much of the territory I flew over to get here, except for the ocean and the mountains,” he said. “God, to think that we used to drive around San Jose for the blossoms! The scent was intoxicating even for humans. I nearly reconsidered and turned around.” Jules made a grimace. “Yes. We have been negligent in caring for the greater estate. My daughter has some interesting plans for dealing with that, and I find her energy and enthusiasm quite compelling. Julianne and I never became withdrawn, but it is so easy to live from day to day. Perhaps the corporeals have a greater sense of urgency. Let me tell you about the Council meeting that’s to be called. And of course Hajime will be representing us . . .” “How did that happen?” Adrian asked; Wilbur had been well into his fugue by then. “Oh, the usual way. Overconfidence by us, intrigue and then a swift coup by them. Hajime killed me personally, though I must say it was decent of him not to inflict Final Death. Adrienne is quite close with Tōkairin Michiko, Hajime’s favorite grandchild. They negotiated the details of the peace agreement.” “Tell me more about this ceremony, the Prayer for Long Life,” Adrian said. “And the Council meeting.” Jules smiled. “It’s splendid to see you taking an interest again! Well—” “Wilbur was quite a delightful man in his time,” Julianne Brézé said. “He was something of a mentor to Jules and me after our parents died so tragically . . . Everyone was so surprised when they didn’t transition successfully, given their blood-purity, but those things were not as well understood in our youth. Perhaps it was the shock of the assassination. Those Brotherhood scum were bolder then.” Several of the Shadowspawn listening hissed; Ellen felt a small crawling sensation at the sound. It wasn’t contrived or deliberate, she decided; it was just the natural way for them to express . . . Murderous hate
, she thought. Frustrated sadism. “I’m Carrying one of them,” Julianne said; her eyes had an inward look for an instant. “The other was too quick to suicide, but we caught little Thomas. He’s in a small rock chamber in my mind, feeding a very large spider. And after so many years, he’s very tired of it. The spider is still extremely enthusiastic. Occasionally it becomes . . . amorous. Then it spawns in his flesh and the young eat their way out. And I’m never, ever going to let Tom die the Final Death, though he begs for that fairly continuously. Once I let him think
he’d been given release, and then he woke up again to the spider’s caress.” Oh, Christ, she means it . . . The remark brought general laughter. Ellen sipped at her second glass of champagne and tried to ignore other comments about what could be, and gleeful recollections of what had been, done to captured Brotherhood agents. Even after the killing-hall some of them were gruesome. Peter grimaced to her as she turned away a little. “I wonder why they let us mingle at events like this?” she said softly. “We lucies, and the renfields.” “Control rods,” he replied promptly; his cheeks were a little flushed, and he was working on his third glass of the sparkling wine. “That’s definitely part of it.” It’s been quite a while since she fed on him
, Ellen thought sympathetically. God, that can get hard to take! Even knowing there’s going to be pain doesn’t make you want it less. At least not for me. I think that may be harder for him. “What?” she said aloud. “Rods?” “Like the control rods in a nuclear reactor, the ones they slide in to absorb neutrons and slow down the reaction. We damp down their hyper-aggressiveness. In fact, I think it’s probably the human part of their heredity that lets them cooperate as much as they do. They’re solitary killers by nature, or at least the original breed were.” “Adrienne said that they don’t want
to breed themselves much more pureblood than she is.” Peter nodded. “But they pay for it,” he said. “I think they have a lot of inner conflicts too.” “Too?” “The way we do because of the dash of Shadowspawn. It . . . twists us both up in different ways.” “Speaking of which,” Ellen said quietly. Jose was talking with his aunt Theresa, looking martyred as she brushed lint off his shoulder and adjusted his tie. Monica hesitated, then approached Adrienne; she was a little haggard again. The Shadowspawn frowned, then glanced at her sidelong with a slight smile and moved away from the group around her mother. Monica followed and their heads leaned together. “If you ask nicely
,” Ellen heard Adrienne say. “It’s really Peter’s turn.” “Oh, I beg,” Monica said quietly. “Please
.” “Very well. But things will be energetic. Strenuous. Social events put me on edge.” “That’s fine, Adri. Whatever you need is what I want.” “Damn,” Peter said softly. “That’s sad. It’s also jumping her place in line, dammit!” “I know it’s hard to miss out on the bite,” Ellen said. “It’s been nearly a week. Damned right it’s hard. I can’t think
straight.” “Well, for you especially, lack of clarity of thought is a major downer,” Ellen went on dryly. “But what part of energetic
and strenuous
are you so sorry to skip?” “There is that. Though,” he added, with the relentless honesty she’d noticed was one of his habits—“parts
of that can be OK. I don’t mind the actual sex much, apart from always having . . .” His voice trailed off. Ellen guessed, and her voice went even drier: “Apart from always having to be the girl?” she asked. “Ah . . . well, I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way . . .” She laughed; the sound even had some humor in it. “Peter, I am a girl, and one who’s a submissive masochist at that, and I
find it extremely wearing at times, Adrienne-style. But really . . . Monica was hit very hard by what we saw.” Something spiky flashed into the forefront of her mind for a moment . . . a glyph
, she thought. I wonder why?
