I melted around the corner and found myself face-to-face with my last best chance.
"Hullo, Horman," I said pleasantly. My emerald sparked, sizzling to match my rings. "I need to talk to you."
Chapter 22
"What the hell?" My voice hit a pitch just under squeak. Horman flinched. He pushed me back into the alcove, stood with his three-quarters profile presented to me, watching the empty street. He smelled of synth-hash, half-metabolized Chivas Red, and the decaying of human cells. Mixed with the chemical wash of Saint City hover traffic and biolab exhalation, it was a heady brew. My own smell rose like a shield, I didn't allow my nose to wrinkle. The heaviness of incipient rain blurred on the freshening wind. I smelled electricity, suspected a storm. "But I just got into town!"
His hands shook, a smudge of ash drifting down from his cigarette. "You the suspect now. Half the cops in Saint City are looking to bring you in full of projectile lead as a copkiller, deadhead. The other half won't interfere 'cause they know they'll get their own asses singed with hoverwash."
Suspecting me of killing Gabe. Why? Trying to hang it on me instead of Massadie? "Where does that leave you, Horman?"
Sweat gleamed on his bald pate. "Gabe came to me few days ago. Said she had a line on somethin' big. I told her not to get involved, told her she was retired and should stay that way. She told me you'd show up if anything happened to her. I been spending hours out here waitin' for you." Horman shivered, popping up the collar of his coat with his free hand. He flicked ash out onto the pavement.
Oh, Gabe. Looking out for me again. I swallowed, heard the dry click of my throat. "Listen, what do you know about a guy named Gilbert Pontside?"
"Homicide, Old Division. Hates psis." Horman shrugged. He was swallowing rapidly, sweating Chivas. He knew how dangerous it was to be out on the street, but nobody thought I'd be stupid or suicidal enough to try the cops. That was valuable information right there.
You hate psions too, Horman. "So why is he responsible for investigating Eddie Thornton's murder?" I dug in my bag, but he shook his head.
"If you got the original file, don't let me see it. Lots of people been looking for that, it ain't worth my career to have a peek." He hunched his shoulders even further. "I figgered Gabe lifted the original, tricky bitch." He paused. "Pontside. Investigating a dirtwitch murder? A dirtwitch married to a Spook Squadder? I din't hear that, they got a lid clapped tight on this one."
"Suspicious, isn't it?" I took a deep breath. It was time for me to go on faith. "Eddie was killed because he came up with this." I held up the vial, rescued from the depths of my bag. "It's a cure for Chill. I don't know who killed him yet, but it's beginning to look like the biotech company he was working for and the Tanner Family have something to do with this pile of crap. I'm told a bounty is out on me. Is it official?"
"'Course it ain't. Official means visible, and someone wants this kept quiet." His eyebrows drew together. "There ain't no cure for Chill," Horman mumbled. He shot me a quick dark glance, his forehead wrinkling even further. But there was a ratty little gleam in his eyes I'd seen before. Horman had just made a connection.
A good connection, please. Please, Anubis. "I've got a Shaman and a sedayeen who worked over on Fortieth who say different; their clinic was bombed and a bunch of goons tried to off them this morning. Plus, why would a Spook Squadder and a Skinlin be killed like they were, and have it kept this quiet, unless they had something huge, huge as a fucking Chill cure?" I took a deep breath, dangerously close to pleading. "You know me, Lew. I'm a psion and a bounty hunter. I paid my mortgage with a little bit of illegal action like everyone else. But I don't go around killing my friends. I never went in for assassination. Ever."
Gabe was about the only friend I had left. Why would I kill her? The thought that I could even be accused of killing her made me sick to my stomach.
And feeling just a little explosive.
He shivered. "What you want me to do, deadhead? Gabe trusted you, they say you killed her."
Score one for me. If he believed I killed Gabe, he wouldn't he out here waiting for me. He especially wouldn't ask me what I wanted him to do. Looks like my luck's beginning to change a bit. About damn time too.
