It was near dawn as we headed back for Carmen’s bodega. Japhrimel was right, the world started to look a little less grim once I had some food in me to balance out nerves—and the tequila.
Nuevo Rio was hushed, the night people streaming toward bed and the day people not yet awake. That meant that the crowds had thinned out, and there was less cover for an Anglo Necromance trailed by a demon. I was a little more sanguine now, though. After all, I had a demon on my side.
And I was beginning to think he was trustworthy.
We turned the corner onto a long, empty street with boarded-up windows, Japhrimel pacing next to me, his hands clasped behind his back. I carried my katana a little more easily than I had before, since it didn’t seem likely that I’d need it in the next few minutes.
“So what’s this grand idea of yours?” I asked, checking the sky. Pale pearly dawn was beginning to filter through the lowering clouds, and the breathlessness of an approaching storm had intensified, if that were possible. I longed for rain, for lightning, for anything to break this tension. I hate muggy weather.
“You may not like it,” he said, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back.
“Does it give me a better chance of killing Santino?” I asked, checking the street again. My nape prickled. Nerves, probably. It had been a hell of a night.
“It does. Yet . . .” Japhrimel trailed off again. “You do not trust me, Dante.”
I shrugged. “I don’t trust anyone, not until proven.” That sounded rude, and I sighed. “You’re okay, you know. But my jury’s still out until you tell me this idea.”
“Very well,” he said. But he didn’t explain—instead, he glanced up at the sky too, then down at me.
“I’m waiting,” I reminded him.
“I would wish to give you a gift,” he said, slowly, as if he was choosing his words carefully. “A piece of my Power. It will make you stronger, faster . . . less easy to damage.”
I thought it over, skirting a puddle of oily liquid. The pavement here was cracked and dangerous, small sinkholes yawning everywhere. My neck prickled again. I was too nervous. Too strung-out. I needed sleep, or a fight . . . or something else entirely. “What’s the catch?” I said finally.
“I am not sure you would wish to be tied to me so closely,” he answered. “And the process is . . . difficult, for humans. Painful.”
I absorbed this. “You would . . . what, make me into a demon?”
“Not a demon. My hedaira.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s not spoken of,” he said. “It . . . ah, it requires a . . . ah, a physical bond . . .”
Was that embarrassment in his voice? Another first, the first time I’d heard a demon groping for words. “You mean like Tantrik; like sex magick?” I ventured, feeling my cheeks heat up. I’m blushing. Anubis guard me, I’m blushing.
“Very similar,” he agreed, sounding relieved.
“Oh.” I mulled this over, stepping over another puddle. Gooseflesh raised on my back, a chill breath on my sweating skin.
Why am I so nervous?
I opened my mouth to say something when Japhrimel froze between one step and the next. I halted, too, closed my eyes, and sent my senses out, winging through the predawn hush.
Nothing. Nothing but the demon next to me, and the persistent static of city Power—
—and a smell like cold midnight and ice.
My entire body went cold, my nipples drawing up hard as pebbles, my breath catching.
“Dante,” Japhrimel said quietly. “Run.”
“No way,” I whispered. “If he’s here—”
“Do not be foolish,” he whispered fiercely, catching my arm and shoving me. “Run!” His hands flickered, came up full of silver guns.
My katana whispered free of its sheath, metal running with blue light and Power, runes twisting along its surface.
And then all hell broke loose.
I’d like to say I was of some use once the fighting broke out, but the only thing I remember was a huge stunning impact throwing me to the ground, my katana still clenched in my hand, and Japhrimel’s roar of furious agony. Plasgun bolt, I thought, I didn’t expect a plasgun bolt from a demon. And darkness swallowed me whole.
CHAPTER 35
Cold.
After the heat of Nuevo Rio, the cold crept into my bones and twisted hard. I moaned, trying to lift my head. My left shoulder burned mercilessly, my right wrist clasped in something hard and chill. Stone under my fingertips.
