Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIV

by Unknown

  "Sorry," I heard Sam say in an offhand, careless way. My discomfort eased and then vanished completely, leaving only tension behind to tighten my shoulders and turn my knuckles white. "Old habits and all that."

  I opened my eyes, resisting the urge to wipe away the sweat that had broken out on my forehead. "Just tell me what you saw," I snapped. At least Diana would forgive me for skipping pleasantries after that disgusting display.

  Sam sat down, stretching his long, muscular legs out in front of him and apparently making himself comfortable. "I had grabbed my coat and started outside. I saw the body and shouted for someone to call 911. Then I ran over to see if there was anything I could do. There wasn't."

  He paused, and then startled me by frowning and turning an earnest look upon Diana. "Meri, I am so sorry. Lilith was—"

  Meri. Diana. Meridiana. Why did that name ring a bell? Well, it wasn't actually important to the investigation; I tucked that knowledge away for another time, when we weren't trying to catch a serial killer.

  "Thank you," said Diana, and bowed her head. Her hands clenched at her sides, and then relaxed. "The funeral will be tomorrow if you can attend."

  "Did you see anyone running from the scene?" I asked, drawing Sam's attention back. "Anything suspicious?"

  "No. Just the other two witnesses and Lily."

  After another soft apology to Diana, Sam showed himself out. As soon as the door shut behind him, I let myself slump in my chair and wipe at the sweat on my forehead. "I'm going to double-check Travere's alibi, look into Sam and Ferguson's history."

  "I'll-" Diana began, and stopped at my raised hand.

  "You are going to go home and arrange everything for tomorrow," I said firmly. "I've got things under control here."

  "But," Diana said, and then stopped, shoulders slumping in an inelegant way. She looked tired now, and impossibly old. I wondered how old she actually was. A hundred? Five hundred? A millennium? It had never exactly come up in conversation. "That's probably best."

  Diana turned to go, and I reached out and caught her hand. It was cool and smooth in my grip as I squeezed it. "I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything."

  "Thank you," she said. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

  * * * *

  First things first. Travere's alibi for the other murders held up—she'd flown in from Paris two nights ago. She also wasn't known to frequent supernatural bars.

  By all accounts Ferguson was addicted only to the wiles of succubae, not incubi, so that possible connection between him and Sam was out. It did make him a possible suspect—maybe he was getting his revenge on the succubus who had addicted him? I called Ferguson's apartment to schedule another meeting and check his alibi for the other murders. No one answered. I'd have to call back later.

  Sam was well-behaved for an incubus. There had been no complaints made against him since he'd come to the city, no rumors he fed too long and too much on a single human, no suspicious deaths—until now, of course. He worked at Vixen; the manager told me he'd just gotten off-shift when the murder occurred.

  He'd also been working the night Ala was killed, which disappointed me a little. I kept thinking about his offhanded comments as he twisted me up inside with his powers, and wanted him to be the murderer, if just to see the look on his face as he was shoved into a police car.

  What? I can be vindictive when I want to be.

  * * * *

  The next day came too quickly, and arrived gloomy and overcast. I thought about skipping the funeral—it wasn't like I'd known Lily, and Diana and I weren't exactly friends—but then I remembered Diana's empty eyes, and decided that she needed even business associates around her today.

  The funeral turned out to be a quiet, sober affair. The majority of the mourners were Lily's fellow succubae and incubi, but I saw a couple of sunken-eyed humans who were obviously addicts as well.

  Afterward, Sam sidled up to me. "Ms. Levine." He somehow managed to turn my name into an insult, a slight emphasis on Ms. as though I was one of those women who demanded equality until the right man came along.

  I offered him my best screw-you smile and ignored the hand he offered me. "You were working the night Ala died."

  He shrugged, apparently taking my statement for a question. "Probably. You'd have to ask my manager. I'm afraid I'm hopeless with dates."

  "Sam. Virginia." Diana's face was pale, her eyes glistening with suppressed grief but her face and voice were composed as she walked over. "You both made it."

  I nodded as Sam touched Diana's arm and quietly murmured his regrets.