My fingers were deft and quick. I shoved the vial of Chill cure in his coat pocket, tugging sharply on the material so he could tell what I was doing. "Figure out what this is, see if I'm telling you the truth. Visit a couple of your Vice Stooges and put the word out that I'm going to erase whoever killed Gabe. Also check the West Coast Chill clinic datanet. They should have the formula for the cure flashed worldwide by now."
"A cure's gonna put me out of a job." He didn't sound upset at this eventuality. As much as I'd lost to the ravening monster that was Chill, he'd lost more. I'd attended the funeral of his teenage son years ago, the kid had gotten hooked on Chill and died on a bad batch of contaminated drugs. He hadn't been the only casualty-the distributor cutting Clormen-13 with bad thyoline had soaked most of the city with it but it had been the one thing that solidified Horman's innate cynicism.
And his hatred of Chill.
I made a short snorting sound. "You're a Hegemony officer, you'll get a pension. Besides, you can always chase unregistered hookers. That's a lot more fun. Or XTSee brokers, vox sniffers, bitfoxes, permaspray junkies…. Or corporate harassment cases." I didn't have to work to sound amused, the maniacal urge to giggle was rising again. My left shoulder throbbed with pain.
"You bitch." Horman's aura flushed brittle red with fear. His cigarette had burned down to the filter, he pitched it into the botbin with a convulsive jerk. Didn't look at me. "What you doing this to me for, Valentine? I never did nothing to you."
"And you were out here waiting. Call it a favor to Gabe. Consider me just the hand of Vengeance coming home to roost." I slid past him, out of the alcove, as light rain spattered on the sidewalk. Glanced up to check hovertraffic, the streams of cigar-shaped personal hovers and the larger whaleshapes of transports moving in their aerial ballai. "If you can, let some cops know I didn't kill Gabe. Let them know Pontside is the officer on record in the original file investigating Eddie's murder. But for Sekhmet's sake don't get yourself in trouble." I paused, my tone turning soft and reflective. "I'd hate to have to avenge your death too."
«Goddammit» Horman began, but I was already gone, I knew what I needed to know.
Half the cops on the Saint City force might well think I'd killed Gabe. But the other half didn't think so, and Horman had been allowed to stand quietly out in his smoking alcove, taking nips off the bottle of Chivas brought to him by his partner. Someone else knew that a normal was the officer on record for a psion's murder, maybe someone had even figured out from the scene of Gabe's homicide that everything wasn't quite kosher. Despite Horman's shambling exterior, he was well-respected among Saint City cops-one of the good old boys. If he dropped a quiet word, it would get around.
I had just bought myself some breathing room. Or more precisely, Gabe had bought it for me, by telling a fat foulmouth cop who reeked of soy whiskey in no uncertain terms that I was to be trusted no matter what the brass said.
Still looking out for me, Gabriele. Mighty nice of you. Even my mental voice caught on a choking sob.
My chest hurt. My eyes were full of unshed tears, the pavement blurring in front of me.
I needed a place to go to ground. I didn't have one. My shoulder twinged sharply, the pain slicing through my misery. Pay attention, Dante. Wake up. Just a little longer, then you can rest.
Four blocks away from the precinct house, instinct poked me hard between the ribs. I stepped aside into an alley. Managed to get all the way to the dead end, brick walls rising up in three directions. I turned around, leaning my back against the blind corner; even if anyone started shooting from the roof I was sure I could make it up the handy fire-escape and away. I braced my legs as the freezing rain started in earnest, tapping the roofs, mouthing the pavement. The peculiar whine of streetside hover traffic durin
g rainfall bounced through the alley and rattled my teeth.
I squeezed the scabbard in my left hand, checked the cuff. No green light, it was back to dead-cold and dull against my golden skin. There was no way to get it off, I couldn't even get a fingernail under its curve. It had welded itself to my skin.
Lovely.
I slid my right hand under my shirt, touched the knobs of the baculum; slid my fingertips up my collarbone. Took a deep, slamming breath. The decision was instant, I'd just reached the end of my tether.
I don't care what else is going on, Japhrimel. I need you. You lying bastard of a demon, I need to see where you are and if you can help me.
I touched the ropes of scarring, my fingertips delicate as if I caressed his naked shoulder. Or his cheek. Heat jolted up my arm, smashed through my shoulder.
