The Devil's Right Hand dv-3

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I blew out through my teeth. Held the scabbard in my left hand, resting it along my forearm to act as a shield. The sword kept moving, painting the air with blue flame. I learned long ago not to keep the blade still when sparring with him, he could take it away easier if I did.

  We circled, Japhrimel’s boots soundless, mine shushing, his hands actually, maddeningly, clasped behind his back again. His eyes burned green. His face wasn’t set or angry. The only expression I could decipher was indifference with the faintest trace of amusement, his combat mask. Anger rose, tightly reined in and stuffed to the back of my mind. If I got angry this would be over far too soon.

  I didn’t want that. I needed to work this off, get the poison of adrenaline out of my system so I could think again.

  I moved in on him, slashing and feinting, he melted away from each strike with impossible grace. His hand blurred, his claws nearly tearing the sword from my grip. A loud clang shot through the air, sparks spraying from my rings as our shields locked together, a psychic engagement as well as a physical one.

  He’d never done that before either.

  My throat went dry. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

  “You’re holding back,” he said quietly. “Come at me, Dante. You feel I betrayed you in some fashion. Make me pay for it.”

  It didn’t sting that he was right about my holding back—but it did sting that he guessed I wanted him to pay.

  I should have come alone and contracted a cage. Or taken a slicboard. Goddammit.

  I used to love slicboarding, especially after a Necromance job. But Japhrimel didn’t like it when I was on a board; it would be too easy to tip me off and since I had the mark, he said, it would be uncomfortable for him if I died or was injured.

  I wondered just how uncomfortable.

  I showed my teeth, a feral smile. “I just want to spar, Japhrimel.” It wasn’t precisely a lie—I had thought that was all I wanted until I got here and realized just how furious I still was.

  “Then spar. You are wasting time.”

  “Oh, do I bore you?” My voice rose, took on an edge as he batted the sword away again. It doubled back on itself, hilt floating up, I cut overhand and struck with the scabbard in my left hand at the same time. He slid away from both strikes and we went back to circling, my breath beginning to come deep and fast. “I bore you. Maybe you want something more interesting—a nice little Androgyne copy of Lucifer to keep you warm instead?”

  Even I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  The only warning I got was Japhrimel’s eyes narrowing before he blurred toward me, and I saw the bright lengths of knives reversed along both forearms. He’d gone to blades without warning me.

  Another first. Well, wasn’t this a day for surprises.

  Knife-work is close and dirty, and his speed and strength gave him an edge. But my katana kept him just out of reach, scabbard flickering in to dart at eyes or to smack at his wrist; wall coming up fast and I was losing ground, giving way under the slashes. Parried a strike, metal ringing, hurt like hell and would have broken a human’s arm, my sword followed the path laid out in front of it, blurred up in a solid arc and we separated, Power crackling as he pushed at me and I shunted the energy aside.

  A thin line of black blood kissed his cheek before it sank in, sealing away the wound, golden skin closing over itself. Perfect. Flawless.

  I had rarely been able to touch him, before. Was anger giving me speed to match his? If so, it wouldn’t last.

  I backed up at an angle to give myself more room. My sword-tip moved in precise little circles.

  “You see?” Japhrimel said, both knives laid along his forearms, left arm in guard position, right hand held oddly, low and to the side. “I even let you wound me.” His voice stroked along the edge of my defenses, a physical weight. I was overmatched and I knew it. He had too much damn speed. I was harder to kill now that I was hedaira—but I was no match for a Greater Flight demon.

  Not even one that was being kind about it.

  Fuck that. I licked my dry lips. I killed Santino.

  But Santino had only been a Lesser Flight demon, brought to bay by Japhrimel. Killing him had almost crippled me.

  Almost killed me.

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I spat, and moved in on him.

  Speed. Pure speed. Sword flashing, clanging off knifeblades, heard Jado’s voice yet again. No think! Move! Scabbard ripped out of my hand, my wrist momentarily numb, sword whistling as I slashed in return and caught air, ducking under his arm and striking in, forcing him back.

