Dead Man Rising dv-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I was right. We found his sancta in the basement, a hexagonal stone room with nudiegirl holoposters gummed to the rough walls. A pentacle was etched into the discolored granite floor—Aran had done well for himself, if he could spend time and Power etching stone. I was uncomfortable looking into the room—after all, a Ceremonial's sancta is like a Necromance's psychopomp, the deep place they trust to work their greatest magicks. Apparently, Aran Helm had derived a great deal of his power from sex; it didn't look like he had many partners, however. He must have done a lot of Power-raising with his right hand.

  A drawer in a low armoire was pulled all the way out, showing shiny sharp implements. Bloodletters and weights. I sucked in a breath, delicately touching the wood of the drawer with a fingertip. The shiver that went through me wasn't entirely unpleasant—blood and sex, and pain. Good fuel for magick.

  And very tempting for demons. Even part-demons like me.

  Interestingly enough, there was only one door to the sancta, and it was hacked open—but from the inside. I cast my gaze over the hexagonal room.

  Jace leaned in the door. Gabe's voice raised in the corridor beyond, giving orders. Jace's staff glowed golden, a faint light edging it and the bones tied with raffia clicking together. Here in another sorcerer's sancta, any Shaman would be uncomfortable. And the lingering trail of terror and bloodlust on the air would only add to that discomfort.

  Cigars lay fanned under a twisted statue of The Unspeakable. So he was a Left-hander, I thought. That was valuable information—no wonder he'd been in the business of assassination. Left-handers wouldn't sacrifice humans to gain magickal energy, but they would sacrifice other things. Dogs, cats… monkeys, sometimes. Insects. There was a whole branch of Left-handers that dealt with the power released by killing snakes as slowly as possible, since snakes were living conduits of magickal energy. Cats were popular too, and goats. About the only animal a Left-hander wouldn't touch was a horse, since plenty of Skinlins worshipped Epona and their goddess took a very dim view of sacrificing equines. Of course, there was the question of what to do with the body afterward. The old joke was that a vaudun and a Left-hander would both kill a chicken—but the vaudun would eat the chicken afterward.

  Most of the time, after a Left-hander was finished, there wasn't much of the sacrifice left to eat.

  A half-bottle of very good brandy sat on the altar too. His ceremonial sword, its blade twisted into an unrecognizable shape, was a two-handed broadsword, pretty but cheap metal. If he did wetwork it was with knife or projectile gun, not honest steel. Aran Helm had used the human deaths to pay for his house, and animal death to fuel his magick.

  I wondered if either had troubled him.

  "Here," I murmured. "Here was where it started. How could it come from inside?" I turned to the door. Gabe had already repaired Christabel's shielding by the time I got there, but the bits from the door had all been on the outside, in the hall. "Christabel's shields breached from the inside? And the other two, the sexwitch and the normal?"

  Jace shrugged. "Moorcock yes, sexwitch yes, normal no. That's what Gabe said. I'll ask again if you want." But he stayed there, looking at me, his eyes oddly shadowed and burning at the same time. "Danny, what are you thinking? You look…"

  "I'm not sure yet." Why are we so sure the normal's part of this? But I am sure, sure as I can be. It started with our mysterious normal and hasn't ended yet. Something I'm missing, something critical. And Christabel, making marks and shouting "Remember."

  I blinked, knelt down. Caught in the pentacle's deep-carved lines was a glimmer of something. My fingertips brushed stone, and I caught a glimpse of a man who had to be Aran—blue-eyed, his greasy blond hair cut in a flattop, stumbling back as Power whipped like a serpent from the statue of The Unspeakable. "Was he a very good sorcerer, this Aran Helm?"

  I felt more than saw Jace's shrug. "Good enough. Better as an assassin, I think. Otherwise, how would he pay for this?"

  "True." It was a fine silver chain, a necklace. The clasp was broken. Attached to it was a charm the size of my thumb from distal joint to fingertip—a silver spade, like on an antique playing card. "Ace of spades." I held it up delicately between index finger and thumb. "I think you're onto something, Jace. Good work." Stupid to put a mark in a yearbook, Christabel. Why would you do something like that? It's a pity I can't bring you out of Death and ask you. Shivers rilled up my spine.

