Lilith Saintcrow, page 1
Coming Home
Lilith Saintcrow
Even a magus raised by a demon might have a little trouble with this. Liana Spocarelli’s hand locked around the doorknob, her other hand cramped tight around the katana’s scabbard. “What the hell do you want?
The Nichtvren on her porch – a tall, deceptively slight male with a shock of dirty blond hair and the face of a celluloid angel – tilted his head slowly, his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. His aura was the deep, deliciously wicked fume of colourless Power that meant not-so-human, without the pleasant edge of spice attached to so many of her childhood memories.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, cherie,” Tiens said quietly. His suit, as always, was wrinkled, rumpled and pristinely white. “May I come in?”
“No, you may not.” Liana let go of the doorknob. “Go suck on some virgins or something. Leave me alone.”
Behind him, the night breathed, redolent with rain and cold metal, the edge of radioactive damp that meant Saint City.
Home. And here she was, all the way across the city from any house that was hers. Specks of hovercraft glow danced overhead, a river of fireflies.
“La Belle Morte, ta mere, said I should not come.”
Well now, isn’t that special. Since she can’t leave me alone, she tells you to. Her cheeks burned, the clawed triple-circle tattoo moving and tingling in response to the weight of Power covering him. Nichtvren night-hunting masters: the top of the paranormal food chain – except for demons.
Always except for demons. Liana’s arm loosened, dangling her sword. “How’s Jaf?” The irony of inquiring about the wellbeing of a Fallen demon didn’t escape her.
“M’sieu is well. He also said I should not come. He said my welcome would be uncertain at best.” Tiens’ thin lips curved into a smile, his eyes gas-flame blue holes in the dimness. The single bulb on her porch was deliberately weak; a bright light would disturb her night vision.
Besides, she hadn’t got round to changing it.
“I wouldn’t call it uncertain, Tiens. I’d call it nonexistent. I repeat, what the ever-loving hell do you want?”
“Your help, petite sorciere.” The smile dropped as quickly as it had bloomed, and he was once again the familiar Tiens of her childhood, ageless and accessible at once, the object of her painful schoolgirl crush and the last broken heart she’d ever allowed herself. “I have a death I must achieve.”
Her entire body went cold. “I’m no contract killer, Tiens. Go ask Dante, I’m sure she’ll be more than helpful. Goodnight.” She stepped back, sweeping the door closed, and wasn’t surprised when he put up one elegant hand. The heavy iron door stopped cold, as if it had met a brick wall.
“She cannot interfere, and neither can M’sieu. I need you, Liana.”
“Go away.” She retreated two steps, realized her mistake, but by then he was already in the hall. “I didn’t invite you in.”
“When have you ever left me on the cold doorstep?” If he meant it whimsically, he must have realized it was a mistake. The air stilled, and she realized any other psion in her place would be utterly nervous to have a Nichtvren in her hallway.
“I thought you bloodsucking maniacs couldn’t cross a threshold without an invitation,” she returned, as coldly as her hammering heart would allow. She turned on her bare heel and headed for the kitchen. Her right hand itched for the hilt, but there was a plasgun under the counter that would serve better. Habit and instinct sent her hand to the sword most times, probably the result of growing up in a house where katana was a metaphor for any combat, any honour, any guilt. Dante’s standard response for any problem was to slice it in half.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, as far as Liana could see.
“Liana.” He tried again. “I am … sorry. I did not mean to wound you.”
But you did. That was uncharitable, however, and worse untrue. He had simply, kindly, refused her, because she was too young and human besides. Only human. Even if she was a combat-trained magi.
God, how I wish I was something else. Even a sex witch would be better than this. “Shut the door, Tiens. And make sure you’re on the other side of it.”
“I have asked for your help, petite. I am desperate.” He even sounded the part, his usually melodious voice suddenly ragged. “I will beg, of it pleases you.”
Liana shut her eyes, put out her right hand, and touched the wall. It thrummed under her fingers, the house’s defences humming along as if a Nichtvren hadn’t stepped right through them. Of course, he knew her work and, if she had to be honest, she hadn’t really wanted to keep him out, had she?”
“It’s not even me you want.” Her throat was dry, the words a harsh croak. “It’s the glove.”
He drew in a breath to speak – and wasn’t that a joke, because Nichtvren didn’t need to breathe. They only did it when they needed to seduce someone into something. Liana shook her head. The sword in her left hand made a faint noise through its scabbard, a high, thin note as her distress communicated itself through the metal.
This is your honour, Liana. It must never touch the ground.
“Don’t bother lying to me again, Tiens.” Even to herself she sounded strange. “Just shut the goddamn door. I’m going to make some tea.” She took an experimental step. All her appendages seemed to be working just fine. “When you’re ready, come into the kitchen and tell me who you want me to kill.”
“She arrives on a private transport, midnight tomorrow. Nikolai cannot interfere, as I am not his vassal.” Tiens stared into the blue mug full of hibiscus tea – astringent enough that a Nichtvren could drink it without severe stomach cramps, red enough that it could be pale blood. Still hr merely inhaled its fragrance and watched her with those blue, blue eyes.
