by K. W. Jeter
A sudden clatter of metal came up from the alley. The small bathroom window looked out over the space; Sikes craned his neck and looked. Somebody was down there, shoving aside the trash cans to clear the wall behind them. He had a notion of what was going to happen next; sure enough, the hiss of a paint spray can sounded next.
That graffiti jive always pissed him off; it was like dogs lifting their legs against lampposts. And he was damned if he was going to let it start happening right where he lived. He pulled the tie off and headed for the apartment’s front door.
In the alley, he spotted the words, in big, still damp letters; they already covered the whole wall, stretching from the alley’s mouth to the dark end farther back. His name was one of the words. Another was SLAG-LOVER; the rest were mainly obscenities.
“What the . . .” He gazed at the dripping scrawl, his puzzlement changing to disgust and rage. Whatever little jerkwad had done this . . .
Sikes turned from the wall, hearing a noise a few yards away. Somebody was standing there, a kid, a teenager in a cheap nylon jacket and heavy boots.
“Noah?” He recognized the kid now. And didn’t recognize him; there was something changed about his face and eyes, something harder and sharper. And more self-possessed as well—like a knife that had been honed for a purpose.
The teenager threw away the empty spray can. It bounced hollowly along the ground. With a show of bravado, the kid walked straight toward the cop blocking his exit from the alley.
“Hold it, buddy.” Sikes grabbed the kid by the front of his jacket and slammed him shoulder-first against the wall, smearing the paint onto his sleeve. “You think this is smart? Huh?”
Noah broke free of Sikes’s grasp and backed slowly away. The cocky smile had faded, replaced by a glare of hatred and contempt. For a moment Sikes was knocked back, just by what was held in those eyes. He’d known this kid, and now there was something else standing in front of him, something much older, and pure in its own malignant way.
The perception of evil passed; there was just some goddamn bonehead punk standing there. Sikes reached for him. “Come here, you little shit . . .”
He got hold of Noah again, but the kid reached back and picked up one of the trash can lids, bringing it down hard across Sikes’s neck and the side of his face. They fell sprawling across the ground together. Noah scrambled loose and sprinted for the alley’s mouth.
Sikes got to his feet and shouted after the running figure. “If I see your runty ass around here again—you’re dead meat!”
The kid was long gone. Sikes touched his face, feeling a wet trickle of blood. It didn’t seem like more than a slight cut—he’d go upstairs and wash it out with disinfectant, and it’d be fine. Worse than that was that his shirt had gotten torn in the scuffle, right underneath the sleeve. And it was his only dress shirt—formal wear had never been a big priority in his wardrobe. He’d have to keep his jacket buttoned the whole time, so the rip wouldn’t show.
Another feeling intruded, now that he’d had time to get his breath back. So that’s what happened to Noah—he slowly shook his head, trying to figure out how long it’d been since he’d last seen the kid. He’d invested some time and effort in helping the kid through some problems, and this was the payoff for it. Maybe he hadn’t worked hard enough with the kid; he probably should have gotten in touch, checked up with him, seen how he was doing . . . but there just hadn’t been time. There never was, unless you took it from somewhere else. A shame, really; the kid could have made something out of himself someday. Now Sikes had to wonder how long it would be before he ran into Noah again, in the lock-up . . . or the morgue. That was the usual fate of punks who made it a specialty to go around pissing people off.
He managed to push that thought out of his head as he turned back toward the apartment building’s door, and the stairs leading up to the recalcitrant necktie. He wasn’t going to let this little incident put him in a crappy mood; there was a wedding he had to get to.
“That’s the way it goes, Bryant.” The voice came from the open doorway of the cell. “Tough luck.”
She looked around, away from where she had been staring at the blank concrete. The ferocity of her gaze should have burned a hole straight through the wall. “Go away. I don’t wish to be bothered by creatures like you.” Her lawyer—the latest of them—had just left, after bringing her the news that her bail request had been turned down. That had turned her usual mood even blacker.