  One corner of his mouth lifted into a half-grin. "Good to hear it. Can Gabe's team start up in the bedroom?"

  "I think so." I made it to my feet, holding the necklace. "We need to go through this yearbook and make a list."

  "You got it."

  A new thought struck me as I rose from the floor. I paused, holding up the necklace. "I wonder if Christabel had one of these."

  Jace turned and murmured to Gabe. She said something, then looked over his shoulder at me. "Danny?"

  "Did Christabel have one of these?" I held the necklace up so she could see it.

  "She did. So did the sexwitch. I chalked it up to junk jewelry." Gabe's tone was uncharacteristically harsh. No cop liked to miss a piece of evidence.

  "The normal didn't have one?" I asked, just to make sure.

  "Not that I remember. I'll go through the evidence manifest again, if you want."

  "Do that." I stared at the nudiegirl posters on the wall. They fluttered as my attention brushed them. Nothing behind any of them. No way into the room but the door, and the door hacked open from inside.

  I tore the yearbook out of my bag and stalked for the door. "Gabe. Get me the list. Everyone in here who has that mark next to their names. I need to know who's still living and where, especially in Saint City. Send it to my datpilot, will you?"

  She nodded. "What's up?" At least she knew enough not to bother me with questions that needed long explanations.

  "One of Polyamour's girls was the second body," I said, and watched Gabe's eyes light with comprehension. She was looking more relieved by the second. At least we had a connection, however tenuous; a direction to go in was good news to any cop. "I'm going to drop in on Poly now. If one of her girls was downed and she has more bits of the puzzle, she's going to be very nervous, very guilty—or the next goddamn victim."

  Gabe nodded. "Go. Go on."

  I gave her a quick smile and pushed the yearbook into her hands. "I need this back." So I can bury it again. Maybe deeper this time.

  "Understood. Now go." Her tone wasn't just a thank you—it was relief and gratitude all rolled up together and lit with birthday candles.

  Jace followed me, his staff tapping on the marble. The spade necklace dangled from my fist, and I stuffed it in a pocket without thinking. My fingers tightened around the katana's scabbard. I should have gotten a sword long before this so I could have a blade I could depend on. A chill finger touched my spine. My rings flashed, demon-fed, and the atmosphere of Aran Helm's palatial house shivered. I reached out without thinking, calming the runaway energy like a restive horse. Helm had put so many layers of protection on his home that the air itself would have been dead and stifling if not for the giant rent whoever—or whatever—had torn in the shielding.

  From the inside. I wonder if he invited his killer in. Why, if he was so obsessive about protection?

  It was a relief to have this puzzle, so I didn't have to think about Lucifer's soft voice burrowing in through the phone line. I must speak with your lover, and I am unable to contact him in the usual manner.

  I wondered what the "usual manner" was and felt my skin go chill again.

  Can it be you have not resurrected him? Taunting, soft, and corrosive.

  I decided I didn't fear him as much as I had when I was human—and that was bad. After all, I wasn't a demon, only a hedaira, whatever that was. And even if I had been a demon, Lucifer was the Prince of Hell.

  So maybe the Prince of Hell was starting a new game. I had to go carefully, or I might be caught like I was last time. O
f course, any game the Devil started was rigged from the beginning; but last time I'd had no warning whatsoever. Now at least I knew something awful was about to happen.

  Cold comfort, if any.

  "Danny!" Jace caught my arm. Sunlight fell down on the crushed stone. I'd walked out of the house and toward the garden wall. A few more strands of my hair fell in my face. My boots seemed rooted to the ground now. "Hey. The hover's this way."

  I blinked at him. "Jace." I'd been so deep in my thoughts I had literally forgotten about him. The sunlight was kind to him, made his hair catch fire and his eyes glow. Had he followed me through the entire house, trying to get my attention? "I'm sorry. I was thinking."

  "It's not like you to wander around deaf to the world." He shook his staff for emphasis, the bones clicking and twirling on their raffia twine. "It's that phone call, isn't it." His voice was flat.

  Once before, I'd been so wrapped up in my own thoughts I hadn't been aware of my surroundings. Japhrimel had pulled me out of the way of a speeding streetside hover. I had no demon to watch over me now; I gave myself a severe mental shake, pushing away uncertainty. I'd deal with Lucifer after I dealt with this mess.

