Dead Man Rising dv-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  We followed her up the steps and into the police station. Old blue linoleum flecked with little sparkles squeaked underfoot. Fluorescents buzzed—they didn't have the budget for full-spectrum lights in the halls where normals worked, and I shuddered at the thought of working under that soulless light day after day. I followed at Gabe's iron-straight back and felt my hands shake slightly with the urge to touch a knifehilt, caress the smooth butt of a gun. It wasn't like her to be rude. It doubly wasn't like her to call and demand my presence. We met once a week, when I wasn't out chasing bad guys, had dinner, carefully didn't talk about Nuevo Rio or demons. Instead, we traded stories about bounties, bullshitted, and kept a careful distance that was as welcome as it was teeth-grindingly annoying. But I couldn't complain. The distance was there because of me.

  Because of what I'd become.

  My back prickled slightly, uneasy; fine hairs rising on my nape and the coppery tang of demon adrenaline in my mouth. I could feel it trembling on the edges of my awareness, the scorching smell of fate like the kick of hard liquor against the back of my throat.

  Just like a bounty.

  Up on the third floor, the Spook Squad hung out. They weren't chained in the basement like in the old days—no, now the parapsychic arm of law enforcement had corner offices, a good budget, and decent equipment at last. Computer decks hummed on desks buried under drifts of paperwork, full-spectrum lamps sat on every desk. I saw a Shaman with a staff made of twisted ironwood prop his boots on his desk, leaning back in his chair, his aura swirling red-orange; three Ceremonials clustered at the watercooler, laughing about something. All three of them wore sidearms—police-issue plasguns—and long black synthwool coats, their accreditation tattoos shifting on their cheeks. The air resonated with Power, my rings sparked again. Heads turned as I followed Gabe.

  They weren't stupid and head-dead like normals. Even if they couldn't name what it was, they could see the twisting black-diamond patterns staining my aura like geometric flames.

  Part-demon. Unique, even among psions. I could have done without the honor.

  We reached Gabe's cubicle, and she dropped into her cushioned ergonomic chair. She pointed at the two folding chairs on the other side of her desk. "Take a load off." Her mouth turned into a hard line. The expression didn't do anything for her pretty face, but it would take a lot more than that to make Gabe look ugly. "You want some coffee?"

  I shook my head. My braid tapped against my back. "Jace?"

  "Chango, I need a beer." He shook his head, leaning his staff against the cubicle wall. The bones tied to the raffia twine crowning the length of oak clacked uneasily. "But no. What the hell's goin' on, Spooky?"

  "I've got a case." Her voice was pitched low and fierce. "I need you, Danny."

  Now I wasn't just uneasy. I was heading into fullblown alarmed. "What for?" I was curious too. It wasn't like her to pussyfoot.

  She pushed the file toward me. There were only one or two clear spots, the rest of the desk taken up with paperwork, a nice custom Pentath computer deck, an inlaid-wood box that probably held a mismatched double set of tarot cards (Gabe was secondarily talented as a tarot witch), an in-box buried under more paper, and two dusty, full bottles of brandy perched precariously near the edge. "Take a look."

  I sighed, scooped up the file. "You're a real lady of mystery, aren't you." Flipped it open, the smooth manila giving under my black-painted nails. My back wasn't crawling with gooseflesh—for some reason my new demon body didn't have the reflex—but the sensation of prickling on my skin still remained, a human sensation I would have been glad for if it hadn't been so creepy. To feel goosebumps rising under your skin but unable to press through to the surface is weird, like a phantom limb complete with ghost pain and a reflexive shudder.

  They were homicide lasephotos. Of course—Gabe was a Necromance. What else?

  The first photo was of a man. Or I assumed it was a man, once I took a closer look at the shape. "Anubis," I breathed, as the shapes snapped into a horrible picture behind my eyes. The worst part wasn't the loops of intestine or the pool of blood. The worst part was one outflung hand, unwounded, the fingers clutching air. The arm was a mess of meat flayed off the glaring-white bone.

  Gods above, that's gruesome. "Gods above. When was this?"

  "Four months ago. Keep going."