“Can’t oblige you.” The matron of the women’s detention center was an unctuous, overweight Newcomer; Bryant could feel in her bones how much the slag enjoyed having this control over her. “I’m afraid you’re not paying for this particular hotel room—the taxpayers are. And now they’re paying me to do an after-visit search.” The keys on the matron’s belt lanyard jangled as she stepped inside the cell.
“What are you expecting to find?” Arms folded across her breast, she watched the matron poking through the stacks of legal briefs on the tiny desk bolted next to the sink. One of the cell’s previous occupants had scratched the sentiment LIFE SUCKS HARD into the drab beige paint. “Guns, knives . . . a bomb, perhaps?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” The matron held up a thin newspaper she’d found between two manila folders. Beneath the stark Purist emblem, the headline DARLENE BRYANT—MARTYR TO THE CAUSE! ran above a page-wide photograph. The black-and-white image showed Bryant glaring defiantly at the camera lens as she was led up the courthouse steps in handcuffs. “I’ll have to confiscate this.”
“May I ask why?”
“Inflammatory literature’s not allowed.” After a cursory glance around the rest of the cell, the matron stepped toward the door. “We can’t have you agitating the rest of the inmates.”
She felt an impulse tightening inside her hands and forearms, to reach across and slap this loathsome animal across the face, crack her leprous-seeming skull against the concrete. It took a great force of will to repress that urge. “I’ll be speaking to my lawyers about this. It’s a clear violation of my constitutional rights.”
“You do that.” The matron was already outside the cell, swinging the door shut. She stopped, leaving a gap of a few inches. “Oh, and Miss Bryant—I’m afraid I’ve got some other bad news for you.” A trace of a malicious smile seeped through her official manner. “Your roots are beginning to show.” The door slammed shut, metal against metal.
Bitch. She ground her teeth together. She turned back to the wall. In this new wing of the detention center, there were no windows. She didn’t need one. With her eyes closed, she could see another day coming, one that would dawn in fire and blood. Their blood.
She didn’t know when, or even how. But the day was coming; she was sure of that.
They were all there at the Franciscos’ house. Even Grazer and Zepeda, and Dobbs and all the rest from the station. Sikes sat in the back row of the folding chairs that had been set up in the living room. The Celinite altar was up by the big picture window; sunlight poured across it and the happy couple.
Albert had decided to go with a blue gown, after all. Sikes nodded to himself, figuring that had been a good choice. It kind of looked like a nightgown, but what the heck; maybe it was some kind of unisex thing with the Newcomers. May’s gown was nearly the same shade. They both held hands and beamed at each other. And there was George standing nearby—he had some role in the ceremony, but Sikes wasn’t sure what; would a Celinite wedding have a best man? George was smiling as well, and dabbing tears from his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Isn’t this great? I always hoped they would.”
He looked around, and saw that Cathy had slipped into the chair next to his. That surprised him; when he’d come in, she had been sitting all the way on the other side of the room. She had gotten up and come here just to be with him. He wondered what that meant.
The priestess, in her gold-embroidered robe, started intoning the ceremony. Something about Albert’s and May’s Serdsos—the two crysta
ls sat on the altar—and a karabla, some kind of eternal boat that Albert and May were going to take their life’s voyage in. Sikes couldn’t follow it; he had a hard enough time keeping up with Catholic ritual, and he’d been raised in that church.
“With the blessing of Celine and Andarko, and the power invested in me by the state of California, I now pronounce you wife and husband.” The priestess turned her palms outward in benediction.
Cathy had grabbed Sikes’s hand, squeezing it tight. She suddenly burst into tears. “This is so stupid . . .” She tried to wipe her face, but the tears kept coming. “I don’t know why, I just always cry at weddings.” She sniffled, looking at him. “You don’t have to understand . . . It’s just one of those Newcomer things . . .”
“No, it’s okay.” With his free hand, he dug out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “You all do it. Women in general do it, I mean.”
Cathy kept on holding his hand, even tighter. That worried him a little bit. With her Tenctonese strength, she could break every bone in there.
He supposed that was just a chance he’d have to take.
Table of Contents
BACK COVER
BOOKS
TITLEPAGE
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