  Diana accepted them with a half-distracted air, her too-bright eyes focused on me. "Anything new?"

  I shook my head, all too aware that Sam was standing right there, listening with grave interest. "Just checking alibis and looking for connections between the victims. Did you know Lily and the other victims were all part of the Celibate Succubae Organization?" It was an odd connection, I admitted—who would want to hurt succubae that didn't kill?—but it was the only one I'd found so far. The victims hadn't frequented the same bars or even lived in the same parts of town.

  "The CSO?" said Sam, sounding scandalized and a little pained. "Oh Meri, tell me that Lily wasn't caught up by those idiots."

  Diana's gaze darkened. "They're not idiots, Sam. They're trying to improve human perception toward us."

  "By calling for the executions of those who make a mistake or two," Sam snapped.

  "A mistake or two? Is that what you call killing someone, Sam?"

  "They're just-" Sam stopped, and exhaled sharply. After a moment, he relaxed and offered us a rueful look. "No, you're right. They're doing what's best in the long run."

  "So, a good angle," I said. It wasn't a question. "Know anyone in particular who hates the CSO?"

  Sam snorted, a surprisingly harsh sound. "Try pretty much every succubus or incubus in the city. Everyone knows someone the CSO wanted to kill."

  When I looked at Diana, she was nodding in agreement. "The CSO are not well-liked by the majority of our community. They're seen as too extreme." Some animation had returned to her eyes. "I'll ask around, see if anyone seemed particularly sincere in wanting the CSO destroyed."

  "Good," I said. Meanwhile, I could go knock on Ferguson's door, see why he hadn't answered my three calls yesterday. If he'd run away, it was a good guess he was somehow involved, and I could give the tip to the police and be done with that particular thread of the mystery.

  I left with a smile to Diana and a curt nod to Sam.

  * * * *

  No one answered when I knocked on Ferguson's door. Great. The landlord turned out to be a scruffy, sleepy-looking guy in his mid-fifties, who endeared himself to me forever by grunting at Ferguson's name and saying, "I'll let you into his place. Guy's about to be evicted anyway. A month behind on his rent."

  We walked back to Ferguson's apartment, and I answered carefully when the landlord asked me what trouble Ferguson was in. "Witness to a murder. Just need to ask him a couple follow-up questions."

  The landlord looked vaguely impressed, like being a witness to a murder was something to boast about, and then unlocked the door. "There you go. I'll have to go inside with you, of course."

  "Of course," I agreed, and pushed the door open.

  Ferguson wasn't home. Céleste Travere was, though, and the landlord's horrified yell filled my ears as we both stared into her lifeless eyes.

  Well, crap.

  * * * *

  "It's Ferguson," I said as soon as Diana picked up. "Céleste Travere's body is in his apartment."

  There was a long stretch of silence, and for a moment I thought the call had been disconnected. Then she said, "Have you called the police?"

  "They should be here any minute." There was another long hush, and I sighed, frustrated. "I had to. The landlord saw the body and started screaming for the police." Plus, coming across a crime and not reporting it was a quick and easy way to get your license revoked. "Travere must
have seen something." I winced, thinking about it. Poor woman. Wrong place, worst possible time, and she wound up dead thousands of miles from home because she'd seen something she shouldn't have.

  Diana inhaled sharply. "Virginia. Sam is probably-"

  "I'll check Vixen, see if he's working," I said, and then Luis Martinez and Natalie Carson walked in. Well, at least they were on friendly terms with me. "Sorry, police are here." I hung up and turned to Luis and Natalie. "How much do you know about the string of succubus murders?"

  "Not a lot, it's Henderson and Mitchell's case," Luis said, and then stared at me, eyebrows trying to climb to his hairline. "How'd you get caught up in that mess?"

  "The last victim- well, the last succubus victim- was Diana's sister."

  Natalie whistled, wide-eyed. She touched the back of her neck, where a pale scar peeked out from under her collar. I didn't think she realized she was doing it. "How's she doing?" Her voice was soft. Of course it would be. Diana had helped me round up the rogue werewolves killing cops five years back, saving Natalie's life in the process.

  "She wants the murderer."

