Why was this so hard? I had grown past Rigger Hall. Hadn't I?
I was beginning to think I wasn't as far past it as I had hoped.
I glanced at the tapestry on the west wall. Isis's arms were crossed protectively, and Horus's ferocious Eye gazed serene and deadly. The gods were not actively involved… but their backs were not turned either. Whatever I did, they would witness.
That's not as comforting as it could be. I finally took a deep breath. Both my fieldstone altar and my main altar were humming with Power, and the house shields were thick and carefully laid. Nothing could harm me here. This was my home, my sanctuary.
Nothing in there can hurt me now. I swallowed dryly, heard my throat click. The locker's closed metal face taunted me. Yeah. Right.
My left shoulder burned steadily. It felt as if the ropy scar was pulsing, sliding against itself, straining. I took the first step into the room and approached the footlocker cautiously, placing each footfall carefully, as if I was on unsteady ground.
I sank down beside it on the hardwood floor, my knee on the thick, patterned rug I used for meditation. I had to remind myself to breathe. The padlock—I used a bit of Power, and it clicked open with a sound like a frozen corpse's jaws wrenching open.
My teeth chattered until I clenched them together. Strong, I told myself. I am strong. I survived this. I laid the padlock aside and opened the top slowly, hearing dirt caught in the unoiled hinges squeal like a scream.
"Valentine, D. Student Valentine is called to the Headmaster's office immediately."
The bright eyes of the kids in my class, all solemn and horrified and squeamishly glad their name hadn't been called. Woodenly reaching my feet, setting my battered Magickal Theory textbook aside; the teacher's—Embrose Roth, a Ceremonial and one of the worse at the Hall—ratty little face gleaming with curiosity, mousy hair pulled up in a tight bun, aura geometric and cold blue. Roth staring at my back as I trudged to the door, her attention like the filthy prick of a rat's claws against my nape.
Squeaking of my shoes against the stairs in the main hall, heading to the Headmaster's office; the collar far too heavy on my neck. Frantically trying to remember an excuse, any excuse, that would keep me from being beaten or worse.
At Rigger Hall it was likely to be worse.
My fingers trembled, my nails scraping against the metal as I pushed it all the way open.
"Chango, Danny," Jace breathed. "You're pale. You don't have to do this."
Yes, I do. I looked down.
There, laid on top, was the collar, a curve of dark metal.
Waves of shudders rippled down my back. My shoulder burned, a fierce pain I was glad of. It kept me anchored. I'd faced worse than this, hadn't I? I'd killed Santino. I'd faced down the Devil himself.
I didn't have anything to fear from the detritus of my past. I denied the trembling that rose up in me.
"That's a collar." I heard the fear under Jace's heartbeat.
Every psion hates the thought of collars. They're supposed to protect the normals from us, but the deadheads are not the ones who need protection. They are in the majority, no matter how many holovids have psions in their storylines. They make the rules, and those of us with Talent have to dance to their tune. Collars make them feel better, sure.
But there's only so much of being collared a human being can take.
"Shut up, Jace." My voice trembled, but it still sliced the air. The house shields went hard and crystalline, on the verge of locking down as if I was under attack.
I blew out a long breath, tried to make my shoulders a little less tense.
The arc of dull dark metal with circuit etching on one side was dead and quiescent. Without a power-pack and the school security net, it was useless. Still, I handled it as if it was live, flipping out a knife and using the bright blade to lift it, laying it aside. I still remembered the hideous jolts—with a collar live and locked on, a psi couldn't protect herself. It short-circuited most types of Power; the teachers had controls to change the settings in order for the students to practice. The principle behind collars was to keep a psion from harming anyone while she learned to control her gifts.
I suppose it was a good idea—but like all good ideas, someone had found a way to make it go horribly wrong. When a collar was live, a plasgun shock administered from a prod hurt like hell, burning through every nerve, as if you were being electrocuted. It didn't leave much in the way of permanent scarring—not on the outside, anyway.