“What about Jaf? Can’t he make her go away?”
“He has … other worries.”
Story of my life. Worries other than us petty mortals. He’s busy keeping Dante from chewing at her cage or her own wrists, busy keeping the Tithe back from Saint City, busy dealing with the Hegemony’s demands. Busy, busy, busy. “Which don’t include taking care of you right now?”
“I have not asked, Liana. M’sieu has enough problems.” He frowned, every line on his face drawn for aesthetic effect.
“So why do you want to kill this Amelie, anyway?” Liana tapped her bitten fingernails against the counter. This city was too cold. She’d fled south as soon as she’d finished her Academy schooling and never looked back.
Right. Never looked back. That’s why I’m here now.
His blue, blue eyes tilted up, and there was a shadow in them she didn’t care to name. “She is my Maker. And she has come to reclaim me, or to make trouble for M’sieu. Either way, she must be dealt with. And where else can I turn if not to you?”
Not fair. So not fair. But Liana’s fingers tightened and a flush rose on her throat. “She’s your Maker, so you can’t attack her. How in the hell am I supposed to –”
“I can distract her by fighting her command. I am old and a Master in my own right, petite. I will keep her occupied, you take her head and free me. Easy, no?”
“Nothing’s ever easy,” Liana muttered. I sound like Dante. Well, I should, she raised me. “How the hell am I supposed to kill a Nichtvren? I’m mortal, Tiens. As you reminded me until you were blue in the face.”
“Separate her head from her body. It will not be so hard.” He paused, as if there was more to say.
Liana sighed, rolled her head back on her shoulders, easing the tension creeping up her neck. “You want me to risk my neck decapitating your Master. Why should I?”
“There is no other I would trust.” He didn’t give her a wide-eyed, dewy, innocent stare, but the way he dropped his gaze into his tea was almost as bad. Liana half expected to hear a splash. “You would grind my heart to powder if you could, and I do not blame you. Betrayal, however, is not in your nature.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you. “You can go away now, Tiens. Come back tomorrow at dusk and I’ll let you know.”
“Not now?”
“You told me to wait once. I’m returning the favour.” She stared at her sunny yellow mug against the scratched and gouged countertop. “One question, though. How did you find me?”
“If I must wait for your answer, you may wait for mine on that score.” Tiens eased off the stool, soundlessly touching the scarred linoleum. This place was a wreck, and Liana was briefly, hotly ashamed. But it was cheap, and she’d thought nobody would notice she was home, back in the bad old cradle.
Guess I was wrong about that, wasn’t I? “Fine. Close the door on your way out.”
She listened as he paced down the hall, his feet deliberately making noise for her benefit. With her eyes closed, she could see his aura as well, the disciplined, deliciously wicked-smelling glow of a night-hunting predator. They were machines built for seduction and power, the suckheads. For a moment a roaring rose in her ears, the body’s instinctive response to something inimical to its survival.
Like a sheep trembling at the smell of a wolf.
The front door opened, closed and the shields over the house – carefully laid, but not strong enough to put out a huge neon sign screamed HERE I AM, COME TAKE A LOOK! – resonated as his aura stroked them, once: an intimate caress. Then he was gone, vanished into the pall of night covering Saint City, perhaps a little shimmer hanging in the air as he performed the ‘don’t look here’ trick Nichtvren were famous for.
Liana opened her eyes,
Not like a heart, or a dreaming mind, or the hint of spice in an aura that made you a magus instead of a necromancer or even a shaman. Not like an accident of genetics that made you liable to snap Hegemony Enforcement inspections or the hatred of normals.
Her right hand crept towards the blue mug, curled around its heat, almost scorching her fingers. She lifted it to her lips, rested them for a moment where his would have rested if he’d bothered to drink even a single sip.
I could toss this on the floor. Throw it through the window. But then I’d have to clean up.
She settled for sliding off her stool, stalking to the sink and pouring the liquid away. The tea bag landed, red as a blood clot, with a plop. She opened her fingers, let the mug drop and wished immediately that she’d thrown it.
An old-fashioned, chunky plastic vidphone hung on the wall, and she picked up the handset. She dialled a number burned into her memory, hoping he would answer.
There were two rings, a click and silence. Whether it was him listening or a machine taking messages was anyone’s guess.
“It’s me,” she said into the black mouthpiece, staring at the ‘Video Disabled’ flashing across the screen. “I’m home. I need you.”
And before he could reply – if he was there – she disconnected.
The tower, downtown on Seventh, had a shielding so powerful it was almost in the visible spectrum, moving in lazy swirls, the black-diamond fire demon’s Power resonating with the flux of ambient energy. There was a keypad, a slot for a credit card disc and retinal scan, but even before she pressed her ring finger onto the keypad the shielding had changed, tautened with attention and expanded a few feet to tingle on her shoulders and the roots of her hair. The door slid aside before she even finished keying in her personal code.
She stepped through and into a lift, felt claustrophobia touch her throat briefly. She dispelled it. Her scalp itched. I’ll be damned it I clean up or dress to visit her. She hadn’t changed since arriving by freight hover two days ago.
Sackcloth and ashes, anyone?
