Sam began to fear that paranoia was overtaking him. His landlord might be watching him, but the man didn’t have the initiative to follow a tenant. He would sell any information he could, but he wouldn’t bestir himself to seek it out. And the scavenger was just an old bum, maybe even a survivor of the reeducation camps. If so, he deserved Sam’s sympathy and pity more than his suspicion. Still, Sam was glad he was carrying all his important goods with him. One couldn’t be too careful in a strange city. The landlord might not follow tenants to spy on them, but Sam didn’t think him above entering an apartment and helping himself to anything lying around loose.
Sam shook his head sadly. Such suspicion of people who had done nothing to deserve it wasn’t like him, or so he had once thought. How much he had changed since leaving Renraku. Some of the differences were good. He felt stronger and more capable than ever before and was in better shape, too. But he had grown cynical and continued to do things he would never even have contemplated as little as two years ago. Here he was, a shadowrunning shaman searching for the Ghost Dance Prophet. He wondered what his father would have thought of that. He knew what his mother would have thought. She’d have been horrified. Sometimes Sam thought that was the proper reaction.
Perhaps he was just tired, worn down by lack of sleep or maybe just frustration. He seemed no closer to finding out what had happened to Howling Coyote than when he had arrived in Denver. Tonight’s meeting didn’t look hopeful. The runner he was to meet had done some work for the Sovereign Tribal Council while Coleman was president, but that was nearly fifteen years ago. It was a slim connection at best, not much likely to produce a lead, but he had to try. He had gone through almost all the possibilities Dodger had dug up. No one he’d met would so much as talk about Howling Coyote, not even for a price. Was it some kind of conspiracy to hide the man, or what had happened to him?
Paranoia again. But paranoia was a survival trait in the shadows. Or was it just the first step into madness? Maybe all his fears that his magic was tied to madness were based in fact. There were enough mad things in his life. Like those dreams. Even with his eyes wide open, awake rather than asleep, he could almost hear the baying of the nightmare pursuer.
So why did his scalp itch?
Sam looked the street over. Notfiing seemed out of the ordinary. The scavenger had gone to ground somewhere, and the crowd’s composition was beginning to shift. The sprawling kids had gone, mere leaves blown away before the rising wind of night. A trio of razor-guys in gang colors now occupied one of the tenement stoops. Nothing seemed out of place, yet Sam sensed that something was wrong. He was safely out of the traffic flow, so he leaned back against the wall and shifted his perception to the astral.
What had been hidden from his mundane sight now came clear. Across the street, stalking among the evening sidewalk traffic, a tall, gangly figure moved like a nightmare scarecrow. The being had pointed ears and slanted eyes that blazed with a golden light against his dark skin. Though much like an elf, this being seemed subtly different. Sam felt a strong sense of power fueling the illusion spell in which the elven scarecrow was wrapped.
Flickering astral presences danced around the dark stranger like electrons around a nucleus. When one broke off its orbit to flutter and bounce before its master’s face, Sam knew he had been spotted. The apparition turned its attention to him.
Sam didn’t think he could outdistance the scarecrow’s long legs, and wasn’t prepared to bet he could out-magic the well of power he sensed. He needed help, but he was alone in this city.
The city!
Desperately he searched, calling as he focused his power. He stretched his own abilities, seeking a response from the etheric world around him. There were immediate stirrings, but a coherent response took shape only slowly. Or so it seemed to his shifted perceptions. In the mundane world, the scarecrow had covered but half the block that separated him from Sam.
“Come." he called silently, urgently. “Born of the streets, hear me. Soul in the bones of the buildings, answer my summons.”
An unwonted clarity in Sam’s view of the concrete, stone, and plastics of the environment told him he had been heard.
Though Denver wasn’t Sam’s city, the presence acknowledged him, recognizing his authority as a Dog shaman and therefore a master of the spirits of Man. Still, it was little inclined to do anything for him. Sam asked service of it, demanding that it wrap its essence around the scarecrow and enfold him so that Sam might escape. It yielded to his insistence, and the rush of fresh air that accompanied the spirit’s departure to do Sam’s bidding held the tang of its assent.