  "Then let's get him for her." Natalie grinned. For a moment my breath caught at the wolfish quality to it. Then I summoned up the lunar calendar I kept in my head. Quarter-full moon tonight. No danger.

  "This is Céleste Travere, age 29. She just arrived in the US three days ago, witnessed Lily's murder Sunday night." I waved a hand at the apartment. "This is Isaac Ferguson's apartment. He 'witnessed' Lily's murder too. He also enjoys the company of succubae."

  "Right. Got a description for me?" Luis asked, and I rattled it off, which Luis promptly repeated to his dispatcher.

  I gave Luis and Natalie my statement as quickly as possible, and then excused myself. Time to call Vixen and see if Sam was working today.

  His manager, sounding more annoyed than he had last night, told me that while Sam had been scheduled, he hadn't deigned to show up today. A quick explanation that I was calling about the succubus murders and believed that Sam might be the next target got me Sam's home address and phone number.

  I tried calling. As soon as his voicemail picked up, I hung up and bolted for my car. I paused just long enough to take my Taurus from my shoulder holster, check how many bullets I had, and murmur a spell that would strengthen the blessing Rabbi Wirth had bestowed last month.

  Sure, regular bullets would go through Ferguson like he was made of paper instead of flesh and blood, but I liked to be on the safe side.

  * * * *

  Sam's door was open when I got there, and I pulled out my gun, flicked off the safety. Hopefully I wasn't too late.

  I peered around the door, but this time no dead body greeted me. The living room was empty, with no sign of a struggle. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe not.

  "Sam?" I called, easing around the door and taking a few cautious steps into the room. "I've just come from Ferguson's, and-"

  Again, Sam's presence struck me like a fist to the gut, and I doubled over, just barely managing to keep my grip on my Taurus. "You stupid-" I snarled through clenched teeth, locking my knees and refusing to fall to the ground. "Ferguson killed Travere and now he's after you, so just quit it."

  Sam came into the living room then. I could just make him out in the corner of my eye. "Virginia, Virginia, Virginia," he sighed, and made a motion that could've been shaking his head. "I'd heard so much about you from Meri and others. I thought you were clever. Did you really think a human could kill succubae?"

  I glared at him, lust and fury muddling my thoughts. One thing I knew: always trust my instincts. Sam had thrown me off with his trick in my office, made me think I disliked him because he was loathsome, not because my senses were telling me he was the killer.

  I tried to raise my gun, but my hands were shaking too badly to aim.

  Sam laughed and walked closer, tugging the gun from my unresisting fingers. He admired it. "Lovely. A Taurus PT-945, if I'm not mistaken."

  "You—" I tried to think of a spell, any spell, but I was only a part-time practitioner, and we both knew it. I could do truth spells and strengthening spells, but using an offensive spell against an incubus was far beyond my talent.

  My hands ached for my gun.

  He looked around, frowning. "I suppose I could make it seem like you died here, surprising Ferguson as he waited for me," he murmured, half to himself.

  Damn it. I closed my eyes, pushed back the ache in my stomach and the emotions swamping my mind. I had to do something. I wasn't going to die like the others, too surprised or overwhelmed to fight back.

  Cold metal stung my face as he tapped my chin with the Taurus. "Get up," he commanded, and in his voice I heard all the power and assurance that the serpent must have used on Eve.

  My legs moved, and I stood, wondering vaguely when I'd fallen to my knees. I stared into his pale blue gaze, willing my hatred to reach my eyes.

  He laughed again and gestured toward the door. "Come on. I think the alley behind a succubae club will work better. I don't want to get my carpet dirt—"

  And then the terrible pressure and lust were gone, and I stood there, blinking like someone blinded by sunlight. Someone snarled, a woman, and I thought dazedly, Of course. Diana always has perfect timing.

  I blinked, the last of the mist leaving my mind, and watched Sam and Diana grapple for the weapon, expressions twisted into ones of loathing.

  As the two struggled, I looked around. There was a nice paperweight on the coffee table, made of quartz. It looked expensive. I picked it up, moved my arm experimentally. Yes, that would do nicely.

  Then I turned and slammed the paperweight into the back of Sam's head.