  My left hand closed around my katana’s hilt under my right, my ribs flaring with deep breaths. We circled again. I don’t usually fight with two hands on my sword—being smaller than most mercenaries meant I was at a distinct weight disadvantage while I was fully human. So I trained to use every ounce of speed I could get as well as the defensive measure of my scabbard.

  But since I’d lost the scabbard and gained some demon strength I might as well make every stroke count.

  He darted in, I took the only move I had at that point, leaping back like a cat avoiding a snake’s lunge, sword streaking blue fire, chiming against a knifeblade, whipping down with all my weight and speed behind it in a solid silver arc. He faded away from under the strike then came back, slashing for me, my boots landed on the shockgel. Parried one strike, coiled myself, and leapt.

  Tumbling, boots thocking down again, whirling to ward off another strike, now I had the entire length of the warehouse to retreat before I had to think of something good.

  Breath coming tearing-hard, body alive and crackling, smashing aside a stroke of Power along the front of my shields. Adrenaline singing, clatter of metal against metal, his eyes narrowed and glowing behind the silver gleams of knifeblades streaking the air. One slash after another, each one just barely batted aside, giving ground but making him work for it, every single inch he gained paid for with effort. His shields locked with mine, shoving, an engagement no less psychic than physical. The entire Freetown could have gone up in reaction fire and I wouldn’t have noticed, my entire world narrowing to the man in front of me with his knives and his habit of fading away under my strikes.

  The idea came, laid inside my brain like a gift. I didn’t hesitate. Breathing harsh, feet stamping the shockgel, I blurred forward. The kia rose from the very depths of me, a scream of rage and despair lifting from a smoking destroyed part of me, metal clashing and shivering and I slashed, he ducked—

  — and my blade tore through the air as my foot stamped down again, following unerringly the path of his retreat, and kissed his throat.

  Just as his knifeblade blurred in and touched my own pulse beating high and wild and frantic in my neck.

  I stared at him, his eyes glowing green. A single trickle of black blood eased down from the corner of his mouth. He’d bitten his bottom lip, sharp teeth sinking in. Oddly enough, that made me feel like I’d won.

  His aura wrapped around mine, enclosing me. The mark on my shoulder flared to life, burning through layers of shielding, my body tensing.

  Ready to push the blade home.

  The bright length of my katana rose over his shoulder, the razor edge about five inches from the hilt against his tough golden skin. I could fall backward away from his knife and slash, twisting my wrist through the suction of muscle.

  I could.

  “Give?” I asked, without any hope that he would.

  “Of course,” he answered without hesitation, his eyes locked with mine. “Anything you want, hedaira.”

  I felt a second prickle. His right-hand knife, against my floating rib. He could open my belly with a flick of his wrist.

  He’d won.

  Then why had he conceded?

  The knives vanished. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at me, my blade still tucked under his chin. My hand shook slightly. I could push the steel in, step forward and twist, all momentum boiling down to one simple, undeniable movement.
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  I was no longer bloodthirsty enough to do it.

  I took a step back. Coughed rackingly. My throat was dry. I could feel the back of my neck crawling. “Why do you make this so hard?”

  “I will do what I must to protect you,” he answered, inflexibly.

  “Even if it means losing me?” Like there was any way in hell I was going to walk away from him. I was in too deep, and I knew it.

  He smiled, the amused tender expression that made my breath catch. “We have nothing but time, my curious one.”

  It didn’t satisfy me. My sword lowered, rose into second guard. I examined him. He tilted his chin up slightly, a subtle movement. Offering his throat.

  The air was hot and still. I barely noticed the other psions against the walls, shields gone crystalline, the perfume of human awe and fear staining the air. Even other psions were afraid of me. Or afraid of Japhrimel first, and me only by association.

  The blade blurred as I reversed the katana, dropping the tip and ending the movement with the blade tucked behind my arm, blunt edge against my shirt and the hilt clasped in my hand. I wasn’t sweating—demons don’t sweat and neither do hedaira without a lot of effort—but my ribs flickered with deep heaving breaths and my entire body hummed like a reactive mill. But I felt oddly cleansed. I’d got what I wanted, after all.

