Dead Man Rising

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. Of 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."