But it calmed her, somehow. “You weren’t
hit hard?” “I was. Oh
, yeah. It was grisly beyond words. But I’m better at . . . at compartmentalizing. And Adrienne took a full teeth-in-the-throat feeding from me right afterwards.” “Misery makes you taste good,” he said wryly. “Yeah. But she just sipped
a little from Monica and it’s coming back on her.” She went on: “More . . . interaction . . . will help. You know what I mean.” I mean
strenuous and
energetic involves a fair bit of screaming, in pain and otherwise. Been there, done that. It
is distracting and distraction is just what poor Monica needs now. Monica fumbled something out of her handbag; her BlackBerry. She made a call on it, probably telling her mother she wouldn’t be home tonight and needed her to stay with the children, then smiled tremulously and seemed to relax a little. Peter sighed. “I don’t suppose I can argue with that. I will now proceed to get gradually but thoroughly drunk. That and the hangover will distract me
for a day or so until I get my dose. She’s probably going to be feeding more than usual, with all this activity.” More guests arrived; some through the front entrance, others down the staircase, which meant they’d flown in. Some of those were corporeals too, like Adrienne’s three . . . Coconspirators?
Ellen thought. Which means their actual bodies must have been unconscious and carried in by their renfields. Maybe even in coffins . . . well, no, in padded boxes that
look a lot like coffins, I suppose. And the postcorporeals must have something like that for safety when they’re traveling . . . anyway, ewww. Adrienne stopped as she walked by. “I’ve known some of the postcorporeals to transform into a smallish creature and have themselves shipped FedEx,”
she said. Peter snorted. “Shipped
?” “It’s no hardship being boxed up if you’re a comatose rodent, hein
? And you can use a nice secure sealed container of welded steel when you can go impalpable—just walk in through the side as a gerbil or a ferret, say. Curl up, and then step out the same way when you get to your destination. But I think I’ll keep my jet or whatever the equivalent is by the time I’ve had my Second Birth. Getting there is half the fun.” When she’d passed by, Ellen went on to Peter: “Has it struck you how dependent Shadowspawn are on renfields? They’d have to hide in caves or sewers w
ithout them.” “Yes,” Peter said, running a hand through his hair. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself to stop fidgeting. “But they can know
who’s trustworthy.” “It isn’t fair
,” she burst out. Unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a little slurred, but genuine. “No, it isn’t fair. There are so few of them, and they’re no smarter than we are—Adrienne is very bright, but she’s well above average for them, too. Most of them are arrogant and self-indulgent and unbelievably self-centered, judging by the ones I’ve met. It’s the damned Power
.” By now the great room had seventy or eighty people in it not counting the house servants; milling around, talking, drinking and eating canapés off trays. Each Shadowspawn individual or couple—a few had teenage children in tow, looking sullen as you’d expect—was surrounded by an aura of their important renfields and . . . “Show-lucies,” Ellen said. “What?” Peter said. “That’s what we are. We’re show-lucies. Trophies, as well as control rods. Notice how all the lucies are extremely good-looking and very
well dressed?” He smiled wryly. “Touché. And thanks.” “You’re a very handsome man, Peter.” “That’s probably why I’m alive. No,” he went on a little pedantically. “It’s probably why she didn’t kill me in Los Alamos. If I’d been a quarter-ton of questionable hygiene like quite a few of my colleagues, I’d have been toast. But my brains are probably why I’m still
alive.” It might have been a cocktail party or reception anywhere, except for the odd touch—Jules disappearing into an alcove with his lucy, Mark . . . reappearing with blood on his lips and Mark looking flushed and rumpled, for example. Then Adrienne’s head came up; she nodded and made an inconspicuous signal. The Shadowspawn present moved to either side of the doors. Ellen shared a glance with Peter, and got a nod from him too; the movement was slow and ragged and Adrienne was obviously restraining a shout of Hurry up, you idiots!