  “We have demons to hunt.” Now his voice was back to flat, with a tinge of… what? Gentleness? Pity?

  No, not pity. Didn’t he know how I hated pity? I would call it gentleness, from him.

  I swallowed dryly. “Four demons. Then what?”

  “Then we see what pleasures the world holds for us. Seven years is not so long.”

  Not for you, maybe. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I wasn’t holding out any particular hope.

  He shrugged, a fluid movement. I hate demons’ shrugging. His coat ruffled a little, his wings settling completely.

  I shook myself, like an animal shedding water. Blew my hair out of my eyes. “We’d better get back.”

  He nodded. I cast a glance around the sparhall.

  The light had changed slightly. I met the human eyes locked on us. Bright eyes, accreditation tats shifting on human cheeks of every shade. Then I saw the other Necromance.

  He leaned against the wall, his dark hair slicked back with sweat, unshaven cheeks hollow. Dark eyes over high balanced cheekbones. His tat was circular, thorns twisting in a yin-yang symbol; his emerald sparked a greeting and my cheek burned, answering it.

  He nodded, lifted his left hand. He carried a katana too. He wore a Trade Bargains shirt over the tank top he’d been working the heavy bag in, and his boots were scarred from long use. He looked faintly familiar, but I’d never worked with him. I couldn’t quite place the face, which was a first for my Magi-trained memory. Everything about him shouted “bounty hunter.”

  The nod was an invitation to spar.

  I felt my eyebrows rise. Looked at Japhrimel, who had gone utterly still. “I think someone else wants a match with me.”

  “Be careful.” His eyelids dropped fractionally. Did he look angry? Why?

  The mark on my shoulder flared suddenly, heat rising to my cheeks. “I think I’m done.” I lifted my sword and my right fist, bowed correctly to the Necromance, honoring him and respectfully refusing his offer. “We’ve got work to do, anyway.”

  Then I turned on my heel and stalked away from all of them. Sparring was supposed to make me feel better—and I did. Clearer, cleaner, with the fidgets worked out. But most of what I felt was something hot and deep and squirming behind my breastbone.

  It was shame. For a moment I’d thought of hurting him, and he’d offered his throat to the blade. Made himself vulnerable to me.

  How could I have doubted him?

  Chapter 24

  Japhrimel said nothing as we hit the street outside. Rainy sunlight still fell down, but darker clouds were rolling and massing; I smelled wet heaviness riding the air. That was worth a nose-wrinkle, and I wondered if another storm was moving in. I walked with my head down and my left hand holding my sword, my eyes fixed on the pavement and only occasionally lifting to check the crowd and the sky above.

  Urban dwellers learn quickly to be peripherally aware of hover and slic traffic. Practically all Freetowns have realtime AI traffic controllers just like Hegemony and Putchkin cities. Freetown New Prague was no exception. The distinct swirls of hover traffic with slicboards buzzing in between were almost complex enough to use for divination.

  The thought of hovertraffic divination made me smile. I glanced up again, my eyes tracking the patterns, my nape tingling.

  Why was I so uneasy?

  This is too easy. If there’s a demon in New Prague who knows I’m here, why hasn’t he thrown everything but the kitchen sink at me? Just a lone imp and one attack in a ruined building doesn’t qualify as a real battle. Either he’s more frightened of me than is possible… or he’s laying plans.

  Another, more interesting thought occurred to me. Why would Lucifer bargain to have me as his official Right Hand and not Japhrimel? What purpose did that serve?

  Maybe the sparring was what I needed to shake my thoughts loose. I cast around for a likely place and saw a noodle shop, its door half-open.

  Lunch and some heavy thinking. I ducked out into the street, dodging a swarm of pedicabs. There was some streetside hover traffic too, but the hovers were in a crush of pedicabs and people and had to move at a creep, anti-grav rattling and whining, buffeting people out of the way.

