Dead Man Rising dv-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "No," I said shortly.

  "Rigger Hall." He scowled, stripping his hair back from his forehead with stiff fingers. "Danny."

  "I don't want to talk about it." I glanced around the concrete tomb, police hovercruisers sitting dark and silent on their landing legs. They didn't have the roof space to host all the hovers on the top of the building, and they'd had to widen both the main entrance and the auxiliary, but it was good enough. A lighted booth crouched at the far end, with a whey-faced duty officer sipping coffee and pointedly ignoring us inside.

  "I'm sure you don't." He caught my arm. "Danny."

  Oh, please, gods, not now. "Don't, Jace. I need to go to Jado's. And I need to drink."

  "It won't affect you." Why did he have to state the obvious?

  Never mind that he was right—my changed metabolism simply shunted alcohol aside. It had no more effect on me than water. I was still too much of a coward to try some of the more illegal options for disorientation and sweet oblivion.

  If this kept up I might get a little braver.

  "I can try." My face crumpled, matching his.

  "Ogoun," he breathed, and took me in his arms.

  I was a little taller than I had been, but still able to rest my head on his shoulder, my face in the hollow between his throat and collarbones. I had to lean carefully—I was much heavier and stronger than I used to be. I always took point on the bounties, always worried about him catching a stray strike or bullet.

  All the same, I let him hold me for a little while, listening to the echoing sounds of the garage around us. Sounds overlapped, straining and splashing against concrete, a cruiser hummed in with its cargo of a dusted-down Chill-freak for processing.

  I sighed and stepped away from him, scrubbing at my left shoulder. It throbbed persistently and I wondered why. It had been cold before, a spiked mass of ice pressed into my flesh—now it was warm, a live fire twisting against my skin. The flash of heat hadn't gone away like it always did.

  Had the Prince of Hell started sending me heat waves?

  Perfect. Another thing to worry about.

  "Don't ask me about Rigger Hall," I told him. "Okay?"

  It wasn't fair. He still looked like hell, the back-to-back bounties were hard on him. Yet he hadn't complained. He'd shown up on my doorstep and stayed with me, watching my back as I flung myself into hunt after hunt, not wanting to think. He'd betrayed me once, certainly, not telling me he was Mob and abandoning me when his family threatened to assassinate me unless he came back and did their dirty work. At the time, I had known only the agony of that betrayal. But since Rio, Jace had always come through in a big way. It wasn't fair to him at all. None of this was fair to him.

  True to form, he dropped the subject. "You got it, baby. I've got something better to ask you." He tapped his staff once against the old, dirty concrete, making a crisp sound that sliced through the humming whine of hovercells.

  "Shoot." I started off toward the exit, he fell into step beside me, his staff clicking time against the concrete. Bones clattered dryly together; the aura of his Power was sweet and heady. No other Shaman smelled like Jace—a combination of pepper and white wine, overlaid with fiery honey. If it hadn't been a human smell, it would have been very pleasant.

  "Did you love him?" To his credit, he didn't sound angry, just curious.

  My boots didn't falter, but I felt like I staggered. "What?" Why the fuck are you ashing me this now? Because I yelled his name when that thing came for me? One of the silent hovers sitting obediently on its landing gear creaked, responding to my uneasiness.

  I took a deep breath.

  "Did you love him? The demon. Japhrimel." I could almost see Jace's mouth twisting over the name, as if it was something sour.

  "Jace." I made the word clipped and harsh. "Quit it."

  "I deserve an answer. I've waited long enough." Quiet. Not his usual careless, ironic tone.

  "What do you deserve? You lied to me about Santino." Predictable, Danny. Take the cheap shot. You bitch.

  What else could he say? I wouldn't let him defend himself. "I didn't know."

  "You lied to me about the Corvin Family." Another accusation. I couldn't help myself. Why did we have to have this conversation now, of all times? Why?

  "I didn't have a choice. I did what I did to protect you. They would have killed you then. When you were human."