Underneath was a pad of dirty green cloth, rough synthwool cut from an institutional bedspread in the long, low girl's dormitory. I flipped that aside, keeping one eye nervously on the collar.
My last school uniform. Plaid skirt, the white cotton blouse dingy with age, knee-socks, the heavy shoes I had always hated. The navy synthwool blazer with the crest of Rigger Hall worked in gold thread. I'd put the other five uniforms into an incinerator, but this one was the one I was wearing when the Hegemony had finished the inquiry and pronounced Mirovitch posthumously guilty. After the inquiry, we were free to wear normal clothes, and the Hall was visited by social workers every week. The psis were uncollared for visits with their social workers, and surprise inspections became the rule. The new Headmistress, Stabenow, had supervised the closing of the school after my class graduated. The younger students had scattered to other Hegemony schools, hopefully better-policed.
I lifted each item out reverently and laid it aside, still neatly folded. Jace was completely silent.
Tears welled up. I denied them, pushed them down. Invoked anger instead, a thin unsteady anger that at least did not choke me.
Under the uniform, books. Schoolbooks, mostly, each with their brown-paper cover decorated with glyphs done in pen, numbers, notes. And eleven slender books bound in maroon plasleather, with gold-foil lettering on the side.
Yearbooks.
I lifted them out carefully. Some junk jewelry and a threadbare teddy bear were wedged into the remaining space; the teddy's plastic eyes glinted at me.
Lewis had given me the teddy.
I survived, goddammit. I survived because I was strong enough to put this behind me, strong enough to go into Death itself. Don't start feeling sorry for yourself, Dante Valentine. Pull yourself together and do what has to be done, like you've done all your life. Do this. You will only have to do this once.
I decided I could look at this just once. Just this once. I was strong enough for that. I swallowed bile. My rings sparked and swirled uneasily. The mark on my shoulder crunched with pain. I inhaled, smelling dust and must and old things. Felt the phantom blood drip down my back again.
In the very bottom of the locker was the only thing I've ever stolen without being paid to do so. It was a long flexible whip, real leather, with a small metal fléchette at the tip. It was still crusted with rusting stains.
Bloodstains.
Jace exhaled sharply as I touched the whip with one finger. The shock jolted up my arm—pain, fear, sick excitement. I snatched my hand away.
"Roanna," I whispered. "She was sedayeen. She tried to tell her social worker what was happening at the Hall, but the bastard wouldn't believe a kid and had a nice little conference with the Headmaster." My voice was flat, barely stirring the air. "Mirovitch whipped her almost to death and then signed the papers to make her a breeder. She committed suicide—threw herself on the fencing with her collar turned all the way up."
"Danny…" He sounded like he'd been punched.
I ran the back of my hand over my cheek, bared my teeth as if I was facing a fight. I stacked the schoolbooks on top of the whip, pushed the teddy back in his place, then put the uniform and the sheet of green cloth back. I used a knifeblade to lift the collar up, laid it on top. Closed the top, wincing as the hinges squealed, and let out an unsteady barking breath that sounded like a sob. I flipped the padlock up and jammed it closed, the small click sounding very loud in the stillness. I resheathed my knife and slid my hands under the stack of eleven yearbooks. "Cl
ear off the table in the dining room, will you?" I gained my feet and turned around, the negligible weight of the books in my arms seeming much heavier.
Jace's face was set and white, his mouth a thin line. His eyes burned. Fury boiled in the air around him, his aura hardspiked and crystalline. Despite that, his tone was dead-level. Calm. "They did that to you. Didn't they? I always wondered who made you so afraid."
Afraid? That puzzled me. It wasn't in me to be afraid, was it? I was supposed to fight. The classics Lewis had poured into me had taught me that much: the only way to kill your fears was to fight them. Be as frightened as you want, Lewis's voice whispered in my head. Then do what you have to do. That's what he's saying here, in this passage.
"I got whipped once. Put in the cage four times. B-branded. I was lucky it wasn't more." Lucky nothing happened that broke me. Nothing big. Nothing I couldn't handle, Jace.