  Making it across the street in one piece, I slid into the noodle shop. The smell of cooking meat and hot broth rose around me; I had made it almost to the counter when Japhrimel’s hand closed around my upper arm.

  “This is unwise,” he said. I hadn’t quite forgotten he was with me, but I was so deep in thought I hadn’t even spoken to him. Taking it for granted he would follow me, understanding my need for serious contemplation of this problem.

  I set my jaw. “I’m hungry, and I need to think.” My tone was sharp enough to cut glass. “Something about this smells.”

  Amazingly, he smiled. “Now this is revealed to you?”

  I swear, he could sound caustic as carbolic when he wanted to. I scanned the interior of the noodle shop—plascovered booths, the counter with three Asiano normals behind it, two staring at me and another one chopping little bits of something that smelled like imitation crabmeat. Holostills of Asiano holovid stars hung on the walls. The ubiquitous altar to ancestors sat near the front door with a small plashing antigrav fountain floating above it, coins shimmering underwater in its plasilica bulb just like miniature cloned koi.

  “You’re getting testy.” I tried not to smile. The jitter of adrenaline bloodlust was gone, I felt like a new woman.

  He gave a liquid shrug. I hate a demon’s shrug; it usually means he won’t answer your questions anyway. “I will not deny a certain frustration.”

  You’re not the only one. I indicated a booth with a flick of my swordhilt. “Fine. Sit, eat, talk, relax. Just like old times, right?”

  He shrugged. Again. “We should go back to the hotel.”

  “Not only do I hate the goddamn elevator, but all someone has to do is drive a hover through the windows and there goes our entire team,” I said acidly. “We should go to ground. Somewhere safer, and somewhere without a goddamn elevator.”

  At least he didn’t immediately disagree. A curious expression crossed his face, half thoughtful, half admiring. “Where?”

  I slid into the booth. “The red-light district. Enough static and interference to hide most of our team—except for you and me. And that’s where a demon’s going to do his recruiting if he’s fresh out of Hell and needs human hands. Ergo, it’s where we’re going to hear the most whispers and gossip.”

  Japhrimel slid into the seat across from me. His back was to the door, mine to the back of the restaurant—as usual. We had fallen into that habit during the hunt for Santino, him courteously a
llowing me to put my back to the wall. My eyes flicked over his shoulder and checked the front window. People passing by, the soft roar of a crowd of normals, the staticky heartbeat of the city. New Prague smelled like pedicab sweat and paprikash, a spicy unique smell tainted with stone and the effluvia of centuries of human living. With a dash of burning cinnamon over the top of it.

  The smell of burning cinnamon was demon. Two demons and a hedaira in a city, and the whole place started to smell. Something about that bothered me, but I couldn’t quite wrap my mental lips around what.

  It’ll probably come back to bite me in the ass pretty soon. I should have told Lucifer to go fuck himself again. Should have told him that and taken my chances the first time.

  It was empty bravado. I’d needed revenge on Santino, I couldn’t have walked away from the deal even if I could by some miracle have fought off Japhrimel, Lucifer, and the rest of Hell and made my way back to my own world.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “Lucas is one of our biggest assets, and he’s best on the shadow side—has a lot of connections. I’ve also got a nasty thought, Japh. Why isn’t this demon throwing everything but the kitchen sink at me? And why did Lucifer ask for me to be his Right Hand instead of you? You’re the one he can count on here.”

  One of the Asianos came to the table. She bobbed her dark head, smiling at Japhrimel and casting a little sidelong glance at me.

  He ordered in a clicking tongue that sounded like Old Manchu. I frowned at the shiny plasilica tabletop, tapping my right-hand fingernails with little insectile ticking sounds. The problem boiled and bubbled away under the conscious surface of my mind, sooner or later I’d hit the answer. Half of any problem, especially for a psion, is simply trusting intuition to do its work.

  Of course, sometimes intuition only kicks in too god-damn late and you figure everything out as you’re neck-deep in quicksand. I winced inwardly at the thought.