Half a block away, the scarecrow was suddenly stopped in his tracks by a collision with another pedestrian, a dwarf. Both hit the ground. The woman immediately picked herself up and loudly cursed the shoddy state of sidewalk repair. The bewildered scarecrow sat with a shocked look on his face, then let out a howl when another passerby trod on his hand as though he wasn’t there. This was followed immediately by a passing dog that seemed to think the seated stranger was a fire hydrant. Raising a leg, the dog marked him. The dark man struck out and the dog skipped away, then lit out as though seeing a ghost.
Good idea. Sam, too, started down the street at a run. People moving toward him saw him coming and got out of his way. He dodged around those going in his own direction. Behind him he could hear the scarecrow’s angry shouts, as he tried to force his way through pedestrian traffic that didn’t seem to know he was there. While many voices exclaimed in surprise and pain, only the dark man’s voice was full of anger. The people he jostled seemed to blame the collisions on their own clumsiness, or on some unseen piece of trash or unnoticed unevenness in the sidewalk. To them, the scarecrow was not there. The gap between Sam and his pursuer widened. Satisfied that the steady stream of rush-hour traffic on West Colfax Avenue would prove a major barrier to the spirit-ridden scarecrow, Sam cut around a corner into an alley.
All the doleful singers of nearly two centuries had failed to imagine how completely a city could alienate a person from those around him.
His relief died as he skidded to a stop.
Four silhouettes blocked his way. A hint of chrome gleamed among night-dark leathers. Razorguys. Two were hulking brutes in long coats with upturned collars and slouch hats that concealed all pertinent information about them. Bulges under their clothing suggested armor, enhancements, and weapons. They were too big to be orks and not broad enough to be trolls. The third was slender as a whip and wore his leathers tight to emphasize his build. His eyes sparkled with chrome reflections as he took three steps to Sam’s left. The group was spread out enough now that he couldn’t watch them all closely without turning his head. The fourth moved from behind the brute on the right, and the glow from newly wakening street lamps revealed that he was not an enhanced bullyboy like the others. What Sam had at first taken for a synthleather duster like the big boys wore was really a fine woolen topcoat of stylish cut. His slouch hat was festooned with magical symbols. Eyes and teeth shone in an entirely natural way from his brown face.
“Wrong turn, chummer. For you, that is. For us, a fortunate turn that should save us significant effort. You have something we want. There’ll be no trouble if you’re bright about it.”
Recognition was as shocking as the ambush. Sam had seen this mage before. “I know you. You’re Harry Masamba.”
The black man frowned. “No. Not bright at all.”
Sam recognized the reaction for the sentence it was. He spun and sprinted back toward the corner. From the way his response had caught them off guard, Sam knew the razorguys must have been expecting him to passively submit to their overwhelming superiority. A bullet chipped some concrete off the corner of the building, fragments pelting the back of Sam’s jacket as he made the turn onto West Colfax. A pedestrian, caught by one of the bullets meant for Sam, tumbled over backward, spraying blood. A moment later it would have been Sam.
Sam raced down the sidewalk less carefully than before
. He crashed into people and left a swirling mass of shouts behind him. Masamba’s voice cut through the street noise. The mage had magically enhanced it, no doubt.
“Murderer!” the voice shouted. “The Anglo just shot him! Filthy white dog! Catch him, somebody! Call the police!”
Sam risked a glance back as he rounded the nearest corner. The slim razorguy was hustling toward him through the crowd, but the trench-coated pair was nowhere in sight. Masamba leaned against the alley mouth, laughing.
What in hell was going on?
23
Sam ducked into a doorway. His chances of outrunning the razorguy were so slim that he could have slid them between mortared bricks. And that was exactly what he’d have liked to do with himself. He needed time to think, to figure out what was going on. Time he wouldn’t have if the razorguy caught him.