  Jace shifted slightly, his chair squeaking. He knew better than to ask. I'd give him the file when I was good and done.

  I flipped through a coroner's report, a standard para-psych incident report, the homicide report, neatly lase-printed. No real leads, nothing of much interest except the savagery. Finally, I looked up at Gabe. "Well?"

  She pushed another file across her desk. With a sinking heart I handed the first one to Jace and took the second; Gabe's eyes were dead level and gave nothing away. "This one's about eight weeks old."

  Jace whistled out through his teeth, a long low note. "Damn." From someone who had seen the type of carnage Jace Monroe had, it was almost a compliment.

  I flipped open the second file. "Fuck." My voice held disgust and just a trace of something stronger—maybe fear. Paper stirred uneasily on her desk, stroked into motion by the tension in the air.

  This one was even worse, if it were possible. The body lay, exposed and raw, spread-eagled on what appeared to be a cement floor. "Look past the body." Gabe's tone was soft, respectful of the corpse on the two-dimensional glossy paper.

  It was hard, but I did. I saw the blurred edges of a chalk diagram, right at the very margin of the photo. I flipped to the next one—the photographer had pulled back, and I could see the chalk lines clearly. It was a double circle, inscribed with fluid spiky runes that twisted from one form to another even as I watched. Even through the lasephoto they seemed to hum with malignant force. They weren't symbols I knew.

  That's not from the Nine Canons, I thought, and my skin seemed to roughen with gooseflesh again. I was secondarily talented as a runewitch, and the runes that made up the acceptable and studied branches of rune magick were mostly instantly-recognizable to me. Most psions have a good working knowledge of the Canons, since runes have been used since before the Awakening, when psionic and magickal power began to be a lot more reliable and a lot stronger in certain talented humans. A rune used for so many years, for so many psions, is a good shortcut when you need a quick and dirty spell effect. Not to mention the Major Works of magick that required perfect performance of drawing, defining, naming, and charging runes.

  I reached up with my aching right hand and touched my left shoulder, massaging at the constant cold ache of the demon glyph through my shirt. "Looks like Ceremonial work, the double circle and runes." My eyes moved over the picture. A pile of something wrinkled lay off to one side. "Is that what I think…" Don't. Don't tell me it is.

  "The fucker flayed her." Gabe pushed another file at me. My gorge rose, I squeezed it back down. I don't throw up, I reminded myself. I hate throwing up.

  I was grateful that thirty years of that habit was hard to break. I scanned the remainder of the second file and handed it to Jace. Then I took the third one.

  "This one was last night," Gabe said tightly. "Brace yourself, Danny."

  I opened the file and felt all the blood drain from my face.

  Gabe watched me, dry-eyed and fierce. Her tension stirred the dust in her office, made it swirl in graceful patterns in the climate-controlled air. This keyed-up, with the sharp powerful scent of Power on her, she smelled like pepper and musk. It wasn't so bad, not like the usual human stink. I'd toyed with the idea of becoming a Tester to keep my hand in, since I could now smell Power and psionic talent instead of just seeing and feeling it with human senses. That sort of work wouldn't give me an adrenaline jag and keep me from thinking, so the application papers still lay on top of my laseprinter, half-finished.

  It can't be. I turned to the coroner's report. There it was in black and white, the name of the victim who had been dismembered in the middle of a circle, bones and gristl
e and muscle torn into unrecognizable shapes, a murder of exceeding savagery all the more chilling because it was done to a psion like me. However shattered and wrecked the body was, there was just enough of her face for me to recognize.

  Christabel Moorcock.

  A Necromance.

  Like me.

  Chapter Five

  " Sekhmet sa'es," I breathed, looking down at the photographs. "This is…"

  "Does it look familiar, Danny? You're way into scholarship these days, can't drag your nose out of books when you're not out trying to kill yourself with bounties. Does it look like anything you've read about? Seen before?" Gabe's eyebrows drew together, her mouth tight. She pulled out another cigarette and tucked it behind her ear, the slight smell of dry synth hash mixing with the aroma of the citronel shampoo she used.

  I stared at the picture, my eyes heavy and grainy. "No. I've never seen anything like this. I've been studying demons, old legends, Magi stuff. When I'm not working bounties." Tore my eyes away from the pitiless image. "But that's not why you called me down here."