  The incubus stilled, eyes going wide with surprise and just the beginning of pain. The pain was just starting to contort his face, his legs beginning to crumple underneath him, when Diana pulled the gun from his grip and coolly shot him twice in the chest.

  I didn't have to look to see where she'd shot him. Sam had killed his victims all the same way: a single knife thrust to the heart.

  Sam fell, and if he had any final words, Diana and I weren't going to bother listening to them.

  I turned to her, shaky as a newborn lamb and probably white as a ghost. "How did you—"

  "Sam was one of the loudest opponents of the CSO," Diana said simply. She looked down at the gun and grimaced. "This is going to be an awful lot of paperwork for you, I'm afraid."

  "It's fine," I said, taking my Taurus and placing it on the coffee table next to the bloodstained paperweight. "I don't mind." I paused, looked mock-thoughtful. "Though if you want to pay for my car's tune-up, I wouldn't object."

  Diana smiled then, and for the first time in days it reached her eyes.

  I smiled back, and then went to look for Sam's phone, already anticipating the yelling Luis and Natalie were going to do.

  Soul Walls

  by Julia H. West

  One of the things I look for is original magic. In this story art and magic mix inextricably together, which makes sense; both artists and magicians see things differently than other people. Learning what to see can be a real challenge. How you deal with adversity is another—can you be patient when it appears that you are making no progress? And then there are things that truly determine who you are: How do you behave when nobody is watching you? Do you strive to do the right thing? Are you kind, and do you deal fairly with people outside your own group?

  Julia H. West, like many authors, has held a wide variety of jobs: quality control technician for ultrasound heart machines; genealogical researcher; office manager; secretary; desktop publisher; digger at an archaeological dig; quality assurance tech; webmaster; and aircraft electrician for the Air Force Reserves. She graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Utah in 1993 with a BA in Anthropology, and when people asked what she was going to do with her degree, she said "Write Science Fiction." She sold her first story in 1989, so she was already heading in that direction. Julia is also active
in the LDS (Mormon) church. She is married to fellow science fiction and fantasy writer Brook West and has two daughters, both of whom also write.

  #

  Tiva and the other apprentices sat cross-legged on mats in front of Yongosona's house, eating rolled corn cakes and enjoying the dawn breeze teasing the mesa top. Behind them the sun rose hot, its rays painting Red Cliff, far to the west. The girls had been up since before dawn, plastering the wall at Chumana's house, so the breeze was welcome.

  Yongosona, their teacher, pushed the woven door hanging aside and stepped out. She was the oldest woman Tiva had ever seen—wrinkled and stooped, hair wispy as summer clouds—but still bright of eye and steady of hand. Her fingers, tunic and skirt were all daubed with the paints of her profession.

  Paints, Tiva thought in dissatisfaction. I run to collect materials for them, I grind them, I mix them—but I never get to use them.

  "Today," Yongosona said, "we paint Chumana's Soul Wall."

  Tiva glanced up at her teacher. Yongosona usually did not say 'we' when she spoke of painting. Would she allow her apprentices to do more than plaster walls or mix paint? Tiva pushed the rest of her corn cake into her mouth, dusted her hands off on her skirt, and rose to her feet.

  The other apprentices also stood, from Honovi—already a woman and looking forward to having her Soul Wall painted—to little Pamuya, in her eighth summer, who had come to Yongosona at winter's end.

  Yongosona stared at the girls for a long time, never blinking. Her gaze was distant; she obviously thought of the Soul Wall to be painted. Finally she said, "Honovi, bring the gold earth and white. Tiva, brilliant red and black. Kawaina, all the greens. Lomahansi, light blue and jewel blue. Pamuya, the basket of brushes and scrapers."

  The girls scrambled into Yongosona's house. The inside back wall was covered with shelves holding pots and stone boxes, and pegs from which baskets and tight-woven bags depended. All the girls, even Pamuya, knew where every piece of equipment belonged.

  Tiva took down the pot of brightest red paint, lifted the lid, and peered inside. There was little left—Yongosona had used much in the last Soul Wall. Maybe that would be enough; it seemed this wall would have much green and blue in it.