I saw-
— darkness. The single point of light was a candle, its blood-red flame in a curious stasis. Arms stretched overhead, head hanging, hair curtaining face. The chalked lines of the diagram writhed, fluid with demon Power, Magi script altered subtly to make it more effective. Urgency growing in the bones, spreading outward. The bracelet of cold metal around his wrists softened under the lash of his attention.
Circle holding square holding pentacle, the diagram spun lazily against a smooth glassine floor A hellhound paced at its periphery, red eyes glowing and massive shoulders writhing under its obsidian pelt. A laugh sharp as a razor cut the air, shivered as the candleflame bent in a nonphysical direction and returned to its stasis, standing straight up. The candle itself was a thick parchment colored pillar set in a barbarously clawed iron stand.
Head, lifting. Eyes beginning to burn as they wrenched away from the flame.
"I will give you one chance," he said, in a chill hurtful voice.
"At last. She's calling," another replied, high and awful as tinkling bells made of frozen blood. "And he's compelled to answer."
"It was only a matter of time. I wonder who caught her, perhaps Arkhamiel?" Wait. Was this voice like the first? Identical. But the shading was a touch deeper, a slightly more masculine tone. "'Twas a fool's move to let us take you, Elder Brother. We will soon have the lai'arak and your compliance anyway."
"I have warned you," he said quietly. The chill had not left the words, a sharp jagged blade drawn over numb flesh. "Your time is almost done."
I tore my fingers away. Bent over, shook my head, hair swinging as I tried to clear away the sudden disorientation of seeing through his eyes as if through a sheet of waverIng glass, each object freighted with different light and perspective. I choked, my stomach revolving. Black demon blood dripped from my nose and mouth, I'd driven my teeth almost clean through my lower lip.
I slid down to my knees. It was not the best place to have a nervous breakdown, in an alley less than four blocks from the South precinct house, exposed to the stinging pellets of frozen rain and drifted with garbage. I hunched over, hugging myself, my weapons digging into various places, and started to shake.
Someone had Japhrimel in a demon-inscribed circle, with a hellhound pacing its borders. The other voices were demons-nothing human could sound that tinkling and cold. Two voices, sounding almost identical. The Twins. Eve's allies.
That answered two questions. Eve's allies had Japhrimel, and some other faction not loyal to Lucifer was in town too. That meant two groups of demons that had a vested interest in either keeping me alive or simply catching me to make Japh behave. Add that to whoever else Lucifer had sent to catch Eve if she came out of hiding, and there were at least three groups of demons double-dealing and jostling each other in Saint City. And here I was, caught in the middle. It would be a miracle if I could solve the mystery of Gabe's death without getting interrupted by whatever trouble was boiling out of Hell now.
I wiped tears away with the blade-edge of one hand, but more came, welling out my burning eyes and slicking my cheeks. Japhrimel.
Why did he have to go and get himself in trouble just as I had a Mob Family to take down? It was bad fucking timing in the worst way.
What would they do to him? If he could be caught, even if he would eventually escape-which everyone seemed to take for granted-they might be able to hurt him before he did. I didn't think Eve would hurt him willingly, but he might leave her with no choice if he tried to break free and drag her back to Hell. After all, there was Velokel, her lover, who had hunted Fallen and hedaira before. Even if Japh had a demon's Power he was still… vulnerable.
That thought sent wriggling cold panic all the way through me.
Goddammit, Danny! The voice was familiar, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. You're goin' into shock. Get your ass movin'. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe. And for God's sake stop cryin'.
It was Eddie's sotto voce growl, the one he used for sarcasm. Why was I hearing dead men? Didn't I have enough trouble? Maybe it was my subconscious interfering, dangerous for a Magi-trained psion. My control of Power depended on my having a clean psychic house, so to speak; you can't corral and contain magickal force with a scattered mind. Broken concentration sucks away the sorcerous Will.
I scrubbed at the mark on my shoulder through my shirt. Stop it. Stop right this second. No crying, no weakness allowed!