It took a while before I could open my eyes. When I did, the darkness didn’t change. Either I was blind, or locked in a place with no light.
Both were equally possible.
For a few vertiginous minutes after I woke up, I couldn’t even remember my own name. Then it all came flooding back.
Plasgun. I’d been hit with a plasgun bolt, set on stun. That explained the temporary blindness—if I was blind—and the way my entire body felt as if it had been ripped apart and put back together wrong. A plasgun charge was the worst thing for psionics; it drained and screwed up Power meridians, as well as giving a hell of a headache.
I moved slightly, and the sound of metal dragging over stone reached my ears.
Chained. I was chained to the stone. A metal cuff clasped my wrist.
I took in a deep ragged breath, moaned again. Yanked on the chain. I was underground, I could tell I was underground, in the dark. My rings scraped stone as I pulled on the chain, metal clanking, another moan echoing against the walls.
Stop it, a cold, calm voice intruded on my panic. Get hold of yourself. You’re not dead yet, so look around. Use that famous wit of yours, Danny, and try to figure out why you haven’t been killed yet.
Santino. He’d been there. Had he snatched me? If so, I had to think, I had to.
I shut my eyes again. The squirming worm of panic under my breastbone started to grow. I had to pee, and the darkness was absolute, and the cold leaching into my bones made me shiver, like the cold of bringing a ghost back.
Anubis et’her ka. Se ta’uk’fhet sa te vapu kuraph. Anubis et’her ka. Anubis, Lord of the Dead, Faithful Companion, protect me, for I am Your child. Protect me, Anubis, weigh my heart upon the scales, watch over me, Lord, for I am Your child. Do not let evil distress me, but turn Your fierceness upon my enemies—
Light bloomed, a faint blue glow. I hitched in a shuddering breath. My eyes popped open.
My rings were dead and dark. The glow came from my katana, lying on the other side of the stone cube with my bag and my coat, thrown in a heap. My plasgun was gone; so was the katana’s scabbard. Oh, thank you, I thought. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
A faint heat bloomed inside my chest. My shoulder ached fiercely, as if a hot poker was being drilled into the flesh. What had happened to Japhrimel?
And why leave me my sword? I was deadly with edged metal.
Then again, Santino had faced me down with a sword before and won; he’d taken the plasgun, which was the only thing faster than a demon. Santino might not fear me even if I had my other weapons.
Let’s hope that’s his first mistake.
I was trapped in a featureless stone cell with a drain in one corner. A faint sour smell came up from the drain. I wriggled across the floor, not trusting my legs yet.
The chain fetched me up short. I wriggled around, stretching, but the katana was still a good six inches away and I couldn’t twist any other part of my body near enough due to the narrowness of the cell. I finally settled on my stomach, staring at the katana’s hilt.
I was drained. I had not even an erg of Power left. Taking a plasgun bolt will do that, scramble and drain your Power meridians. I’d either have to wait for a recharge, or . . .
I stretched out my left hand. My shoulder burned. The faint blue glow helped immensely, even though I could see no way out of the cube. Don’t worry, I told myself, if there’s a way in, there’s a way out.
I lay on my back, my left hand
out and reaching, stilled myself. Anubis, I prayed, You have shown me Your favor. Give me my weapon, please. Don’t let me die chained like an animal. Please, my Lord, help me, for I have served You faithfully—
I strained, every muscle singing in agony, my heart speeding up, my breathing rising. The blue glow stuttered. I inhaled, waiting for the space inside me where the god lived to open.
—blue crystal pillars, a flash of light, the god’s face, turning away from me. My emerald, flashing, a song of creaking agony.
My katana’s hilt slammed into my palm. I gasped, shocked heart and lungs struggling to function—the body needed Power to survive; to drain myself so completely was dangerous, my heart and lungs could stop and tip me into Death’s embrace.
When I regained consciousness, I had my katana in hand. The Power vibrating in the blade trickled into me. It helped.
