whole damn game? To outlast everybody?’ She looked through the room, enjoying the pretty girls, letting herself feel them for a second.

  ‘What I don’t get is how you’re sitting here, talking to me. Is this how you built up your contact list?’ She flicked a finger at Alex killing on the big screen. ‘Because to her and me, there aren’t any contacts amongst your kind. Just targets.’

  He smiled a very thin smile that revolted her. There was still some last sick fragments clinging to his humanity, the last stage before death medicines and black magic made him a full Pale Sun.

  The table shook madly, the blank cards rattling, surging with a dark energy, obsidian mirrors.

  ‘My kind. You don’t know anything about us. You haven’t seen the true power of the transformation, you think we are just sick, doomed old men . . . but that is not all we are! THAT IS NOT WHAT WE ARE!’

  Demorn saw savage, dark images in the screens and the strip club mirrors, shadows of bleeding dimensions, horrors crawling through the monitors. Demorn’s training shut her mind from these distractions.

  With her magic eyes, she could see his withered face in the mirror
ed walls, the hood and white cloak billowing out over her, black magic coursing through her body.

  Xalos burnt within her breast, bright and painful. Demorn watched his otherworldly visage fade away inside the mirrors and screens.

  The dancing girls came back, beautiful as they cruised through the club. She saw her smoky-eyed friend drinking by the bar.

  Dryly, she asked, ‘Are you seriously trying to drink my soul, in the middle of a nice, deep conversation like this? That’s just tacky.’

  Demorn flicked an energy star through her fingers, hidden behind her card slot. The energy blade seared and snatched at his throat, tearing the white transparent film across his face.

  His milky eyes showed a scared surprise. He staggered backward into the booth, spasming.

  ‘You were cheap, old man. So cheap.’

  She saw his fingers desperately moving, trying to weave some last spell, and she half-laughed. She threw another star into him, slashing his weak throat completely. He gurgled out as he died.

  ‘I didn’t even have to spawn the Sword.’

  She felt the tremor of funds hitting her account. She felt breathless and ready for more action.

  The smoky-eyed girl walked toward her, speaking in a Southern drawl, sexy in her short black dress. ‘At the bar they said you were a mercenary.’

  The girl looked more like the real Sue. It was as if the program that lay behind this smoky girl was gaining strength.

  Demorn smiled wolfishly. ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  The screens were flashing news of his death. His name had been Michael Dumont. In the clips they were playing he had owned a company and worn smooth Italian suits; in the clips he didn’t look like living death. It meant nothing to her.

  There was a longish pause. The girl’s cool was ruffled, her voice distant. ‘He was a creep. Used to pay people to just sit with him. He’d pry info outta them.’

  ‘Did you spend time with him?’

  She grinned coquettishly. ‘I tried to grind him for a few dollars, but it just wasn’t worth it. All he wanted to talk about was other people.’