with difficulty. Theresa had the favored renfields and lucies lined up behind them much more quickly. The great doors swung open; the air outside was a little cooler, scented with flowers and warm dust. A file of the Gurkha mercenaries marched in wearing green dress uniforms with silver buttons and little pillbox hats; they split and wheeled into two lines on either side, and brought their rifles up to present arms
with a smart stamp and crash of boots and smack of hands on metal. Tōkairin Hajime walked through, in a black sha-silk kimono and gray hakama
—wide trousers like a split skirt. The haori
jacket over it all was open at the front, and bore five kamon
, House badges with the mon
of his clan. His wife was behind him, in a rustling splendor of white and rose and crimson and intricate headdress; an attendant carried his swords, leaving his hands empty except for a fan, and there were several others behind him. He and his party stepped out of their sandals and a servant knelt to help them on with slippers. Adrienne swept forward and sank in a deep curtsy—the antique form combined with a bow, but the Western gesture nonetheless. Her parents followed suit. Ah,
Ellen thought, watching his nod in return; everyone else just bowed. That’s
more respectful, not less. I wonder what
she’s thinking? “Tōkairin-sama, yoku irasshaimashita
,” Adrienne said, in formal greeting. “Lord Tōkairin! Welcome to my home.” “Sorry to be a bother,” Hajime said—which made more sense in Japanese. Then he switched to English for a moment: “Thank you for going to all this trouble.” “It was the least I could do,” Adrienne half-purred. “Tsumaranai mono desu ga . . .”
he went on; this is a mere trifle
, or words to that effect. The gift was a sword in a superb black-lacquered sheath, an elegant plainness. She made a small, quite genuine exclamation of pleasure as she took the silk-cord grip in her hand and drew it just enough for a sliver of the silver-worked layered steel to show, then clicked it home to keep the chill menace of the activated glyphs warded. Someone who really knew what they were doing had worked over this one. Hajime was powerful enough, but not so subtle a Wreaker. They went through the usual oh-I-couldn’t-possibly/please-accept-this
dance that Hajime’s background required. Then Adrienne indicated a pair from those her renfields had picked from potential quarry at San Simeon over the past few months—a statuesque redheaded girl with milk-pale skin and a sandy-haired youth with a beautiful dancer’s body. Both showed to advantage in the short white feeding tunics, and they had been carefully primed, mostly by a detailed and honest description of what was likely to happen to them. They had sensitive, intelligent minds, now nearly paralytic with terror but unable to stop imagining their fates in flashes of vivid imagery that came through beautifully. It was enough to make her
hungry, and she’d fed well today. There was nothing quite like picking out the worst
from someone’s mind and then actually doing
it to them. “Nani mo gozaimasen ga, dozo meshiagatte kudasai
,” she said: “It’s nothing, but please go ahead and have some.” Hajime’s wife had been decorously quiet except for a murmured exchange of greetings; now her teeth clicked together slightly. “Oishisou
,” she said softly: looks delicious
. The clan-head smiled and gave Adrienne a shrewd glance, and she could feel Michiko’s bubble of quickly-suppressed mirth even through her shields. “You are courteous to a fault,” he said. “Later, certainly.” Theresa and her assistants hustled the pair out; they’d be ready in the guest-suite when dawn made postcorporeals seek shelter. The formal greeting array broke down as Hajime and his retinue began to mingle. “My only worry is that my mad brother may somehow manage to spoil things,” Adrienne said to him. The Shadowspawn overlord of the West Coast snorted. “I doubt that very much.” Michiko bowed. “I have had our best men checking carefully, Grandfather,” she said. “The precautions certainly seem more than adequate.” Dale had been doing his best impassive-Indian impression, even crossing his arms over his chest. Now he smiled thinly. “I think so too, sir,” he said. Hajime’s nod was wary this time. “Ms. Brézé requested that you do so?” “Yes. I’m not active on any Council missions right now, so I gave it a thorough going-over, and I’ll be here for the full three days. It’s within my