  After I deal with a crazed killer from Rigger Hall, the Devil might almost be a vacation. Black humor tinted my mental voice, gallows humor. The type of macabre humor every Necromance and cop used to distance him or herself from the horror of what people could do to each other with gun and knife and club.

  My fingers tightened on the scabbard. "Are you coming with me to Polyamour's?" I looked up into Jace's face.

  He nodded. His jaw set, a muscle in his cheek flicked. "Of course. Do I get to play bad cop?"

  You'd be better at that than I would. How many other things did I not know about Jace?

  Did it matter?

  Not to me, not now. Whatever he hadn't told me could stay in the past. What mattered was that he'd given up Rio for me, moved in with me, and stretched his human body to the limits trying to help me. And gods help me, I could forgive him everything for that.

  "We're not going to frighten her," I decided. "Not unless I think she's guilty." I touched his shoulder, my hand closing, my thumb moving gently. It was almost a caress. "Thank you. For… for everything. I mean it."

  His face eased slightly, mouth relaxing into a genuine smile. "Hey, no problem, baby. Hanging out with you is better than a holovid game."

  An unwilling smile tilted my lips up even as my heart sank. Jace Monroe, the man I'd thought abandoned me years ago, loved me. But I still couldn't stand the thought of anyone but Japhrimel touching me. If Japhrimel could be resurrected… "I'll choose to take that as a compliment. Let's go."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Polyamour's was in the Tank District, on the very northern fringe between the Tank and the financial heart downtown. Of course, she had to be close to her clients; and her clients had to be rich. To afford a liaison with Polyamour, or one of her contracted sexwitches, took a chunk of hard cash or credit that Lucifer himself might have balked at spending. She was evidently expecting us, for the security net acknowledged my hover; Jace spent a few minutes tapping on the deck, and the net's AI linked with ours, brought the hover down in a circling pattern to land with a jolt on the roofpad. It was broad daylight, so the roof lot was empty except for one sleek gleaming hoverlimo.

  I spent a few moments studying the roof and the shielding. The place was well-shielded, both magickally and electronically; I wouldn't have wanted to crack it. The roof entrance was a sort of small gazebo seemingly made of stone and strung with glittering plaslights; stairs descended. I exchanged a glance with Jace and shook my right hand out. It threatened to cramp. My shoulder eased a little; maybe the thin shell of calm over my deepening panic was fooling the demon-made mark.

  We went down the stairs and finally came to a beautifully carved mahogany door. Venus glowed from one half, her wooden face serene; Persephone with her pomegranate on the other. Others might have mistaken it for art, but any Magi-trained psion would know better. The sexwitch's realm was Eros and Thanatos, the life-urge married to the reality of Death itself, pain turned to pleasure turned to Power; that it was offered for clients dispelled none of the mystery.

  Some theorists said sexwitches were the bridge between sedayeen—the healers—and Necromances, those who tread in the realm of Death. I didn't believe it.

  Still, I couldn't dismiss the power of sex itself. No psion who deals with the deepest urges of the body and psyche can.

  Sex was the least of what sexwitches offered. Redemption, delight, the chance to play with the deepest and most forbidden of fetishes and fantasies, companionship, vulnerability—sexwitches offered all the power of the physical body to soothe, all the power of sex to enlighten, to loosen, to liberate. It was heady stuff, and people paid in buckets for it, making sexwitch House taxes a top revenue source for the Hegemony government.

  Two full-spectrum lights made to look like gaslamps burned behind the silvery lattices of ornate carriage lamps. I inhaled and smelled kyphii, sex, and synth hash.

  "Great," Jace murmured. "The one time I go into Polyamour's and it's during the day."

  I laughed. The sound bounced off the creamy marble walls. "I wonder what these stairs are like when it rains."

  "Slippery. But think of the possibilities."

  "Slipped disk. Cracked skull." I kept the laughter back only by sheer force of will.

  He snorted, a short chuckle. "You have no imagination."

  "More like too much." The banter to ease our nerves was so familiar I began to relax fractionally. Then the doors gave a theatric creak as they began to open, a slice of glowing almost-candlelight widening.