  Gabe's voice was heavy. "We've got Christabel down in the morgue. I need you to bring her out so I can question her."

  Jace went completely still beside me. On any other day I might have found that funny. Or touching.

  I swallowed bitterness. Rubbed at my left shoulder as if trying to scrub the scar away with my shirt. "Gabe…" I sounded like I'd been punched breathless.

  There wasn't much on earth that could hurt me these days, not since Japh had changed me. Changed, gene-spliced, molded into something new—but my heart was still human. It pounded under a tough, flexible cage of ribs, my pulse thready in my wrists and throat. Pounding so hard I felt a little faint.

  "I know it's hard for you," Gabe continued. "Since… since Rio. Please, Danny. I can't do it, I've tried, there's just… not enough body. Or some kind of wall, some barrier. I can't do it. You can. Please."

  I stared at the photo. I hadn't gone into Death for ten months.

  Not since Nuevo Rio, hunched on a wide, white blazing-stone plaza running with sunlight, sobbing as I prayed. I remembered cinnamon smoke drifting in the air, as the demon's body in my arms crumbled bit by bit.

  That was a memory I usually kept to torment myself during long, slow daylight while I tried to sleep. I shoved it away, shut my eyes, opened them again. Shapes jumbled in front of me, my vision blurring. My god still accepted my offerings, but I had not gone into His halls.

  Sekhmet sa'es, Danny, call it what it is. My heart pounded thinly, my eyes unfocused. You're afraid that if you go into Death, Japhrimel might be waiting for you. "Danny?" The concern in Jace's voice was also equally amusing and touching. Did he think I was going to pass out? Start to scream?

  Was I? I felt close. Damn close.

  I blinked. I was staring at the photo. Gabe was sweating now, tendrils of her sleek dark hair sticking to her forehead. The temperature in the room had gone up at least ten degrees. The climate control would kick on soon and blow frigid air through the vents. Power blurred out from my skin, Power and heat and a smoky fragrance of demon. Tierce Japhrimel had smelled like amber musk and burning cinnamon; I smelled like fresh cinnamon and a lighter musk. Demon lite, half the Power, all the nasty attitude, the humorous voice that accompanied bad news rang out inside my head.

  I felt my chest constrict as the vision rose in front of me—ash drifting up from white marble, a hot breeze lifting smudges and scatters of it. Ash and the single, restrained curve of a black urn, left as a final cruel joke.

  My right hand twisted into a claw.

  I owed her too much to easily walk away from. Gabe was old-school. She'd gone with me into hell and nearly been eviscerated on the way. She hadn't ever uttered a word of anger at my rudeness or my distance or about the fact that she'd almost died because of my hellbent need for revenge on Santino. Or about the fact that I held her at arm's length, refusing to talk about Rio or demons or anything else of any real importance that lay in the air between us, charged and ready to leap free.

  "I don't know, Gabe." Why is my voice shaking? My voice never shakes. "I haven't gone… there… for a while."

  And I missed it. I missed communing with my god, feeling ever-so-briefly the weight of living taken from me. I made my offerings and kept my worship, and every once in a while when I meditated the blue light of Death would weave subtle traceries through the darkness behind my eyes, a comfort familiar from my childhood.

  But still, if I went into Death, what would I meet on the bridge between this world and the next? Would I see a tall slim man in a long dark coat, his golden hands clasped behind his back as he considered me, his eyes flaring first green, then going dark? Would he tell me he'd been waiting for me?

  You will not leave me to wander the earth alone. But he'd left me, burned to death, crumbled in my arms. Seeing him in Death's country would make it final. Too final. Too unbearably final.

  "You're the best, Danny. You can even hold an apparition out of a box of cremains, you've always been the best. Please." Gabe never begged, but her tone was dangerously close. She didn't even shift in her chair, leaning forward, her elbows on her desk. She's ready for action, I realized, and wondered just how tense and staring I looked. I was bleeding heat into the air, a demon's trick.