"Lucky." His aura flushed with fury. "Danny—"
"Clear off a space on the table, Jace. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can bury this again." And by the grace of Anubis, I can't wait to bury this again.
He stared at me for a few more moments, jaw working, then turned on his bootheel and stalked away soundlessly. I knew that set to his shoulders, the controlled angry grace. Jace was furious. I had only seen him in a rage twice, but both times had given me a healthy respect for his anger. I wondered if I was going to see it again, hoped not.
If he went nova I might draw steel on him, and I didn't quite trust myself with edged metal right now.
I carried the books into the dining room. He moved jerkily, clearing a space on the table. Other texts on demonology and basic Magi theory, drifts of paper where I'd made notes, and the talismans Jace had been working on—he stacked them all to the side, and I put the eleven yearbooks down. Blew out a heavy breath.
"Who are we looking for?" He set a four-book set of Tierley's Democria Demontia on one of the chairs with excessive delicate care. I picked up a piece of fine parchment, a twisted glyph that was Japhrimel's name branded into my shoulder repeated over and over again in different permutations. I hadn't even realized I was doodling it.
I cleared my throat, suddenly more grateful for his presence than ever. I had to force myself to speak quietly. "Well, after we visit Polyamour we'll have some more names. But I want to find out if Christabel's class had anyone named Keller. Can you get my bag and your dat-pilot? I want to see if there are any Ceremonials in town."
"Hm. Why Ceremonials? You're thinking they might have a connection to this?"
Ceremonial magicians weren't as rare as Necromances or as common as Shamans. They worked with the Nine Canons and the Seven Seals, charging and containing Power in objects, working with talismans, and providing permanent defenses for corporations, not to mention doing theoretical work and research into magick and the science of Power. Most teachers and trainers were Ceremonial magicians.
But there was a simpler reason why I wanted to find out who was in town. I met his worried blue eyes and gave him a smile that didn't feel natural at all. "I want to find out if any of them have gone Feeder."
Because, out of all psions, it was the Ceremonials—those who dealt with the theory of containing Power—who most often turned Feeder in adulthood. And if we had a Ceremonial on our hands who had gone Feeder and was hunting down former Rigger Hall students, the whole city's collection of psions would have to be alerted.
I would need all the help I could get.
Chapter Twenty-One
We were into the third book when the phone rang. I stretched and yawned while I padded into the kitchen. Jace tapped another name into his datpilot, glancing up briefly as I passed him. Late-morning light glowed in the windows. I leaned a hip against the counter and picked the phone up. " 'Lo."
A click and a pause, as if the call was on relays. My spine went cold, as if my body recognized the truth before I did.
"Dante Valentine. It is a singular pleasure to speak to you again."
My entire body turned to ice. There was only one being in the entire goddamn world that could strangle me with fear in just two sentences.
The voice was smooth as silk, persuasive, crawling into my head. My phone had no vidshell, for which I was now doubly grateful. If I had to face down the Prince of Hell again, even over a holovid shell, I wasn't sure I would come away from the experience quite sane.
The letter. I'd chucked it into the garbage. I owed him nothing. There was no reason for the Prince of Hell to want to talk to me. I'd done what he wanted, and I'd paid the price. I had screamed as Japhrimel turned to ash in my arms. Wasn't he happy? Wasn't that enough?
Why would the Devil call me on the phone instead of sending another demon to collect me if he wanted me? He'd done it before, sending Japhrimel and asking me to hunt down Santino, perfectly aware I had my own reasons for wanting that bastard dead.
Anubis protect me. The jolt of fear that smashed through my throat tasted like iron. What if Lucifer is involved with the murders?
My entire body went cold. My throat was dry. My hand tightened, digging clawlike fingernails into the counter-top. Ceramic screeched under the pressure of my fingers, claws springing free and dimpling the tough tiles. "I can't say the same," I husked, my throat burning with the memory of the Devil's hand crushing my larynx. "What the hell do you want? Leave me alone."
"Polite as ever." Lucifer's voice held a weight of amusement I wasn't sure I ever wanted to hear again. "I must speak with your lover, and I am unable to contact him in the usual manner. You will not respond to my missives. Therefore, I am forced to use the human channels of communication."