Bit by bit, the unsteady trembling feeling went away. I sniffed and smelled rain, garbage, and demon musk. I'd flooded the alley with my scent, glands working overtime. Had to rein it in. Would another demon be able to track me? My rings swirled with uneasy light, my shields trembling on the edge of crystallizing.
Japhrimel was taken, I was on my own. Things did not look good.
That was how they found me, crouched in the alley and sobbing. But my hand was still closed around the hilt of my sword, and I felt them coming bare seconds before they arrived-enough time for me to make it halfway up the fire escape. Plasbolts raked past me, splashing against standard-magshielded walls, plasglass shattered.
Even the toughest bounty hunter around will run when faced with four police cruisers and a cadre of what appears to be augmented Mob shocktroops. And all for one tired almost-demon.
Chapter 23
I finally lost the last of the police cruisers by plunging into the old Bowery section of the Tank District. It's possible to find almost anything in the Tank, though not as much as you can find in the Great Souk or the Freetowns. The Tank population doesn't take kindly to police. It's a good place to hide, as both Abracadabra and Anwen Carlyle knew.
The Bowery is the very worst part, the cancerous heart of Chill-fed urban blight, and when I was human I hadn't braved it very often. The Tank, yes. The Bowery, no. Not unless I was desperate.
Two of the cruisers had tangled together as they pursued me through the labyrinth of what used to be the National District. I had another piece of good luck when the third misjudged a lane of slicboard traffic and a slic courier shot in front of the bristling cruiser. The cruiser's AI yanked it into a barrel roll to avoid the collision-Hegemony cop cars are all fitted with that sort of control to make highspeed chases less dangerous for civvies. The courier would get dinged with a ticket, but she was still on her board instead of spread over the pavement. And I was long gone. The last cruiser lost me in the Hole.
Back when I'd been human, I'd had my board tuned by Konnie Bazileus at the Heaven's Arms. Occasionally I'd gone into the Hole, honing my skill on a board against the sk8s, couriers, skaheads, and flicsurfers. Jace and I had even done naked-blade slicboard duels, back in the first violent flush of our affair.
Even Hegemony federal marshals don't go into the Hole often. It isn't worth it.
The Hole itself is underground; it used to be a transport well until the last really huge earthquake. The quake ripped apart the central well and opened up a sinkhole underneath, so the walls were a collage of relays, eighty-five-year-old fiberoptic spikes and reactive strips, debris from the buildings overhead crumbling into the sinkhole. The slictribe had moved in and made it even more challenging, building ramps and jumpoffs, spik
es protruding from the walls, deadzones and hoverpatches that made the air move in unsteady swirls just aching to rip a sk8 off a board.
The tangled alleys leading up to the Hole are narrow and sloping, most of them covered by cobbled-together roofs of flimsy plaswood, plasticine, and other scavenged materials. Every once in a while a few teams of Hegemony federal marshals will sweep through the Hole to pick up "criminals," but they never net much. Around the slictribes, if you don't adhere to strict codes you're out. It's all too easy to flip someone off a board and let them fall into the dark well of the Hole. The worst that comes out of here is gang warfare and XTSee for vance parties, and the authorities are more than willing to let that pass as long as the slictribes only kill each other.
I passed like a ghost through the old way into the Hole, my shoulder burning as the last bullet hole closed. The last clutch of Mob troops had actually forced me to stand and fight, peppered with projectile fire. If I'd still been human, I might be dead.
I still wasn't sure I was alive. My clothes were torn and wet with blood, my stomach burned with fierce hunger, and I still felt the last man's neck crack in my hands like plasilica sticks. Only human.
They hadn't sent any psions after me. Only normals. Fragile, vulnerable humans, no matter if they were legally augmented with neurospeeders and muscle spanners.
Dusk was falling. I was going to miss my date with Lucas. Then again, all he would have to do is follow the sirens and listen to whatever lie the holovids were telling, and he'd know I'd had some trouble.
By the time I reached the Hole itself, I had to stop and lean against a sagging plywood shelter that smelled like humans living with chemshowers instead of regular bathrooms. A fair number of skas lived in shacks around the Hole itself, eking out a living on their parents' credit lines while dealing XTSee and bitfox on the side, tuning boards and generally living as they always have.
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