  It was the first time he'd mentioned the painful non-secret of my changed status. How long had he been thinking it? "As opposed to an abomination? You're turning Ludder now? Going to go march in front of a hospital with a 'Genesplice Is Murder' sign?" My voice bounced off the concrete, cold enough to coat my skin with ice. I could crack the pavement if I wasn't careful. It trembled on the edge of my control. All this Power, I wondered if Japhrimel had intended to teach me how to use it, how to keep it from eating me alive.

  "You're just what you always were, Danny," he informed me tightly. "Stubborn and bitchy and rude. And beautiful."

  "You forgot abrasive, unbending, and cruel."

  "Not to mention overachieving." He sighed. "Fine. You win, okay? I just want to know, Danny. Haven't I earned it? Did you love him?"

  "Why? What possible difference could it make? He's dead and he's not coming back, Jace. Let it go." We started up the ramp leading to the airseal that closed out dust and trash from the street, keeping the garage climate-controlled. He matched me step for step, as usual, his longer legs canceled out by my quicker stride and his stiff knee.

  "When you let it go, I might be able to." He snapped off the end of each word.

  "He's dead, Jace. Let it go." I couldn't say it any louder than a whisper, because my throat closed off as if a large rock had come to rest there. Dead, yes. But gone? No. Ask me if he's the reason I can't touch you. Ask me why I hear his voice in my head all the time. Even if I've finally found out it's true, demons aren't in Death's country.

  "Fine." His staff pounded the concrete in time to our steps, bones now clattering with thinly-controlled anger. "What do you need me to do?"

  I swallowed, hearing my throat click in the thick silence. I had called Japhrimel's name and not his. He had a right to be angry.

  "You're in?" I sounded surprised. You've done your duty, Jace. Nobody could say you haven't, you've watched my back since Rio. What the hell does anything else matter?

  "Of course I'm fucking in, Danny. What do you want me to do?" Now he sounded as irritated as he ever had, his words colored lemon yellow, acrid.

  My shoulders suddenly eased a little, dropping down. I shook out my right hand, hearing the joints pop and snap. I was oddly relieved, a relief I didn't want to examine the depth of any more closely. "I need to go see Jado, do some sparring and clear my head out if I'm starting another hunt." I glanced over at him. His profile was straight and unforgiving. "Can you get me into the House of Pain? As soon as possible?"

  If I didn't know him better, I'd think he went pale when he heard me say that. "Chango love me, girl, you don't ask for anything easy, do you." He actually sounded breathless.

  "I don't smell human," I said dryly. "I think they'll let me in. But I need an invite or I won't get anywhere, and you've got the connections to get me one." Since you were Mob. I swallowed the words. That was history, wasn't it? Gods, if I could just let one thing be history, what would I choose?

  He didn't even hesitate. "Fine. I'll get you an invitation. What'll I do while you're talking to the suckheads?"

  "You're going to do some research."

  Chapter Ten

  Jado lived in the University District, on a quiet tree-lined street that had been eccentric years ago but was now merely deserted. There was little ambient energy in the air here, mostly because of him; his house crouched far back in a landscaped yard. His ancient hot tub stood on the deck on one side, and the meditation garden was pristine. There was even a sand plot, impeccably raked, with a few rough black rocks buried in the smoothness. The aura of peace, of stillness, was palpable.


  I rang the bell, then twisted the knob and stepped in. The front hall was bare; no shoes on the cedar rack underneath the coat pegs. I caught no breath of human thought in the place.

  Thank the gods.

  I worked my boots off, and my socks. I hung up my coat and my black canvas bag; my guns dangling from the rig as I hung that up too. Nobody would dare to touch them here. I didn't even bother with a keepcharm. It would have been an insult to my teacher, implying that I didn't trust the safety of his house.

  Barefoot, feeling oddly naked as usual without my weapons, I padded down the high-ceilinged hall and through the doorway into mellow light, and stepped up onto tatami mats. Their thick, rough texture prickled luxuriously against my bare soles, and I restrained myself from rubbing my feet just to feel the scratchiness.

  Jado sat at the far end on the dais, his robes a blot of orange underneath a scroll with two kanji painted on it. Ikebana sat on a low table underneath the scroll; three red flowers on a long slender stem reminding me of the orchids in Caine's office. I suppressed a shiver, bowed properly before I stepped over the border from «space» to "sparring space."