What the motherfucking hell is he talking about? My lover? Has Lucifer been spying on me? My entire body flushed hot, then cold again; my nipples drawing up, my skin going cold and tight as an icy glove.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I could actually feel my temper grow thin and brittle, rage rising to wash away sick, deadening fear. "I don't have time for this, Lucifer. You killed Japhrimel, you bastard demon; are you calling to remind me? You think I'm going to hand Jace over to you? Get a life." And he's not my lover either. Though that's none of your goddamn business, is it, you sack of diseased shit. The cupboards rattled as my voice turned sharp and cool, Power spiking under the harsh, throaty croak.
But the suspicion, once voiced, wouldn't go away. Oh, my dear sweet fucking gods, is Lucifer involved in this? My entire body turned to ice. A solid block of ice.
If this was something to do with demons, I was dead in the water. But Christabel's body had held no hint of demon, no scent of spice and dark flame.
There was a pause. "Can it be you have not resurrected him?" The Prince of Hell actually—chalk one up for me—sounded shocked.
I seem to have a habit of nonplussing demons.
My voice was a choked whisper. "Resurrected?" What the hell did that mean? Jace wasn't dead. And if I could have resurrected Japhrimel, I would have already done it.
Then I shook myself. Demons lied. The Prince of Hell was no exception. So he'd sent me a little love note, and now he was graduating to obscene phone calls. I had no fucking time for this, not when I was trying to deal with every goddamn ghost from my childhood trying to climb up through the floor and throttle me.
"Go away," I enunciated clearly through the scratching in my throat. "You don't need me, I'm not your errand-girl anymore. Japhrimel is dead, you can't hurt him anymore. You're just lucky I don't come after you for kidnapping Eve. Now if you'll excuse me, I have real work to do and a killer to catch." I slammed the phone down so hard the tough plasteel base cracked.
I wanted to pick it up again, see if he was still on the line. I wanted to scream, I wanted to dial the operator. Hello, Vidphone Central? Hook me up to Hell. Tell the Devil he can have me, if he just brings Japhrimel back Tell him I'll do anything he wants, if I don't have to face this alone.
Then welcome fury crawled up between the words. Tell him, while you're at it, that if he's involved with
this he'd better say his prayers. Because he's meddled in my life one too many times, and if he's killing Necromances in my city I'm going to see how much demonic flesh my blade can carve. We're even, sure, but I have a score to settle with you, Lucifer Iblis.
Despite my brave words, I couldn't rescue Doreen's daughter. I stared at the phone, longing to reach through and throttle the Prince of Hell. Why call me now? He'd left me to rot in Rio, stewing in the aftermath of Japhrimel's death and savage guilt that I hadn't been able to save Eve. The fact that Eve was a demon Androgyne—a child I had no hope of raising—didn't salve the ache. Doreen's ghost had asked me to save her, and I'd tried.
Tried and failed. Lucifer had Eve now. That I'd had no hope of fighting the Devil to keep him away from her didn't ease my conscience one iota.
Failed. Just like with Japhrimel, lying dead on the white marble plaza under the hammerblow of Nuevo Rio sun, dead and gone. I kept my hand away from the mark on my shoulder only with a titanic effort of will that left me shaking, sweat for once springing up along my scalp and the curve of my lower back.
I drove my teeth into my lower lip, the sweet jolt of pain shocking me back into some sort of rational frame of mind. Too bad rational never worked where demons were concerned. Stop it. You don't owe the Devil jackshit, you're free. He can't hurt you now.
That was a lie. The Devil could hurt me plenty if he bestirred himself to do it.
"Danny?" Jace, from the dining room.
I backed away from the phone, eyeing it as if it would rise up and strike me. Given what I knew of demons, it was a distinct possibility.
"Danny? Who is it?"
I cleared my throat. "Wrong number," I called back, my voice as harsh as if Lucifer had just half-strangled me again. The same wrong number that sent a letter I never let you see.
Dead Man Rising Page 17