As if the thought had called the razorguy, the man took the corner from West Colfax in a controlled run. He halted, head turning in search of the man he sought. Boiling after him, a group of angry citizens also rounded the corner, splitting around his immobility like a wave around a rock. Sam froze, willing the samurai not to see, but he had never gotten the hang of an invisibility spell. The mob rushed past. The razorguy followed them slowly, as though sensing his prey hidden somewhere nearby. He advanced up the street, checking possible hiding places with brief but thorough efficiency. It was only a matter of time before he would reach the doorway where Sam stood, and then it would be over. Sam didn’t know what sort of building sheltered him, but any refuge was better than none. He tried the door. Locked, and he didn’t know any unlocking spells.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been trapped and needed to become invisible. Distraction had worked almost as well then. Masamba had given him a way out. Sam concentrated, trying to calm his breathing enough to focus on the spell. Even if he completed it, the razorguy might not fall for his illusion. Forcing that worry away, Sam fought his panting into a regular rhythm and concentrated on the effect he wanted to achieve.
Voices erupted down the street, a hue and cry for the fleeing shooter. It sounded as though the mob Masamba tried to incite had found the man they sought and were pursuing him. The razorguy looked up, considering the tumult. Then he ran toward the noise. He passed Sam’s hiding place without even a glance into the shadows.
Sirens wailed as a police car flashed through the intersection, headed for the alley where the pedestrian had been shot. Someone had listened to Masamba’s exhortation and called the police. Maybe the mage had done it himself. Either way Sam was in trouble. In a matter of minutes, the police would have his description. Or would they? Would Masamba want Sam taken up by the police? One way or the other, Sam definitely wasn’t in favor of letting the local badges have him off.
Trying to get out of the Ute zone to reach Hart’s safehouse in the Pueblo zone was too risky now. This close to the border there would be patrols on the adjacent streets. Not much shadow traffic would cross the border tonight. If Sam knew the city better, he might have been able to guess at which likely points the patrols would light and where it might still be safe to cross. Going over at a checkpoint was out of the question. If the police had his description, his false identities wouldn’t be good enough. For tonight at least, he was stuck in the Ute zone.
He realized how poor was his knowledge of the city. And how poorly equipped he was to deal with the level of threat hot on his heels.
Well, there was one sort of help you could buy with minimal questions, and no worry about former loyalties. Mr. Smith and his friends might not be good traveling company right now, but they’d easily stand a friend to some protection. It took Sam an hour to find a gun shop. The neon sign’s “1” was out, making the name look to be “Weapon Wor d.” The outer screen was down over the display window, but the place was open.
So he had changed. Here he was, contemplating buying lethal weaponry. Well, his world had changed, too. Sam didn’t know why these people were after him, but it was obvious they were prepared to play rough. Alone in the city, he needed some way to even the odds. With so many foes, guns seemed the only answer.
A bum accosted Sam at the door of the shop, more proof that the Ute social system wasn’t as egalitarian as its propaganda claimed. Here was another old, discarded remnant of the Ute tribe. He wore a battered black reservation hat sporting an equally battered turkey feather. The rest of his clothes were concealed under a dirty, multi-hued serape, and he bottle of cheap booze and accumulated grime and filth. His wheezy voice was full of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm.
“Need a guide, Anglo? Can’t do better than me. Honest Injun. Hey hey, get the joke. I know the best places. Ute Council. Pueblo, too. Know all the best hunting, best lodges. Girls, too. What ya hunting, Anglo? Elk, buffalo? Or ya into the paranormal? Hey hey. I’ll help ya find it.”
Sam removed the unwashed hand gripping his sleeve. “I’m not a hunter. Try somebody else.”
“Still need a guide. I been—”
The bum’s protest was cut off as the outer door closed behind Sam. He waited while the scanner noted his weapons and the proprietor gave him the onceover. A click signaled that the inner door was unlocked. Sam entered and headed for the counter. As he walked, he glanced around, noting that he was the only customer. Just as well. The fewer people to deal with, the fewer might recognize him. Maybe the slow business would make the owner more receptive to a deal.