  The old man's wizened face split like a withered apple, white teeth flashing. His bald head glistened, charcoal eyes glimmering in the directionless light. His ears came to high points on either side of his head, and his callused hands lay in his lap, in the mudra of wholeness.

  He looked like a relaxed little gnome, an old man with weird ears, harmless and slow. "Ai, Danyo-san. Good thing no students here."

  I bowed again. "Sensei."

  "So serious! Young one." He shook his head, tearing slightly. "Well, what is it?"

  "I need to think," I said baldly. Not to mention that sparring was the best way to shake off the chill of death. Sparring, slicboarding, sex—anything to flush me with adrenaline and get rid of the bitter taste of death in my mouth, the lingering chill of it in my fingers and toes. "Look, Jado-sensei, can we stop the Zenmo crap and get down to business?"

  His hand flickered. My right hand moved of its own volition, smacking the dart out of the air. It quivered in a ceiling beam, a wicked steel pinblade and feathered cap. "You are most impatient."

  I made no reply, watched him. He stood, slowly, pushing himself up from the floor as if his bones ached. My skin chilled instinctively, I dropped into "guard." He clucked at me again. "What would you like? Staff? Sword?"

  "I don't have a sword," I reminded him. "Staff or bare-hand, sensei. Either." Need to move, need to think, and need to ask you a favor.

  "A warrior should have sword, Danyo-san. A sword is warrior's honor."

  I was hoping you'd say that. "After the fight, I'll need a sword. Unless you don't think you can take me, old man."

  He blinked across the room to the rack of staves, his brown fingers curling around a quarterstaff. My heart settled into its combat rhythm, eyes dilating, every fiber of my skin aware of him. "I begin to think you need lesson for manners," he said gently, avuncular.

  He tossed me the staff, and followed a split-second later with a staff in his own slim brown hands. The crack of wood meeting wood echoed through the dojo.

  Spin, kick, the end of his staff arcing up toward my face, half-step back, can't afford to do that with him, he's too fast—

  Wood crackled, he jabbed for my midriff and I swung back, the rhythm of staff striking staff lacking a clear pattern. The end of my staff socked into the floor, and I flung myself forward, body loose and flying, Jado narrowly avoided the strike and folded aside but I was ready, landing and whipping the stave out, deflecting the only strike he could make at that angle. Down into a full split, stave spinning backward—a showy move, but the only one I had. Each moment of a fight narrowed the chain of coincidence and angle, Jado moved in as I bent back. I heard the crackle of my spine as I moved in a way no human being should, front heel smashing into the tatami to push me up. My body curved, I landed again and feinted, struck—but his stave was there before me, wood screaming as we smashed at each other.

  Propellor-strike, shuffling, my breath coining in high harsh gasps, like flying. Alive. I was alive. The lingering chill of going into Death and bringing Christabel out faded, washed clean by adrenaline, every inch of my body suddenly glowing. Alive. All grown up and alive. Another flurry of cracks. We separated, I shuffled to one side, he countered. Then, the first flush of the fight over and neither of us having made a stupid mistake, we settled into feinting; first Jado, then me, him trying to lull me into a pattern, me testing his defenses. I earned a solid crack on the knuckles by being too slow, blurred back, shaking my hand out, staff held in guard. Red-black blood welled up, coated the scrape along my knuckles and vanished, leaving the golden skin perfect.

  I still wasn't used to that.

  "What is it, Danyo-chan?" he asked, standing apparently easy, holding his staff in one hand. Tilting forward a fraction of an inch, testing; I countered by leaning sideways, my staff lifting slightly, responding.

  "Old ghosts, my friend." My breath came harsh, but I wasn't gasping. Not yet. "The goddamn school. Rigger Hall."

  I'd never told him about the Hall. I wouldn't have been surprised at anything he'd guessed, though. I'd come to him for training straight from the Academy, having heard he was the best; he had known me longer than just about anyone, except maybe Gabe.