remit, since you are a Council member, sir.” Dmitri nodded: “I have also reviewed the arrangements. It was the least I could do, after your patronage released me from Seversk!” One of Hajime’s brows rose with his nod this time. “You certainly seem to have taken every possible precaution,” he said to Adrienne. She spread her hands and smiled charmingly. Hajime’s other brow went up; her father and mother were stepping up from behind her. “Jules,” he said. “Julianne.” The elder Brézés bowed slightly. “Haven’t seen you since you killed us, Hajime-san,” Jules said cheerfully. “You’re moving back here?” their murderer said with a trace of iron in his tone. “Oh, no, just visiting with our grandchildren.” Hajime’s face relaxed slightly. “One of life’s great pleasures, exceeded only by great-grandchildren.” Adrienne backed out of the conversation graciously, keeping her smile to herself until she was safely facing away. Her shields were impenetrable, but Hajime hadn’t survived over a century of Shadowspawn politics, and generations past his body’s death, by being unable to read faces as well as minds. Perfect
, she thought. Perfect!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE A
drian rose from the bed; he’d left the party early, by his nocturnal breed’s standards. The casa grande
was finally quiet, though some Shadowspawn lingered in the public areas, and most were still awake in their rooms. He could sense them, a prickle of the Power. Sliding through the fabric of the world, like the smooth onrush of sharks that makes the water curve just below the surface of an ocean. And Ellen is alone. A grimace. Close by the girl Cheba was tossing and fighting her sheets and whimpering in her sleep; the two Brotherhood agents were nearly as restless. In their line of work—his too, again—post-traumatic stress was more o
f a permanent condition of life than a problem to recover from. For them this is part of the business they have chosen. Or were born into, as I was. I pity Cheba, though. All
she wanted was a better way to earn her bread than selling baskets on the streets. Those were not his only base-links, links of blood and seed. Somewhere in the great pile two children were sleeping as well; he caught a brief image of a girl curled around a flaxen-haired doll and a boy lying in the utter abandonment of childhood slumber. Adrienne was awake, but happily oblivious to everything but her own building pleasure and hunger, lost in sensation and in the mind of her partner-victim as it opened to a helpless combination of pain and orgasmic release. He grimaced again, and clamped down on the contact until it was merely a vague consciousness of direction. Then he walked to the outer window. The air in the rest of the suite was fresh—the system of concealed ducts was old, but well designed—yet he welcomed the cool night breeze on his naked flesh. The moon hung over the Santa Lucia Range where it divided this interior valley from the sea. It was nearly full, and the silvery light was a prickle on the skin of his aetheric form. It seemed to call to him . . . “And I’m going to answer,” he said softly. “Amss-aui-
ock!” The oldest Shadowspawn talent of all took him. A moment of silvery darts along his nerves, and his body flowed—to another shape as borrowed as that of Wilbur Peterson, but much more familiar. Vision grew less, color absent or muted, shades of black and white and gray predominant, though the moonlight was more than adequate. He could see movement—the twitch of a leaf, the motion of a cat leaping to a wall in the gardens below—with utter sharpness, but anything motionless blurred like the world of a short-sighted man. Ah, but the sounds! Nearly as keen as those of the owl, and in a different range. He could hear breathing, voices half a mile away, a frightened dog that suddenly scented an ancient enemy; the quiet night was a babble of noise now, and the wolf ’s mind sorted it with effortless ease. And the smells! There are no words! He snarled slightly, eager to run and hunt. It took an effort for the man-mind that lurked within to command the beast, though the wolf was his favorite. The hundred-and-eighty-pound beast sprang easily up to the sill of the window, then down a dozen feet to the ground below, landing on legs like powerful springs. He trotted through the garden, past the plashing of a fountain—wet, wet, weeds, cool tempting flesh of a frog
SM Stirling Page 32