In the glow from my blade, I examined the cuff around my wrist. It took a moment to snag the blade on the strap of my bag, and then once I had my bag I dug in to find my lockpicks. They were there—I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving while I worked on the ancient lock. It took a while, and one fit of whispered cursing at my numb fingers, but I finally tickled the lock open.
Wearing my coat helped with the chill. I settled my bag under the coat, against my hip, and held my katana.
There, I thought, that’s definitely better.
I took a few moments to lean against the wall and breathe. The stone cube was windowless, doorless, with nothing but the drain in one corner. There was no Power in the walls that I could sense, but when I closed my eyes and felt around me I discovered two things—that I was still in Nuevo Rio, because the Power here tasted like ashes and tamales and blood, and that there was a dead spot on one wall, where the stone didn’t resonate like stone should.
First things first. I relieved myself into the drain, wishing I’d packed some toilet paper in the bag. Really, I scolded myself, you should have known that you’d end up in a stone dungeon with no facilities. That’s how these things always end up, isn’t it? Who kidnapped me? If it’s Santino, why am I not dead? And why in the name of the gods did he leave me my sword?
Then I zipped myself up and walked over to the dead spot. The ceiling gave me only about an inch of clearance; if I’d been any taller I would have had to hunch.
I had enough Power now to reach out and tap into the city’s well again, thankful I’d had a chance to acclimate. Being locked in this cell with backlash would not have been good.
With the tapline secure and my throbbing headache easing as the Power soaked back into me, I touched the dead spot on the wall. It appeared to be stone to my fingers.
I stared at the stone, and my left shoulder gave a crunching flare of pain. I transferred my katana to my left hand, blade-down so the glow from the steel would give me light, and reached up with my right, sliding my hand under my shirt. The ridged loops of scar pulsed under my fingers. Heat flooded me.
I saw, as if through a sheet of rippling glass, the city underneath me. Fire bloomed in several different places, and my right hand was up, clinging to something rough. Rain lashed down, unable to quench the fires, and there was an incredible noise. Then the world rushed up to meet me, boots thudding into pavement, and someone’s soft throat gave under my iron fingers.
“If she is harmed,” I heard Japhrimel growl, “I will kill all in my path, I promise you this.”
I woke up lying curled on the stone floor, my katana’s hilt pressed to my forehead. I would have a nice goose-egg on my temple from hitting the floor. The tapline resounded as if plucked like a guitar string. “I gotta stop passing out,” I moaned, tasting blood. I’d bitten the inside of my cheek. “I’ll never get out of here.”
The tingle of Power told me I’d been down for about half an hour. That doesn’t tell me anything, I thought, who knows how long I’ve really been down here? Hunger twisted my stomach.
I settled down cross-legged in front of the dead spot, staring at it. The lack of Power here told me something was here, and chances were it was an entrance.
I started to breathe, deep circular breaths. Opened the tapline as far as my aching head would allow, soaking up the Power of the city like a sponge. Three-quarters of the influx went into my rings; they started to sparkle against my fingers. The other quarter I used to start fashioning a glyph of the Nine Canons—Gehraisz, one of the Greater Glyphs of Opening.
If it didn’t blast the door off its fucking hinges, at least it might blow away some of the shell of illusion over the door and give me something to work with. I waited, building the glyph carefully, the faint glow from my katana fading to a dim foxfire glow.
It took a long time for my rings to come back to life, meaning that my Power meridians were settling back into normal. Then all the available Power went into the glyph. It started to pulse, folding up in the air and glowing a fierce silvery-white. Looped and spun, three-dimensional, and I drew it back. Like an arrow, like a cobra coiling itself to strike.
I waited, humming the low note the glyph was keyed to, at the very bottom of my range. I juggled the glyph, forcing an overflow line down into the floor of the cell. If the glyph rebounded or the door was trapped, I didn’t want the backlash. Let the stone take it.
There was an endless moment of suspension, everything paused, the world stopped like a holovid still, and then the glyph released, hurling itself toward the dead spot in the wall.