  He nodded thoughtfully, almond-shaped eyes glittering and sweat gleaming on his brown forehead. His mouth was a thin lipless snarl, I'd scored a hit or two of my own. It just felt so good not to have to hold back; humans were so fucking fragile.

  Careful, Danny. You're still human where it counts. I swallowed, eased down a little, watching his chest. Any move would be telegraphed there. We circled; another fast flurry of strikes deflected. Sweat began on my skin, trickled down my back. It felt good.

  It felt clean.

  "And so you bring ghosts to Jado, eh?" He grinned, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Here on the sparring floor, there was no quarter asked or given.

  "At least I can't kill you," I shot back.

  "Hm." He shrugged, inscrutable as ever. His robes whispered as bare brown feet moved over the tatami; he closed with me in a flurry of strikes. Sweat flew, his and mine. Move move move! I heard his voice from other training sessions. No think, move!

  His staff shattered, my cry rising with it to break in the sunlit air. I held my own staff a quarter-inch from his chest. The echoes of my kia bounced off the walls, made the entire building shiver. Dust pattered down from the groaning roof.

  "Not bad," Jado said grudgingly. I treasured that faint praise. "Come. I make you tea."

  Sweating, my staff still held warily, I nodded. "Have you ever seen anything dismember a Necromance, Jado-sensei?"

  "Not recently." He brushed his horny hands free of splinters. "Come, tea. We talk."

  I racked my staff and followed him into the spotless green and beige kitchen. Early-evening light poured in through the bay window. Jado got down the iron kettle and two bowls, and his pink Hiero Kidai canister that held green tea. I hid a smile. The old dragon was gruff, but he loved little pink things.

  Maybe humans are little pink things to him too. I had to swallow bile again. My left shoulder twisted with hot feverish pain.

  "So." Jado put the water on to boil while I eased myself onto a wooden stool set on the other side of the counter. "You have been called out of slumber, it seems."

  "I wasn't sleeping, I don't sleep," I objected immediately. "I'm just not a social person, that's all. Been running bounties."

  He shrugged. He was right, throwing myself into one hunt after another was a way of numbing myself. Trying to exhaust myself so I could sleep, staving off the pain with furious activity. It was a time-honored method, one I'd used all my life; but as a coping mechanism I had to admit it was failing miserably.

  His robe, rough cotton, caught the sunlight and glowed. I rilled my lungs—the lingering smell of human was only a tang over his darker scent of flame and some deep, scaled hole,
darkness welling up from the ground, incense burned in a forgotten temple. I didn't know what Jado was, he didn't fit into any category of nonhuman I'd ever read or heard about. But he'd been in Saint City for at least as long as Abra, because I sometimes, rarely, took messages from one to the other; little bits of information.

  I had never seen Jado leave his home, or Abra leave her shop, and I wondered where they had come from. Maybe one day I'd find out.

  It was a relief to smell something inhuman. Something that didn't reek of dying cells, of pain, of eventual abandonment.

  Japhrimel's gone, I thought, and the sharp spike of pain that went through me seemed somehow clean as well. "What do you know about Christabel Moorcock? Did you ever train her?"

  He shook his head. "She is not of my students." The kettle popped on the stove, heating up. "You wish for a sword, then."

  It was my turn to shrug, look down at the counter. I traced a random glyph on the Formica with one black-nailed fingertip. My rings sizzled. The glyph folded out, became something else—the spiked fluid lines of the scar on my shoulder. I traced it twice, looked up to meet his tranquil eyes.

  "You have decided to live." Jado leaned on the counter, his own blunt fingertips seemingly arranged for maximum affect. His broad nose widened a little and he seemed to sniff. For a moment, his eyes were black from lid to lid, maybe a trick of shadow as he blinked, his eyes lidding like a lizard's. "Though you still smell of grief, Danyo-chan. Much grief."

  He's not coming back. Maybe I can grieve instead of trying to avoid it. "I never thought I wouldn't live," I lied. "Look, Jado, it's about Rigger Hall. And I think I need a sword. My hand won't get any stronger if I don't exercise it."

  "Christabel." His accent made it Ku-ris-ta-be-ru. "She was death-talker. Like you."