The lift was high-speed, and even though it was pressurized her ears popped a few times as it ascended. The building looked so slim and graceful from the outside, it was easy to forget just how big it was, and how much was said by its construction. Saint City was one of a handful of places that hadn’t been affected by the first Tithe, when the mouths of Hell opened and madness poured out. A twentieth of the Hegemony population had died, either that night or in the week following, when the citizens of Hell hunted at their leisure or simply, merely, drove the normals to suicide or insanity. Magi had died in droves trying to drive them off, other psions had died trying to protect Hegemony troops or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had been even worse in the Putchkin Alliance, the chaos, reaching global proportions before suddenly, inexplicably, waning. All was well for seven years … and then the mouths of Hell gaped again.
Liana had been nineteen that second time, and she remembered the Hegemony ambassadors coming to her mother. This city hasn’t been affected by the Tithe. Why?
And Dante’s reply. You know better than I do, you supercilious jackasses. Come in and ask him what you’ve come to ask.
The lift chimed and halted, chimed again, and the doors slid open. The familiar entry hall – white floor, white walls, a restrained Berscardi print hanging over a neo-Deco table of white enamel – swallowed her whole. Her whole head itched, long dark hair matted and hanging lank, and she was sure her clothes were none-too fresh, despite the antibacterium impregnating the micro fibre explorer’s shirt and the leather-patched jeans. The non-slip soles of her boots squeaked slightly, echoed by the faint sound as the double doors at the end of the hall swung open.
Grey, rainy, winter light poured through, glowing mellow on a wooden floor. The sparring-space was huge, cavernous and walled with mirrors on one side and bullet proof tinted plasglass on the other. A ballet barre was bolted to the mirrored side, varnished with use and wax, and a slim shape in loose black silk with long, slightly curling dark hair stood precisely placed, her back to the door, the golden tint to her hands clearly visible.
Dante Valentine turned and regarded her foster-child. The same sharp, hurtful, intelligent wariness in dark liquid eyes, the same high cheekbones and sweet, sinful mouth pulled tight in an iron half-smile, the same tensile grace to her shoulders and her left hand holding a long, curved shape. The emerald set in Dante’s cheek spat a single welcoming green spark over her tat, a winged caduceus that ran under her skin. Liana’s own tattoo betrayed her, ink prickling with diamond feet in her flesh, answering. The ring tightened, green swirling in its depths before it relaxed into dead darkness again.
They regarded each other, and Liana felt herself bulge shapelessly like a blob of reactive paint in zero gravity. You’re the very image of your mother, Dante had said over and over again. She was so beautiful. And each time, Liana flinched. She hated being the image of a dead woman she couldn’t remember even with the holostills of her precise little smile and dark hair. She wanted to be as pretty as her foster-mother, the most famous necromance in the world. The woman who had raised her, the woman whose demon had played with her for hours in the long dim time of Liana’s childhood.
As usual, Liana’s nerve broke first. “The prodigal returns.” Her tone was a challenge, and she winced inwardly as Dante’s shoulders hitched slightly, as if bracing herself for a blow.
“I’ve never known you to waste much, Lia. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“A thief in the night.” Ask me what I’m doing here, Get angry for fuck’s sake. Say something.
“Are you …” Dante caught herself. Are you all right? Are you well? She would never ask. “Are you staying long? I –”
“Not long.” Now that Tiens found me. I just came by to say hi. And to see Jaf.”
Again, that slight movement, as if words were a blade slid into flesh. “Nothing else?” Other questions crowded under the two words – questions such as: Do you forgive me? How long will you hate me if you don’t?
Questions with no real answer.
“Not really. I suppose he’s at the office?” I knew he would be. Coordinating defence and taking care of the business of keeping this city afloat. Probably organizing refugee camps, too.
“Yes.” Dante tilted her exquisite head slightly, silk fluttering as she took a single step forwards. Loose pants and a Chinese-collared shirt, reinforced in patches, not the jeans and explorer’s shirt she would wear if she intended on stepping outside the tower. “I worried about you, Lia.”
More unspoken words crowded the still, grey air. It’s my job to protect you. I promised your mother.
And Liana’s response, flung at her in the middle of screaming matches during the storms of adolescence. I don’t care what you promised her! I’m not her!
“Tiens visited me,” she said. She heard the catch in her voice and hated herself. “Don’t tell Jaf, but I’m doing dirty laundry for him. Like mother, like daughter, huh?”
Dante sighed. “If you wanted a fight, you could have come a little later in the day. You know I’m not ready for homicide before noon.”
Liana’s heart squeezed down on itself. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Sekhmet sa’es.” But the curse didn’t have it’s usual snap. “What can I do, Lia? What do you want? Blood?”
Not like you could bleed over me anyway. The instant you cut yourself Jaf would show up, and I’d have to deal with the disappointment on his face too. Isis preserve me. “I just wanted to say hello. I’m allowed that, aren’t I?”
“You’re the one who keeps away.” The necromance made a swift, abortive movement, too quick to be a flinch. “Can I take you to dinner? That noodle shop on Pole Street is still open. Or we could go for a walk. Even …”