As it turned out business had been slow all day, and the surly owner was in no mood for deals. Sam transferred more than he thought fair for the weapons, but didn’t complain. Uncomfortably, he accepted the Glock 7-mm Hideaway and the Sandler submachine gun. The shopkeeper was handing over the two boxes of ammo when he suddenly went rigid and his eyes took on a glassy look.
Sam had felt the spell wash over him, and didn’t need to turn around to know that trouble had found him. He hadn’t heard the door, so the spell-caster wasn’t inside yet. Hoping his body shielded the action, he opened the box of 9-mm ammo for the Sandler and grabbed a handful of bullets. He couldn’t unsling the Sandler without revealing that he had not succumbed to the paralyzing spell. If he could get a minute under cover, though . . .
A reflection in one of the display cases behind the counter showed him his hunter. The scarecrow elf had tracked him here. The door opened to admit him as if automatically controlled. Sam spun to face him, and was disheartened that the elf didn’t appear the least astonished.
So much for the advantage of surprise.
“Don’t look so disappointed, Verner. After the trouble I had banishing the city spirit you set on me, I did not expect you to succumb to so small a magic.” The elf held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“You seem to know me, chummer, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The elf unleashed a sigh that could have passed for a growl. “I have no time to waste.”
Sam didn’t need to sense the power gathering around the elf to know what was coming. He dove for the floor as a fireball sizzled through the air. It engulfed the shopkeeper, who stood motionless as the flames blackened his flesh and ignited his clothes, melting their synthetic fibers into his shriveling skin. Sam felt the heat of the sudden conflagration as he crawled behind the meager cover offered by the stock shelves. Flames hissed, but the dying man made no scream of pain. Sam hoped the poor man’s nerves were as paralyzed as his body.
The fire set off the automatic alarm, and the sprinkler system spurted to fitful life.
“Bad move, chummer." Sam shouted. Feverishly he fumbled the magazine out of the Sandler. “Alarm’s going off at the local police and fire stations. Place like this has direct connections. Too much fire hazard.”
The elf’s answer was another fireball. Sam’s protection erupted in flames, then began to topple toward him. He rolled away, barely escaping being buried in the falling merchandise. In his haste, he lost the magazine. He cursed. The Sandler would be of no more use than a club, and he was exposed now. Scrambling to h
is feet, he ran for the door.
He never made it.
In a whirlwind of orange and yellow fire, he was picked up bodily and thrown through the disintegrating display window. Glassy teeth tore at him, shredding clothes and flesh with equal ease. In a shower of fragments, he landed on the cold sidewalk outside the shop. His shoulder was numb, his face a stinging mass of scrapes and cuts, and one eye was blinded by flowing blood. He had lost a boot and most of his pants, but he was still alive. His magic had saved him from the flames.
The bum was still there. Faintly, Sam could hear him clapping.
“Hey hey, good show.”
Sam was not amused.
The scarecrow elf stepped through the window. His curly hair was matted from the water and his clothes dripped, but he seemed unaffected by his physical state. As soon as he saw Sam sprawled on the sidewalk, he smiled. “No more running, Verner. Time to die.”
A shadow danced between Sam and the hunter. The bum.
“Can’t do that." he objected. “The Anglo’s mine. You want somebody, you go find your own. I’ve got magic too, elf. I’m the wind of the desert and I’ll blow you away.”
The bum waved his arms wildly. His serape undulated and flapped, but nothing else happened.
The elf sneered. “Wind? You’re nothing but hot air, old man, while I am truly Rock. And if you do not take your pestiferous hide away, I will grind you to less than nothing. This matter does not concern you.”
Before the elf could make good his promise, the roar of gunshots ripped the night. Staggering backward, he caught his heel against the sill of the display window, then fell heavily into the shop with a resounding crash.
The old bum stared down the street. Sam followed his gaze and saw the slim razorguy racing toward them.
Looming out of the dark behind that one came the twin bulks of the other two muscleguys.
More trouble. At least Sam knew now that the scarecrow and Masamba were not working together. He pushed himself up on one elbow but his head spun and slumped under the lash of pain that made his head spin. Looked like this round was going to the bad guys.
Find Your Own Truth Page 15