  It wasn't just that Gabe was asking me. I closed Christabel's file and met her eyes squarely. At least she didn't flinch. Gabe was perhaps the only person that could look me in the eyes without flinching.

  She still saw me. For Gabe, I hadn't changed. I was still Danny Valentine, under the carapace of golden skin and demonic beauty. She wasn't afraid of me—treated me no differently than she had ever since we'd become friends. For Gabe, I would always be the same person; the person she had dropped everything, leveraged her personal contacts, and hared off to Rio for. She had never even considered letting me face Santino by myself.

  I would go into Death just for that reason alone.

  I looked away. "What else is going on, Gabe? Come clean."

  "Can't fool you, can I?" She shrugged, reaching again for her crumpled pack of cigarettes. She couldn't smoke in here, but she tapped the pack twice, a habitual gesture both soothing and oddly disturbing. I had never seen her this distracted. "It's not much, Danny. If I had anything more to work with…"

  "Give it up." I sounded harsh, my voice throbbing at the lower registers of "human." The brandy bottles chattered against the desktop, my right hand ached. I wished the alcohol would do me some good. If it would have, I would have reached for it.

  "Moorcock was found in her apartment. I searched the place, of course, and found exactly nothing. Except this." She held out a folded piece of pale-pink linen paper.

  I took it, the black molecule-drip polish on my nails reflecting stripes of fluorescent light. Actually, they looked like nails, but they were claw-tips, just another mark of how far away from human I'd been dragged. My rings shimmered. They were always awake now, not just when the atmosphere was charged—though the air in here was heavy enough with Power and tension to qualify. I was radiating, and so was she. The line of force between us was almost palpable. Jace, of course, lounged like a big blond cat, smelling hungover and human with a soupçon of musk and male thrown in; spiky, spicy Power contained and deadly within a Shaman's thorny aura.

  I caught a fleeting impression from the paper—a wash of terror perfumed like cloying lilacs, an impression of a woman. Necromances are an insular community, for all that we're loners and neurotic prima donnas. We have to be a community. Even among psions, the juncture of talent and genetics that makes a Necromance is unusual. I had known Christabel peripherally for most of my life.

  The paper was torn on one corner. I gingerly opened it, as if it held a snake.

  It pays to be careful.

  I looked at it. All the breath slammed out of me again. "Fuck," I let out a strangled yelp.

  Her handwriting was ragged, as if she'd been in a hell of a hurry. Great looping, spiky lett
ers, done in dragons-blood ink; the pen had dug deep furrows in the paper. Like claw marks.

  Black Room, it said. And below, in huge thick capitals, REMEMBER REMEMBER RIGGER HALL REMEMBER RIGGER HALL REMEMBER REMEMBER—

  There was a long trailing slash at the end of the last letter, daggering downward as if she'd been dragged away while still trying to write.

  I gasped for breath. The lunatic mental image of my body flopping on the floor like a landed fish receded; I forced my lungs to work. The world had gone gray and dim, wavering through a sheet of frosted glass. My back hurt, three lines of fire; another throbbing pain right in the crease of my left buttock. No. No, I don't have those scars anymore. I don't. I DON'T.

  It took me a few moments, but I finally managed to breathe again. I looked up at Gabe, who sat still and solemn behind her desk, her dark eyes full of terrible guilt. "Fuck." This time I sounded more like myself, only savagely tired.

  Only like I'd been hit and lost half my air.

  Gabe nodded. "I know you went there. Before they had the big court case and the Hegemony closed it down. Moorcock was a few years older than you, she actually testified at the inquiry."

  My mouth was dry as desert sand. "I know," I said colorlessly. "Sekhmet sa'es, Gabe. This is…"

  "Blast from the past?" For once her humor didn't make me feel better.

  Nothing would make this feel better.

  I realized I was rubbing at my left shoulder with my wounded right hand, fiercely, as if trying to scrub away the persistent ache. I stopped, dropping my hand into my lap as I examined the paper again. There was a tiny ward-glyph at the top of the page, sketched hastily. It held no Power—it hadn't been charged.

  Maybe she'd been interrupted by whatever had torn her body apart. Whatever. Whoever.

  Could a person do this? I'd seen some horrible things done to the human body, but this was…