  We waited, my right hand closing around the hilt of my sword. Jace let out a short sound that wasn't quite a whistle and nowhere near a word. When the door was fully open, it revealed a dimly lit hallway hung with red velvet and decorated with tasteful marble statues. And there, standing in the middle of the hall, was the transvestite Polyamour, the most famous sexwitch of our generation.

  She was tall, and her face was as beautifully made as any architectural triumph: caramel skin; long, curling black hair; and amazing gray eyes fringed by thick charcoal lashes. She had long aesthetic legs, lightly muscled and revealed by a fluttering pale-pink silk dress. Her feet were bare and surprisingly small, the nails lacquered deep blood-red. One dainty ankle was graced with a thin gold bracelet, and gold hoops hung from her perfect ears. High on her left cheek was the inset ruby, aesthetically placed, which any datscan would reveal as encoded with a powerful protective chip. If a plasgun or projectile discharged anywhere near her or if the ruby were removed, the police would automatically be called. A datscan would also reveal her as a licensed sexwitch, immune to several laws applying to other psionics—and worth ten years in a federal prison if she was assaulted. The Hegemony received far too much in tax profit from sexwitches to look kindly on any harm done to them—not like the fifty years before and after the Parapsychic Act, when sexwitches had all but died out due to the abuse they received from being bought and sold like chattel, worse than any other sort of psion.

  Her quick intake of breath showed a pair of shallow high breasts under the silk. I wondered if they were augments, or if she'd taken hormone courses.

  Her Power reached out, caressed the edges of both my shields and Jace's. The familiar smell of sexwitch—sex and vulnerability and pure sugary musk heat—rolled out from her in waves.

  Anubis, she's powerful.

  "Dante Valentine. And Jace Monroe." She tilted her beautiful head slightly, an acknowledgment that sent her perfect ringlets cascading. "I thought you would be along sooner rather than later. The holovids just reported Aran Helm's death." Her voice was caramel with a slight astringency, too deep for a woman's but too light for a man's.

  I sniffed. Something smelled odd here: a rank edge of fear under all the perfume.

  I saw a glint of silver at her throat.

  I dug in my pocket
, pulled out the broken necklace. The spade swung at the end of it. "Tig vedom deum." My voice stroked the hall, made the velvet hangings flutter. I was forgetting to be careful.

  Polyamour actually turned pale and stepped back. She reached up to her sculpted throat and touched her own necklace. If my eyes hadn't been so sharp, I might not have been able to see it in the shifting, dim light. But there it was, a silver spade. I felt a jolt of sick happiness, one more connection sliding into place. I was getting closer. Are you happy, Christabel? I'm remembering, and I'm dragging other people through remembering it too. Are you flicking happy?

  "You were not a member, but you know." Her voice was less smooth now. Her eyes slid over me again. "I suppose you should come in."

  "I suppose we should." I moved down the steps, heard Jace behind me. "The way I see it, either you're part of it or you're a potential victim. If it's the former, I'll get you first. If it's the latter, you could do worse than have my protection."

  She laughed, but the sound was unsteady. Polyamour turned on one soft bare foot and started off down the hall. "I was told you were direct. That seems a bit of an understatement."

  "One of the victims was a girl of yours." I moved after her, my boots clicking softly. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  She cast me one extraordinary dark glance over her shoulder. The sway of her hips under the silk was almost a woman's. I looked back at Jace, who seemed bemused. "You were at the Hall," Polyamour said. "You know the habit of silence can be hard to break. I didn't know anything useful about Yasrule's death until Edward brought me the pictures. Then I knew."

  "What exactly do you know?" She wasn't moving very quickly. My boots, and Jace's, thudded in the murmuring silence, all sound dulled by the velvet on the walls. The doors closed behind us on whisper-soft hinges.

  "Let's have some coffee. We can be civilized, can't we?" She had recovered. Her voice was back to smoothness. But her aura shifted uneasily, and my own Power reached out, caressing her vulnerable edges. Sexwitches were still nicknamed «beggars» in some circles; the natural physiological processing of Power triggered chemical cascades of pleasure in them, endorphins that made them pleading and vulnerable. As a part-demon, I had more Power than most sexwitches ever encountered; if Polyamour wasn't fully-fed she would be distracted, and I would have to be very gentle. If I was careful of my new body's effect on normal humans, I was doubly careful of what I could do to an exquisitely sensitive sexwitch.