A brilliant flash of light seared my eyes, and my left shoulder sent a bolt of hot pain through me. When I finished shaking my head to clear it, I saw it had worked.
An ironbound door with a handle and a keyhole stood in front of me. I let out a long satisfied breath.
“Okay,” I whispered, hauling myself to my feet. My left leg had gone to sleep, and I shifted back and forth, gasping as the pins and needles bit my flesh. “Looks like I’m back in the game.”
CHAPTER 36
What felt like an hour but was probably only fifteen minutes later, I pushed the door cautiously open, my katana held ready. Stairs hacked out of stone rose up in front of me, and I sighed. Of course not. It couldn’t be easy, could it? I climbed cautiously, my shaking legs protesting, my back on fire, my shoulders tense as bridge cables and my glutes singing a song of agony.
I reached the top of 174 stairs and found another door. This one was more resistant to my lockpicking skills, and I was beginning to gasp with panic, imagining being trapped underground, when it finally yielded. It creaked open, slowly, and revealed the very last thing I expected.
A large high-ceilinged room done in white. White marble floor, a large white bed with mosquito netting draped over it, a fireplace made of the same white marble. A white leather chair crouched in front of the empty fireplace, and a white rug lay on the floor at the bed’s foot. I had to look twice before I recognized it as a polar bear’s pelt. My gorge rose. I pushed it back down.
The tall French doors across the room were open, and the filmy white curtains fluttered on a sultry breeze. I heard the sound of falling rain, smelled oranges.
Out. Get out. Get out of here.
I made it halfway to the windows before he spoke.
“Impressive, Ms. Valentine. Lucifer’s faith in you is well-placed, I expected another six hours before you came through that door. I hope your temper has calmed.”
His voice was chill, high-pitched, and soaked with murderous Power. And then I smelled it—ice and blood, blind white maggots churning in a corpse, the smell that had soaked my nightmares for five long years.
I turned, my sword held ready. Blue fire ran along the blade, dripped on the floor. Gooseflesh roared over my body.
Get down, Doreen. Get down—
Game over.
He stood by the fireplace, one long hand on the back of the chair, the black teardrops over his eyes swallowing the pale marble light. He wore a white linen suit, cut loose and tropical on his thin demon’s frame. His ears poked up through a frayed mat of dark hair, coming to s
harp points. My hand shook, but the katana stayed steady. My spare knife slid out from its hidden sheath in my coat, reversed itself along my forearm.
“Santino,” I whispered.
“The very same,” he answered, bowing slightly. “And you, my beauty, are Danny Valentine. I knew I’d meet you again.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I whispered.
“Certainly you want to,” he replied. “But I would like to talk to you first.”
That was just strange enough to make me blink. He’s a demon, he’s tricky, be careful.
“Who are you?” I blurted. “Are you Sargon Corvin, or Santino Vardimal?”
He nodded. “Both. And more. Come with me, Dante. Let me show you what Lucifer doesn’t want you to see.”
“I don’t trust you,” I snapped. My rings sparked. Why did he leave my sword and my gear in there with me, if he wanted to kill me? It didn’t make sense.
But I knew how he liked to play with his prey.
“I didn’t think you would. However, I have not killed you. If I wanted to, I would have while you lay unconscious in the street and saved myself all this trouble. Surely you can afford to listen before you attempt my murder?” He shrugged, a demon’s shrug.
I wish Japhrimel were here, I thought, and hastily shoved the thought away.
“You’re being used, human,” he said softly. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”
Without waiting for my answer, he turned his back on me and paced across the room.
Don’t follow him, Danny. Take the window, however big the drop is from there you can take it, get out, get out, get AWAY—
I found myself following, advancing, keeping my sword ready. If he tried anything, I’d kill him or die trying. Why did he leave me my blade?
The house was massive, mostly floored in white marble, done hacienda style. It would have been beautiful if I hadn’t been so terrified. He led me down stairs and through rooms furnished with pieces worth more than I made in a year—apparently Vardimal had done very well for himself.
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